The man who saw what others could become

During his screen test at Shaw Brothers’ Jalan Ampas studio in Singapore, the young actor was supposed to say, “Apa khabar Inche Bakar?”

Instead, a nervous Ramlee blurted out: “Apa bakar Inche Khabar?”

Lakshmanan Krishnan loved telling the story.

He also loved recalling what he thought of Ramlee when they first met: an “ugly-looking fellow with lots of pockmarks”.

Coming from most people, it might have sounded cruel. Coming from Krishnan, who watched Ramlee become one of the defining figures of Malay cinema, it was affectionate mischief.

He knew the man before the legend.

And perhaps that was one of Krishnan’s greatest gifts. He saw people before history had decided what they would become.

B S Rajhans deserves the credit for bringing Ramlee into the Jalan Ampas orbit, casting him in “Cinta” in 1948 and using him as a background singer.

Two years later, Krishnan recognised what Ramlee had and gave him the leading role in “Bakti”.

“Bakti” became a hit and helped propel Ramlee into stardom. Krishnan went on to direct him in “Takdir Ilahi”, “Penghidupan” and “Antara Senyum dan Tangis”.

Ramlee was only one of many talents to pass through Krishnan’s world. Maria Menado, Kasma Booty, Mustapha Maarof, Rosnani Jamil, Roomai Noor and Siput Sarawak were among the names who would become a major part of Malaysian cinema.

Krishnan had an eye for potential. More importantly, he was willing to take a chance on it.

That instinct had roots in a life that began far from a film set.

Born in Madras in 1922 and raised in Penang, Krishnan served as a second lieutenant in the Indian National Army during the 1940s before entering the film world.

The soldier became a filmmaker, but cinema would eventually prove only one part of his life’s work.

Krishnan directed more than 30 films and became one of the pioneers of the Malay film industry. At Merdeka Studio in Kuala Lumpur, his work reflected the lives and aspirations of a society finding its feet.

His contribution there later helped pave the way for the establishment of the National Film Development Corporation Malaysia, or FINAS.

But his imagination did not stop at the screen.

In 1970, he formed Gaya Filem Berhad and pushed for locally produced commercials, helping create room for a Malaysian advertising industry.

Ten years later, he established Gaya Music Studio, the country’s first 16-track studio, as local music began finding a larger audience.

Two years on came the country’s first motion picture colour laboratory. In 1984, he became chairman of Cathay Organisation Malaysia.

The list can sound like a corporate resume. It was much more personal than that.

Krishnan kept building the machinery that allowed other people to create.

That helps explain why his influence travelled well beyond the Malay film set.

His roots were in Indian cinema, but his working life became part of Malaysia’s cultural story.

He was respected by Indian film greats including MG Ramachandran, Sivaji Ganesan and Raj Kapoor, while his experience helped connect the Malay film industry with the traditions and expertise of Indian cinema.

Kollywood and Bollywood were not distant worlds to him. They were part of a cultural conversation that ran in both directions.

Krishnan carried knowledge from Indian cinema into Malaya, absorbed what he found here and helped shape something distinctly local.

That bridge between cultures became one of the less visible parts of his legacy.

There was another side to the man that never appeared in the credits.

For more than 30 years, Krishnan touched the lives of needy people, particularly children in homes around the Klang Valley.

From 1979, his Deepavali celebrations became an annual occasion for children who might otherwise have had little reason to expect such attention.

He also helped former prisoners get back on their feet and supported blind people and others who were struggling.

There was no film to promote and no opening-night applause. He simply kept turning up.

His instinct to open doors was not limited to studios, sound stages and production offices. It extended to people who had little power, little money and no place in the film industry at all.

By the time Krishnan spoke to FMT on his 100th birthday in October 2022, he had every reason to retreat into nostalgia.

He did not.

“I eat well, sleep like a baby, and wake up every morning grateful to be alive,” he said.

Then came the sting. He was worried, he added, that he might be in better shape than the health of Malaysia.

He was referring to the rising cost of living, political instability and a society he felt had become increasingly polarised.

At 100, Krishnan was still paying attention to what was happening around him. He was still thinking, still watching and still capable of cracking a joke when the moment allowed it.

That humour may be why the story of Ramlee’s botched screen test stayed with him for so long. The young actor got his line wrong. Krishnan laughed about it, but what stayed with him was the man behind the mistake.

In Chiang Mai, Thailand, where he spent his final years, Krishnan was cared for by his Thai wife, Jarunee Rukmini, a former nurse whom he credited with much of his longevity.

After a life spent recognising talent, opening doors and helping others find their footing, he had someone beside him who cared for him with the same devotion.

Krishnan died in Chiang Mai on Thursday at 104, after a life that stretched across war, cinema, advertising, music, industry and charity.

The films will remain. So will the stars he helped bring to the screen.

But the warmer measure of Krishnan’s life may lie elsewhere — in the people he encouraged, the doors he opened and the children whose lives he touched without ever asking for a credit.

He spent a century seeing possibilities in other people and that may be the part of his story worth remembering longest.

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