With Piravi, Shaji N Karun joined the select group of great masters of film.
Malayalam once upon a time used to produce such films.
Today, it is only mindless violence, politics and grotesque humour. The films have no soul, although they are technically quite good.
With Shaji’s passing, and earlier with his mentor G Aravindan’s untimely death, an era is coming to an end.
Rajeev Srinivasan salutes the master, who passed into the ages on April 28.
Just last week, I read in the local Trivandrum papers about Shaji N Karun receiving an award in the name of J C Daniel, an early pioneer in Malayalam films.
That’s when I realised that the master film-maker had named his house 'Piravi’ in memory of his extraordinary directorial debut in 1988. It brought back a flood of memories of that film, whose title means ‘birth' but whose theme was death and loss.
Now comes the news of his own death, aged 73, from cancer. Om shanti, Godspeed, Shaji, as you join the Great White Whirligig in the Sky!
I met the director twice.
Once, about 50 years ago, when we both were volunteers for a local science fair, and he was a student at the Film and Television Institute in Pune. Then in 1988 or 1989, when he spoke at the San Francisco International Film Festival, where Piravi was featured. The film had won the Cannes Camera d’Or-Mention d’Honneur, among many other prizes, including at Locarno, Edinburgh and so on, possibly more than any other Indian film.
What impressed me about his talk was his humility and reticence.
Even though he was an acclaimed cinematographer and Piravi was received very well, he was quiet, even shy.
He explained his use of the blue tints in the film. It is the colour of apasmaram, he said, using the Malayalam/Sanskrit word for madness, which the father of the ‘disappeared’ youth in the film falls into.
Even though he made several other films, and he was the cinematographer who shot most of the works of legendary Malayalam film-maker G Aravindan, it is Piravi that marked the zenith of his career.
I can say without hesitation that it is stunningly powerful. As an art-film fan, I have seen hundreds of superb, even outstanding films, but this one, alone, spoke to me. I wept seeing it, tears streaming down my cheeks. No other film has ever affected me so much.
For a Malayalam speaker and one who had seen the Emergency, it was a viscerally powerful experience, especially because it was based on the real-life story of Rajan, a ‘disappeared’ engineering student. As I wrote some years ago, I could easily have been another Rajan, another number.
Rajan’s character is never seen in the film, except as a child. His father, played by octogenarian Premji, fills the screen with his presence, his anguish, at the loss of his only son born late in his life.
In real life, the father, Professor Eachara Warrier, who was one of my heroes, spent the rest of his life demanding justice from the uncaring State.
The film’s minimalist dialogue and focus on human despair, grief, and the struggle against systemic injustice resonate universally, transcending cultural boundaries. Its subtle yet poignant exploration of loss makes it relatable to global audiences.
Apart from the universal message of grief, there is also the story of the father-son relationship. I was strongly affected by passages from the film where you realise how much the predatory State took from the father, as per the Hindu tradition. I remembered my father 10,000 miles away in India, who too had no son to help him.
The film begins with an invocation from the Kaushitaki Upanishad; a dying man bequeaths his life to his son. The son accepts each of his gifts.
'My speech in you I would place.' 'Your speech in me I take.'
'My sight in you I would place.' 'Your sight in me I take.'
'My mind in you I would place.' 'Your mind in me I take.'
'My deeds in you I would place.' Your deeds in me I take.'
'My vital breath in you I would place.' 'Your vital breath in me I take.'
'May glory, luster and fame delight in you.' 'Heaven and desires may you obtain.'
From the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, 'Whatever wrong has been done by him, his son frees him from it all... By his son, a father stands firm in this world.'
Personally for me, I think the film was a catalyst in my decision to return to India, specifically back to Kerala. Another Indian friend (I think he was a Telugu) who saw it with me in San Francisco said, 'I’m so tempted to chuck it all and go live in a Kerala village.'
Apart from the overwhelming sense of loss, the film is remarkable from two points of view: visual storytelling and innovative techniques.
The muted lighting, traditional architecture, and atmospheric elements like rain mirror the characters’ emotional turmoil.
The film’s stillness and sparse dialogue amplify the actors’ expressive performances, particularly their eyes, conveying deep emotion.
The monsoon rain is a palpable presence with the sense of anticipation as we wait for its arrival, and then later, when the father falls in the rain, the ferryman’s dilemma: if he helps him up, his boat will drift away. The ferryman’s compassion prevails.
The film’s use of weather, sound (like the bubbling of water evoking anxiety), the simple everyday beauty of Kerala village life, and deliberate pacing created a meditative yet intense atmosphere. The use of colour to invoke emotion (as in traditional ragas) is another technical innovation.
With Piravi, Shaji N Karun joined the select group of great masters of film: film as witness, sakshi, film as literature.
Malayalam once upon a time used to produce such films.
Today, it is only mindless violence, politics and grotesque humour. The films have no soul, although they are technically quite good.
With Shaji’s passing, and earlier with his mentor Aravindan’s untimely death, an era is coming to an end.
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