Flip that ciggie: Late nights with the Rajini army

Enthiran. Day one. Late night show. An impossible-to-attain ticket procured after hopping through a warren of dens. Fan clubs have bulk-blocked cinemas for almost the next two weeks. Inside the packed auditorium full of die-hard fans in auto-erotic animation, Rajni signals his arrival through digital fracture.

Ra-ja-ni. His name punches the screen alphabet by alphabet. Phatakphatak-phatak. The alphabets form digitally in the morphology of monolithic architecture. Then the full name repeats in a final smashing crescendo. The acolytes are on their feet, arms extended towards the Holy Name. A collective baying engulfs the hall, drowning the high-decibel ambitions of the Dolby system. By now, the Rajni raanuvam (army) is jumping in the aisles in the most vivid display of premature ejaculation ever in public. The sighting of the messiah is imminent, and the flock is in a state of self-hypnotised hysteria. Rajni reigns.

However, the audience reaction at the beginning and the end of this Rajinikanth blockbuster is a study in contrast. The audience enters the hall on the crest of a hype that has been sustained over months. At last, on this auspicious Friday, the serious Rajni fan has been active since 3 am, decorating the entrances to cinemas with flags, festoons and cut-outs, performing honey and milk abhishekams [ritual baths] on their idol and dancing in the streets. So, when the fans eventually enter the hall on high adrenalin, it makes no difference to them what the film is. Their ecstasy derives from the fact that the deity who was remote and distant in his garbha griha [inner sanctum] is now manifest as an utsav murti [festival image], come out in their midst in a new avatar. It's celebration time. (Menon 2010, 18)