A Potpourri of Vestiges Exclusive
By Murtaza Ali Khan
Some filmmakers make movies; a rarer few redefine the
possibilities of cinema itself. Shaji N. Karun, who passed away at 73, belonged
to that rarefied second category — an artist who carried Malayalam cinema
across borders, long before global platforms and hashtags, and deep into the
human soul.
With Piravi (1988),
his masterful debut, Shaji N. Karun made it clear he wasn't primarily here for
applause but for posterity. A masterwork of grief and restrained
storytelling, Piravi won the Caméra d'Or at Cannes and played
at nearly 70 international festivals — a career opening that most filmmakers
can only dream of, but one that Shaji shouldered with quiet humility.
Six
years later, Swaham (1994) made history as the last Indian
film to compete for the Palme d'Or at Cannes for almost 25 years — a drought
broken only recently by All We Imagine As Light. In the
interregnum, Swaham remained a quiet north star, its aching
silences and raw humanity influencing those who cared to listen.
The
accolades followed — seven National Awards, as many Kerala State Awards, the
Padma Shri, France’s Ordre des Arts et des Lettres — but Shaji N. Karun wore
his honours lightly. His cinema never surrendered to trend or fashion; it
remained a solemn act of meditation. With Vanaprastham (1999),
starring Mohanlal, he further demonstrated his gift for blending the mythic and
the intimate, the personal and the cosmic. The film premiered at the Cannes
Film Festival, where it was selected in the Un
Certain Regard section.
Only
days before his passing, Shaji N. Karun was honoured with the J.C. Daniel Award
— Kerala’s highest film accolade. Fate seemed to have conspired to recognize
him just in time.
In December 2018, fresh from surviving a brutal road accident, I had the privilege of making my comeback with an interview of Shaji N. Karun for The Hindu. Beneath a cap hiding my stitched forehead, I found myself speaking with a man of such gentleness and grace that it felt almost like a second healing. He thanked me for the conversation; I still hold that memory close. When I later praised his film 'Olu,' in an email I wrote to him, he event sent me a beautiful note thanking me, "My dear Murtaza, thanks for your support and good heart... My film and ad attempts always require the honest supports from critics like you who understands the cinema as passion and devotion. I am indebted to your honesty..."
Shaji N. Karun's cinema taught us that pain could be beautiful, and beauty could be unbearably human. His frames were prayers; his silences, entire conversations.
Today,
even as his bodily form departs, Shaji N. Karun's spirit remains — in every
frame he composed, every silence he sculpted, every story he whispered across
time and language.
A giant has left the stage, but his light — soft, searching, and everlasting — continues to glow.
The author is an Indian critic and journalist who has served as a jury member for the 69th and 70th National Film Awards. He has been covering cinema, art and culture for the last decade and a half.
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