In the corner of a pile of cut wood, an old man finds a place to sit and looks intensely ahead as the sky changes colour and dusk sets in. He has come hours early to wait for the evening bus that should bring his son home. The picture of the waiting old man – so tired and weak that even his smile seems like a sad effort – becomes the most defining one in Shaji N Karun’s Piravi.
When the respected auteur and cinematographer of Malayalam cinema passed away on April 28, memories of the first film he made were freshly awakened. In 1988, when Shaji made the film, he was already a known name among the circles of parallel art house cinema. He had joined geniuses like G Aravindan, KG George, and Padmarajan as a cinematographer to create works of art that would forever be remembered among the best of Malayalam cinema. Patiently, after a decade of unforgettable cinematography, Shaji made Piravi.
In the titles, he only took his first name. There is also no mention of the film being any sort of adaptation, but it did not take a genius to make the connection between the old man waiting for his son in the film and Eachara Warrier, a real-life father figure Kerala could never forget. Shaji’s film came a decade and more after the Emergency, but Warrier and his son Rajan, who disappeared, were etched in the minds of people.
Shaji set the tone with the very first shots – a ride on the ferry in the heavy monsoon air and the old man’s slow gait to where the bus comes, his expectant face fading in the darkness on not spotting the son. Loud ensemble begins as the distant horn of the bus lights up his face and turns mellow when the face falls.
Shaji clearly relied on the intricacies that flashed through Premji, the actor’s face, pumping it up with classical beats of music, unmindful of the mood. (No surprise that G Aravindan, that man who paid no heed to habits, is behind the music, along with Mohan Sithara). There was going to be no drama, no cinematic flashbacks, only the slow waiting of an aged man and his nondescript little family, for whom, everything in life means Raghu, the missing son.
It works. All Shaji did was let the old man live his days – walking, rowing – between his home and the bus stop, making minimal talk to let it be seen that the only thought and concern, the only purpose in his life, is his son. It is at times a little discomfiting, given he has a loving daughter and a concerned wife.
Also, out of taste is the film's gaze on caste, appearing to look sympathetically at the "ruin" of privileged castes. Apart from the indulgence of the camera in the illam (ancestral houses of the privileged caste) and the poonol (thread worn by caste Hindus), there is the mention of the “capture” of their land by the government – a reference to land reforms.
But the old father is not made out to be the tough patriarch that elderly men in families had been routinely portrayed as. He is a loving, soft husband and father who checks on his blind wife’s health and comforts his worried daughter.
Archana, playing the daughter, is also far from the stereotype of the traditional young woman of the time who helplessly watches the events in her life unfold from behind a window. She runs the home, talks lovingly and toughly to both parents, goes to work, and when the need comes, sets out on her own in search of her missing brother.
Raghu, the son who gets all this love, is introduced in parts – his voice heard in the memories of others, his childhood remembered in and around the house. If you know Rajan’s story, you can make out what happened to Raghu, an engineering student who was publicly critical of a politician and taken away to never be seen again.
Shaji denied that it is Rajan’s story, but that it was about custodial death, which continues to exist in Kerala years afterwards. It stops mattering when you watch the film, whether it is based on one particular case or not. The fact is, it is real, it has happened in one way or another, and families have relentlessly sought justice or at least an answer that could bring them closure.
The most upsetting part of Piravi is when the old man, eager to believe his son is coming back, accepts the lies he is fed and goes away cheerfully. Premji, 80 at the time, became the face of every deprived parent, emotions spilling out with every look, gesture, and turn. His voice, soft and crumbling, can bring an ache even when it turns angry.
Even the supporting characters become memorable – the boatman with his comforting words, the friend of Raghu who can’t face the old man, the unmerciful uncle with a foul mouth. Particularly touching is a passing line the boatman tells the teashop man after routinely giving him coins for safekeeping: Just think that your daughter is also mine. A little bit of religious camaraderie is subtly tucked in here, as the men are shown to follow different faiths.
Shaji’s filmmaking is not exactly a slowing down of events or actions. Long minutes may go into what seems uneventful like the writing of a letter, but is lifted by music that breaks out almost thundering into the screen. Sculptures take over the screen, leaving the man alone with his pen and his thoughts. Art can be understanding like that. Nothing seems to lag. Characters slipping off from the present and falling into the past at unexpected moments only enhances Raghu’s reality.
Piravi can be taken out of 1988 and placed any time after. Shaji’s strength appears to be the rootedness of his film and the coming together of his talented friends. S Jayachandran Nair and Reghunath Paleri wrote Piravi with him, while he trusted Sunny Joseph with the camera work he had handled for years on end.