There’s an achingly poignant scene in Poo (2008) where Maari (played brilliantly by Parvathi in her Tamil debut) grapples with expressing her feelings when her friend Cheeni asks how she can still be in love despite knowing she will never have Thangarasu (Srikanth). After a long, desperate pause, Maari watches a herd of goats pass by and instinctively looks for her Karuppi, the black goat she had sold to buy a salwar to please Thangarasu. When the shepherd reminds her that the goat is no longer hers, she responds with quiet yet heart-wrenching clarity: “Should I forget all our love just because I sold it?”
Poo is a rarity in Tamil cinema, a refreshing break from the norm where a woman’s love is often stereotyped —love that materialises only after stalking, humiliation, or exaggerated displays of masculinity. While Tamil cinema revolves predominantly around love, it rarely focuses on a woman's perspective. Male characters often dominate love stories by "reforming" or relentlessly pursuing women, but women's emotional depth is largely unexplored. Sixteen years post release, the film remains relevant in how it presents Maari, unlike many of its successors.
Directors like Mani Ratnam and Gautham Menon have made small strides in portraying love through a woman’s perspective, but these efforts remain limited while challenging the broader idea.
Of course, there have been exceptions, like Mahendran’s Johnny, which explores the vulnerabilities of both the hero (Johnny, played by Rajinikanth) and the heroine (Archana, played by Sridevi), portraying their love in a nuanced, heartfelt manner. But Tamil cinema has yet to embrace narratives where women revisit their past relationships or explore love on their own terms.
Consider this: How would society react to a film where a woman revisits her past relationships, like Cheran did in Autograph, or dates multiple men before making a choice, as Vishal did in Theeradha Vilaiyaattu Pillai? Could they still pass off as protagonists?
Muthazhagu, the heroine of Paruthi Veeran, bears a resemblance to Maari from Poo in her unwavering pursuit of love. But Muthazhagu’s determination is more intense, driven by a relentless desire to achieve her goal. Unlike Maari’s love interest, the gentle and understanding Thangarasu, Paruthi Veeran himself is a flawed character—prone to casual relationships and, at times, violence towards Muthazhagu.
Prem Kumar's 96 stands out with its female protagonist, Jaanu (Trisha), who returns to reconnect with her former lover after settling into marriage, if only for a day. But the film ultimately centres more on Ram (Vijay Sethupathi) and his unending love for Jaanu.
But to call Poo an exception would be an understatement.
Directed by Sasi, the film is based on a short story Veyilodu Poi (gone with the sun) written by acclaimed writer S Tamilselvan. It is a profound exploration of a woman’s unrequited love—a love that sustains her in silence, never once allowing bitterness to take root. Despite being rejected, Maari continues to love Thangarasu even after his marriage, and after her own.
Maari, a simple and innately happy village girl in Southern Tamil Nadu, grows up dreaming of becoming her cousin Thangarasu’s wife. Her entire world revolves around him, but for Thangarasu, his studies always take precedence. Standing in stark contrast to Maari’s unwavering devotion is Penakarar, Thangarasu’s hardworking father. Driven by a desire for redemption and respect, Penakarar, a cart driver, hopes to secure a future for his son by arranging a marriage to his boss’s daughter. Penakarar has earned his nickname willingly—it is not just a title, but a mark of respect. To him, a pen is a symbol of honour, something he uses even when it is not necessary.
When Maari’s mother and brother refuse to attend Thangarasu’s wedding, upset that he is not marrying Maari, she threatens to kill herself in a desperate attempt to force their hand. She readily agrees to her brother’s proposal—that she will marry before Thangarasu, but only if they attend his wedding.
When her friend Cheeni asks how she could think of killing herself, Maari calmly responds that she never truly intended to. "If I did, Thangarasu would have to live with that guilt forever. How could I let that happen?" she asks.
Maari and Cheeni’s friendship adds another layer of depth to this already remarkably refreshing film. Cheeni is sometimes in awe and sometimes in shock at Maari’s unrelenting love for Thangarasu, a love she refuses to let go of, even after his marriage or hers. Maari’s devotion is unwavering, and just as she promised Cheeni, she remains steadfastly happy. She knows that even a hint of unhappiness would burden Thangarasu with guilt, and she refuses to let that happen.
Until, of course, Maari sees Thangarasu unhappy in his own marriage.
Maari’s refusal to let go is unobtrusive; it never interferes with Thangarasu’s life. In fact, she remains quietly supportive, sitting on the floor and lovingly caressing the hands of Thangarasu’s wife when they meet. Yet, her world begins to unravel when she receives an indifferent response to her question about starting a family—an answer that shatters her deeply.
A striking moment follows when Maari and Penakarar share a quiet, heartbreaking exchange. "I had a dream," Penakarar tells Maari. "You had a dream too. I knew of it. But we never realised that the well-educated woman (Thangarasu’s wife) had a dream as well. Now, none of us are living in peace." As he weeps, Penakarar attempts to fall at Maari’s feet, seeking her forgiveness. But Maari, perhaps overwhelmed by the emotional weight of the moment, flees.
If anything, Maari’s refusal to let go is only affecting her. She endures the scorching sun and hunger, arriving early at the village festival in the hope of seeing Thangarasu—who is visiting. Her mother’s silent tears, as Maari devours the food hungrily, are of no consequence to her.
Throughout the film, Maari remains that innocent yet dogmatic woman who draws her silent strength from her unrequited love—always hoping that her lover is happy wherever he may be. But when she discovers that Thangarasu is not happy, her world comes crashing down. The carefully constructed façade of happiness in her own marriage, built to shield Thangarasu from any guilt, crumbles. The film ends with Maari letting out an inconsolable cry as her husband tries to rouse the stunned Maari from her shock.
Maari has her flaws, but in the world of Tamil cinema, she is one of a kind—a never-before and perhaps never-again kind of woman.
Views expressed are author’s own.