Why interviews with ‘Crazy’ Mohan were always a laugh-fest

Cleaning cupboards does not bring out just dust. It brings along with it several unforgettable memories as well.

Which is what happened recently when I decided, on one hot Sunday afternoon, to take out a big box of my film collection to sort out. And, along with the many AR Rahman cassettes from the 90s that I greatly treasure, tumbled out the audio cassette of Tamil play Crazy Thieves in Palavakkam that I must have heard atleast a hundred times growing up.

I remembered the jokes being ‘crazy’ back then. It was probably the best conversation-starter when I went to meet the man himself in his humble Mandaveli residence, a decade ago when I was a rookie reporter with another publication. Mohan was surprised that I recalled most of the jokes, and had a hearty time recalling the days in which he wrote them.

Back then (and till date), I am known among my colleagues for my pun-related mokka jokes, the inspiration for which is mostly Mohan. I told him that, and even cracked a mokka during our conversation, to which he remarked, ‘Vandhu sendhuru en kitta ’ (Come and join my troupe).

I wish I had, but I did have the opportunity of meeting him several times after that for interviews. He was most happy when I joined The Hindu and happy to know that I lived quite close to his residence as well. Mohan was always a pure “Mylapore man” — he loved the veedhis of the neighbourhood. Once, when I asked him about his love for the area, he jovially remarked, “If you take me to Mambalam, I start feeling homesick.”

Mohan was a strict believer in the joint family system (he lived in one himself) and loved Mylapore. Until a few years ago, you could still see him take a walk in the neighbourhood and share a pleasant word with everyone. He would make it a point to introduce me to everyone in his house every time I went – and those meetings would last for more than an hour when he would crack me up with several jokes, and I would meekly try fielding my own mokka jokes, which he’d greatly appreciate. He was also a big fan of PG Wodehouse, and would often say, “He is PG Wodehouse, and we comedians will always be only UG Wodehouse.”

I last met him in December last year when we did a special on Tamil filmEthir Neechal turning 50 years. He was weak then — his hands were trembling constantly — but his sense of humour was still very much intact.

I cannot forget the time when I called him a few years ago on his birthday, asking him what plans he had for the day. “Tachi, Taachi,” he remarked. It took me a minute to get that he was referring to ‘curd rice and sleep’. Somewhere up there, I’m sure he’d be still cracking jokes and craving for that one bowl of... tachi mammu.