Beany wonder

What you don't know about the most rubber-faced man you know:

Profile:

Indu Balachandran

COMEDIAN: He brushes his teeth and changes his clothes-all while driving a car. He looks smugly around his class - then realizes he's prepared for the wrong exam. He tries everything, but falls hopelessly asleep in church.

If these were clues in a quiz, you'd say at once "Mr. Bean of course!?. But look at this other set of clues:

He went to school with Tony Blair. His biggest passion and hobby: fancy racing cars. He's married to a gorgeous

 Hindu woman, Sunetra Sastry.

Would you just as easily have guessed, "Rowan Atkinson!"?

Yes, these are the surprising facts about the rather private side of your beloved Mr. Bean (or the obnoxious Mr. Bean, if you hated that episode of him running around naked in a posh hotel, for instance.)

Reluctant comic

But people in 95 countries (and travellers in 50 airlines) can't seem to have enough of this rubber-faced wonder of blunders. Not just in manageable doses of 20-minute episodes, but even entire feature film lengths of him, as the success of the blockbusting "Mr. Bean's Holiday" proves.

Rowan Atkinson was born into an English farming family in 1955, and when he wasn't making his classmates fall apart laughing with impersonations of teachers, he was taking part all things mechanical, and enjoying putting them back. In fact in that very school was a young lad, Tony Blair though Rowan only remembers him as 'someone who smiled a lot'.

Rowan's schooldays heroes were Buster Keaton and the French comedian Jacques Tati - and Rowan became obsessed with staging their skits - and yet managed to get excellent grades. And despite the many pranks he pulled on his hapless masters, it was his Headmaster who first advised Rowan to seriously consider a career in entertainment.

However Rowan believed his real interest was in engineering, topping his class with a Masters in Electronics. But everything was to change when he met the talented Richard Curtis - who drew him firmly into the path of show biz. Together, they would create path-breaking shows like "Not The Nine O'Clock News", the raucously funny "Black Adder" series and even "Mr. Bean").

Rowan Atkinson was making waves as Britain's funniest man, but once off the stage he would plunge into his private shy world, steering clear of interviews and publicity.

Something that even affected his romance. He fell heavily in love with a very attractive BBC makeup artiste called Sunetra Sastry... but it took months to summon the courage to ask her for a date. What followed could well have made a Bean episode, as the mean was conducted in tonguetied silence except for asking her to pass the ketchup.

Then he suddenly disappeared to the men's room and never returned for 15 minutes. Later he confessed that he broke his zipper and had to find a waiter with a safety pin.

Family life

Despite this Beany start, their romance deepened, and in 1990 they married in secret at a New York restaurant... without summoning the Father, The Son and the Holy Goat - (his best known line in Four Weddings and a Funeral.)

Rowan and Sunetra have two children but so fiercely guarded is he about his home life, that interviews have revealed nothing about his wife's origins, except that she is probably part-Indian, and that she is a 'British Hindu'. But when he does make his rare appearance on the red carpet, it's with his drop-dead ravishing, dark-haired wife.

And behind the world's most malleable face is another story - as a child, Rowan suffered from a bout of stuttering - with particular difficulty over the letter "B". The struggle to get a word out often resulted in making the wildest faces - and as politically incorrect as it was - led to the first spontaneous bursts of laughter for his 'talent'.

Mr. Bean's beloved yellow Mini is probably just a tad more advanced than Noddy's car, but the real life Bean has an all-consuming passion for a racing car - to which he escapes, from the acute stress of wondering whether he got a scene right or not. In fact directors note that Bean seldom enjoys his work in his pursuit of the elusive 'perfect shot'.

Today, with an estimated 65 million pounds, this enigmatic millionaire can afford to call in sick - and take a couple of years off, zooming around in one of his expensive cars - an easily affordable hobby. And that would be the biggest reason why a reluctant recluse like him would let himself be forcibly flung under the spotlights ( a comic scene opener in all Mr. Bean episodes, as you will recall).

Hero in real life

While the 'Sunetra Sastry' connection will be the most curious Mr. Bean trivia Indians will wonder about, there's enough evidence that she's the big love of his life and fiercely protective of her too. Here's a dramatic but little known incident of the real Mr. Bean...

Flying over Kenya on a family holiday, the pilot of the Atkinsons' chartered Cessna suddenly passed out (apparently with acute dehydration). As the plane began to dangerously nose dive, Rowan took control - and despite no flying experience - brought the plane back on course, averting a terrifying disaster.

The pilot was later revived by his wife - and landed the plane safely in Nairobi. An episode to make even avowed haters of the error-terror Mr. Bean, stand up and clap.

The Hindu

Give them that elixir of life

COSMETICS: A local English daily reported the other day that the Parliament medical centre is being inundated with politicians. No, not seeking treatment for any ailment - but looking for an alchemy that would ensure their perpetual youth.

According to this report MPs from either sex are frequently badgering medical staff for complexion enhancing E vitamin tablets which also guarantee healthy skin tone. One would venture to say that the rush for the 'colour change' is but appropriate given the chameleon quality of our honourable politicians as witnessed time and again.

They would also add that where power and privilege are concerned these politicians are colour blind.

A change of tone or complexion is neither here nor there and could have different connotations. It could set the tone for the shape of things to come. Politicians would be more interested now in cultivating a glowing pigment than attending to the business of Parliament.

These worthies would be apt go before mirrors to ask who is the fairest of them all in the manner of the wicked stepmother in the fabled Snowwhite tale.

Parliament would henceforth assume the status of a white sepulchre with its members trying to project a lily white image. The next stage would be a demand for a beauty parlour within the august premises of the House. Of course, there can be no objection in this day of facials and beauty culture for a politician to try to get a facelift. More so to those who had lost face with the public.

An improved mug no doubt can garner many votes particularly among the uninitiated who are not wise to what lay behind the facade of a politician. The new visage could also reflect the current political culture of presenting different faces at different times and changing colour for personal gain.

Improved complexion could also have other implications for politicians particularly on the homefront with anxious spouses wanting to know what's cooking with rumours of many a romance abounding within the august chambers of the House.

Of course our people's representatives who have been feeling good all along plying in Pajeros and Intercoolers would certainly not be averse to looking good as well to keep up appearances.

There would be no objection to some of them toning up their skins to camouflage thick hides they had cultivated by being totally impervious to public criticism. Or to off-set the effect of some of the blackest of hearts adorning the country's supreme legislature.

The new elixir would also do a world of good to enhance the quality of the beatific smiles of MPs during election time. Never mind if there is more to it than meets the eye.

People's representatives who hitherto went for 'make up' to improve their complexion would now have an in-house facility to cater to their vanity. This act of politicians rushing to improve their complexion recalls to mind the famous Wadakaha Sudhiya episode in the late fifties where our womenfolk advised by local quacks that Vadakaha taken during the solar eclipse would enhance their complexion imbibed liberal doses of the decoction only to suffer runaway bouts of diarrhoea but with no visible improvement to pigment.

Some would venture to say such a calamity should have aptly visited upon our political fraternity for the verbal diarrhoea they spew.

Rambler