Padmarajan, widely recognised as one of the finest writer-directors in Malayalam cinema, also started the new wave in the 1980s, along with Bharathan and KG George. One reason that his films, which didn’t get an audience when they released, are now considered classics was his ability to conceptualise beyond conventional boundaries. When narratives were too moralistic to step out of patriarchal structures, he dared to disrupt the concept of chastity with Namukku Parkaan Munthirithoppukal (1986). Similarly Thoovanathumbikal (1988), despite its male perspective, granted dignity and agency to one of its main protagonists, Clara, who opted for sex work, which was considered groundbreaking at that time. Nombarathipoovu (1987) is one of the earlier films that addressed autism, raising awareness about the issue. With the script of one of his seminal works, Deshadanakili Karayarilla (1986), about to be released as a book, it’s a good time to revisit the movie.
In one of the earlier scenes in Deshadanakili Karayarilla, Sally (Shari) and Nimmi (Karthika) are called to the principal’s office and caned mercilessly for skipping school to watch a film. That’s also the precise point when the characters are gradually taking form, their depths and dimensions emerging steadily. Nimmi trembles, tears streaming down her face, as the cane strikes her repeatedly, while Sally’s gaze locks onto the principal, her eyes unflinching as she accepts the punishment. Padmarajan, who also wrote the script, masterfully crafts a poignant narrative around two adolescent girls who are still navigating the vulnerabilities of school life, as they discover a sanctuary in each other’s company. It doesn’t take much time to understand why they felt isolated in a harsh and unloving world that’s relentlessly judging them.
True to form, Padmarajan’s title – which roughly means ‘Migratory birds never cry’ – perfectly distils the protagonists’ existential crisis and emotional turmoil. They are always flying in silence and their cries are always lost to the wind.
If MT Vasudevan Nair created an irrepressible, dreamy teen in Ammini (Aranyakam), Padmarajan’s portrayal of Sally and Nimmi is marked by complexity and depth, and also subtly subverts traditional teenage tropes. We are privy to their youthful aspirations gradually corroding as well as their disillusionment in how the world fails to perceive them. As Nimmi confides to Hari (Mohanlal) in a moment of disquiet, it has already eclipsed their innocence. Even in their giggles, we are able to see a wise, pain-tinged perception, born from a childhood lost too soon.
Despite the narratives’ grey undertones, what’s heartwarming is also the Sally-Nimmi bond, especially in how Sally embodies unconditional love. Though their differing clothing choices reflect their distinct personalities, one can’t help wondering if Sally ends up perpetuating modern stereotypes, as opposed to Nimmi’s primness that adheres to conventional femininity. So when they decide to run away during a school trip to settle scores with their teacher Devika (Urvashi), typically it is Sally who takes charge while Nimmi follows, showcasing their contrasting personalities. If Nimmi is flighty and impressionable, Sally’s dedication and loyalty to her friend remain constant, even as she indulges Nimmi’s infatuation for Hari. Considering their conflicting personalities, it is always easier to warm up to Nimmi but strangely we are drawn towards Sally’s rebellion, which seems to hide her ache and loneliness.
In hindsight, the world seemed to have always been conspiring against their innocence and happiness. And the groundwork was already laid at home, with a childhood shrouded in neglect and abandonment, leaving lasting emotional scars. Cinema has long perpetuated the stigma attached to divorce, portraying it as a traumatic experience that damages children. So, as expected, Nimmi and Sally’s defiance is often attributed to their troubled families. However, the film – perhaps inadvertently – offers a more nuanced critique of the educational system. When the school fails to empathise with their struggles, it exposes a system that demonises and ostracises those who dare to challenge its authority. Even the most harmless pranks are dealt with a grimness (it took several visits, age, and experience to read that) that only ends up fueling their rebellion and their sense of isolation, leading to an unfortunate turn of events.
While the scenes depicting Nimmi and Sally’s independence are imbued with a sense of sweet liberation, one can’t help wondering if Padmarajan oversimplified the challenges faced by two adolescent girls navigating an unfamiliar city alone. Of course, the music (Raveendran) did capture the nostalgia, innocence, and joy of their friendship. The casting was spot on, especially Shari, who shines with confidence and an air of mystery. Karthika has rarely gone wrong and here also charmingly embodies the naivety of Nimmi.
At times, one gets the feeling that all the supporting characters serve a deliberate purpose: to gradually weaken Sally and Nimmy’s defences and mistrust of the world. It’s a clever narrative device to sabotage the girls’ initial self-reliance.
When Hari enters the frame, while we instantly predict a romantic subplot with Nimmi, his intrusive behaviour is off-putting, making us wonder why Nimmi isn’t able to see that he is disrespecting her boundaries. As expected, he upsets the delicate dynamic between the two girls. It can also be that for Nimmi it is a pattern of abuse she has witnessed in all her past interpersonal relationships and therefore finds it normal.
Devika, their teacher, is also complex — efficient and ethical on the surface but harbouring bitterness towards the rich that stems from her impoverished upbringing. It is that anger that has often fuelled her intolerance for Nimmi and Sally, who she perceives as privileged and entitled. So in a way it seems right that Hari and Devika should forge a bond, as they are similar in a lot of ways.
Decades after the release of the film, the portrayal of Sally’s character did spark ongoing debates about her sexuality, with many film scholars suggesting that Padmarajan may have intentionally refined or sub-textualised her queer identity to avoid controversy and audience backlash in a less progressive era. In a way, this highlights the constant tussle between artistic freedom and societal expectations, which has often detrimentally impacted the representation of marginalised communities in cinema. Having said that, Padmarajan opts for a sensitive depiction, and while revisiting the movie, Sally’s predicament hits harder, evoking a stronger desire to empathise with her.
In the end what stays with you are these two adolescent girls who exemplified unapologetic love and defiance. They showed us the cathartic power of love and friendship, even when the people around them were using them for their gains. That’s why there was a poetic justice to that closure.
Neelima Menon has worked in the newspaper industry for more than a decade. She has covered Hindi and Malayalam cinema for The New Indian Express and has worked briefly with Silverscreen.in. She now writes exclusively about Malayalam cinema, contributing to Fullpicture.in and thenewsminute.com. She is known for her detailed and insightful features on misogyny and the lack of representation of women in Malayalam cinema.
Views expressed are the author’s own.