"All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts…"
— William Shakespeare, As You Like It

Kathakali defines his existence. Each Attam is a step towards immortality, as Arjunan, Bheeman, Krishnan, and Duryodhana. On stage, he is god-like, adorned in the varnish of pacha, kari, kathi, thaadi, and minukku. But when the colours wash off, the mask fades, and the lights go out, an infinite gloom takes over. Kunjikuttan – the man behind the paint – returns to a life of quiet despair. He is haunted by the wound of fatherlessness, bound in a loveless marriage with a woman incapable of affection, and burdened by a mother who has long since retreated into silence. He survives not through joy but duty – an impoverished Kathakali artist struggling to feed his art and his family. And yet, in the dim corridors of his suffering, one light remains: his little daughter. He continues for her alone, the only thread tying him to a world off the stage.

Directed by Shaji N. Karun, with dialogues by Reghunath Paleri, Vanaprastham (Pilgrimage) traces the haunting emotional journey of a Kathakali dancer caught between the sacred theatre of myth and the stark reality of his existence. At its heart lies a profound exploration of identity – a man who lives two lives: one under the painted mask of gods and heroes, and the other in the shadows of unfulfilled desire and emotional isolation. Kunjikuttan's life is a study in paradox – adored on stage, invisible off it; revered in performance, rejected in person. Through his silent battles with inner demons and fragmented relationships, he seeks not fame or transcendence, but something far more human: unambiguous love and belonging. To be seen and accepted – not as Arjunan or Bheeman, not in the hues of pacha, kathi, or minukku, but as himself – as Kunjikuttan. To be seen and embraced in his raw, unvarnished self. That is his only yearning – and his greatest tragedy.

His pensive eyes, bearing the weight of a million attams danced have forgotten how to smile. On rare occasions, they flicker with a faint light, mostly at the sight of his daughter, and sometimes, his mother. But even that fragile joy is threatened. When the daughter expresses a longing to see him perform, his wife, Savitri, cuts through the innocence with a bitter warning: “Poothana’s nipples are full of poison. You want it?” For Kunjikuttan dons only female veshams. And in that choice–whether by talent, compulsion, or fate – lie countless rejections. They have piled upon his soul like dust on an unused mirror.

If he is not seeking escape through performance, then he is chiseling out a new edge to his pain–perfecting a cynicism so sharp it slices into the very art that once gave him solace.

In a moment of weary dejection, he asks Savitri, “Why are you like this?” She meets his question with........

© Mathrubhumi English