Writer MT Vasudevan Nair’s worldbuilding in director IV Sasi’s 1986 Malayalam film Abhayam Thedi (seeking refuge) is quite intricate. The stock, dysfunctional, Nair tharavadu (ancestral mansion) has the ‘aesthetics’ of a dominant caste Hindu household — a massive double-storeyed house that still carries vestiges of its occupants' bruised past and fraught present, enclosed by front yards, back yards, ancient trees, ponds, and acres of seclusion. It is to this space that Miranda (Shobana), the granddaughter of the patriarch’s deceased prodigal son returns, hoping to find refuge and solace.
Abhayam Thedi can be called a companion piece to Sasi’s Anubandham (1985) and Aalkkoottathil Thaniye (1984) — the milieu, the familial conflicts, and individuals going through an existential crisis. Miranda’s unexpected arrival is already looked on with uneasiness by her extended family, except for the ageing patriarch (an excellent Thilakan). The rest are wary, not so much because she could very well be an imposter, but because of the wealth that could slip through their fingers.
That Miranda is the child of an interreligious marriage has rankled her new family. Ironically, except for her 90-something grandfather, it is the younger members of the family who find one-half of her religious identity an issue.
In that large tharavadu where the patriarch’s daughter, her family, and his nephew reside, the atmosphere is mostly strained. Every relationship is stitched together with effort. If the eldest daughter, Bhargavi (KPAC Lalitha), is a conservative and casteist nag who keeps taunting her father for her having to take care of him, the husband is considered a non-entity. Their eldest daughter, Vasanthi (Rohini), is in love with her professor, and they know his caste could come in between them. The son (Asokan) is a junkie who loiters around. But the biggest casualty in that household is their youngest daughter who has epilepsy. For the conservative and insensitive mother, that’s already a deficiency that will affect her leverage in the marriage market. The child is constantly put down and isolated, which further worsens her condition.
Then there is the MT Vasudevan trope — the emotionally bruised, petulant, and self-pitying orphaned hero, Appu (Mohanlal). Like the rest, Appu isn’t pleased with the new occupant. He is a tireless hard worker who is used to being overlooked in the family. A school dropout, Appu, after the initial distrust, drops his guard at her warmth. In retrospect, this is a pattern usually seen in IV Sasi films – the hero who needlessly plays the victim. Rajan who dumps his girlfriend for richer prospects in Aalkkoottathil Thaniye and later wallows in self-pity, Bhaskaran who plays the victim card as his wife doesn’t live up to the stereotype of a celluloid wife in Anubandham, Haridasan who turns out to be a weakling despite being in a position of power in Mukthi (1988), or Mangalassery Neelakandan who gets chastened by the truth of his illegitimacy in Devasuram (1993).
Miranda aka Meera is a troubled soul, who feels lost without her father and has had a fallout with her mother, owing to her remarriage. But even to Appu, with whom she develops some sort of a close bond that cannot be called love, Meera never confides. Though she fights for the voiceless in the house, Meera never really fights her own battles. Shobana’s eyes are so expressive that at times one feels that dialogues are redundant.
The Appu-Meera relationship evolves gradually, but some of the dialogues (perhaps Meera’s English affects the flow) dilute the profundity of their bond. They seem to be two broken souls who are eager to connect, but something is holding them back. Even the promises Appu makes seem halfhearted, and that’s perhaps what keeps her from taking it. The dots take far too long to connect.
The old patriarch who banished his son for marrying out of the religion has mellowed over the years. He regrets the days wasted in the throes of bigotry and is, therefore, prepared to make amends. That’s why he is the first one to reach out to his estranged granddaughter. But the thawing also happens because of her allegiance to a religion they practise. Be it her love for classical music or her fluency with Hindu holy chants, it further breaks the defences of her grandfather and Appu.
The film also has passages that are awkwardly staged, with stereotypical representations. Take the whole flashback portion of Meera, involving her Christian mother and lascivious stepdad, for instance. This sequence reinstates the popular celluloid idea of Anglo-Indians being promiscuous. The mother’s morality is somehow linked to her religion. Even Meera is constantly judged by her aunt and cousin because of that. And the stepdad also comes across as a casualty of this celluloid typecast. The superficial dialogues and the actors further worsen the scenes.
Having said that, most of the characters or their past, even when detailed only in a line or two, make a succinct portrait. For example, Appu remembering his mother as someone who slaved in the kitchen and didn’t have time to pose for the annual family picture exposes the oppressive patriarchy that thrives in the household.
Mohanlal carries it well, and it is a different, understated version of the actor you witness in the film as in most MT stories he has acted. The guilt-ridden doctor in Amrutham Gamaya (1987), the Kathakali artist with an unrequited love in Rangam (1985), the gentle journalist in Panchagni (1986), and the emotional wreck in Sadayam (1992) are all characters in which the actor, without resorting to dramatic makeovers, touches you at the deepest corners of the heart. Appu, by that margin, is more of a supporting character, and there are times when he chooses to remain in the shadows, yet the actor makes you seek him out.
As always, the women in MT’s world are within the binary of either being perpetrators of patriarchy or struggling for their space within the strictures of it. Watching it today raises many questions about the representation of caste and gender, and that is perhaps what makes the film one that offers something to the viewer even thirty-odd years later.
In Abhayam Thedi, the dramatic irony is what catches you off guard. The supposed sanctuary that Meera ran into was already dilapidated, gasping for compassion, and all that was left was to soothe the soul of the less bruised. Or it can be that her turbulent world suddenly became quiet to bring solace to the rest.
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.