In the first half of the 20th century, somewhere in rural Karnataka (between Goa and Bangalore, if, like me, you’re not very familiar with the geography of India), Naani, a young Brahmin boy, is left to board at a seemingly run-down Vedic school by his father. It is time for him to follow the traditional path of learning Sanskrit and mastering priestly rituals, the duty of his caste. As the junior of three young-adult students, Naani is frequently bullied but finds comfort in Yamuna, the headmaster’s sad and silent daughter, a young widow in her twenties. Soon, she turns to Naani for escaping from the meddling Godavarama, who becomes suspicious of her recent absence from her father’s religious ceremonies. Could Yamuna be unwell?
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Let’s pause here. Assuming you haven’t seen the film and wishing to avoid any spoilers. Still, these first 20 minutes are sufficient to grasp the underlying mechanics driving the story forward. In a sober black-and-white, with exteriors slightly overexposed, beauty is found in every corner. The pace is indeed slow, yet the camera movement, though discreet and restrained, remains remarkably vivid. The brilliance of the cinematography takes center stage, especially in two notable takes among others: the tracking shot of Naani, slowly walking after his father leaves him at boarding school, his haunting dark gaze, filled with the anguish of a rejected child, cutting through the screen. Equally powerful is the final scene, once again marked by those silent, intense gazes, culminating in a brutal and definitive zoom-out.”
Of course, you’ll point out the obvious similarity with the memorable camera gaze of Apu in Satyajit Ray‘s “Pather Panchali“, made 20 years earlier. Indeed, it’s easy to imagine that Kasaravalli, a recent graduate of the Pune Film Institute at the time, drew inspiration from the Trilogy. But what is art if not the continual reinvention of past masterpieces. However, there is a significant difference between these two “Kinderszenen”: while Ray’s portrayal reflects a calm and immutable upbringing through the gaze of a young boy navigating a difficult life yet filled with love and hope, Kasaravalli infuses a dark fatalism into every still of his film. Could it come from the notable absence of music throughout the film (a rarity in Indian cinema!), aside from the ritualistic score of the opening credits and the haunting drums that accompany the climax of the narrative? Or perhaps from the rigor of the mise-en-scène and its minimalist dialogues? Or could it arise from the narrow interior framing, often cluttered with obstacles like pillars? Clearly, a little bit of all that.
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Beauty also lies in the touching presence of the amateur actress Meena Kuttappa, who was still a student of Kasaravalli at that time. Notably, the expression of her eyes reflects the same distress as Naani’s, just like she is still a child with no given chance of growing up, surely facing the prospect of marriage at an age she could hardly comprehend. From there surely comes the natural complicity between the two outcasts. This creates a compelling contrast with her character as the school’s matron, a position she seems to embrace with a firm maturity. That being said, this cinematic approach is not really surprising coming from a late disciple of Parallel Cinema—Bengal’s answer to Italian neorealism—which developed as a response to the prevalent musicals of the 1950s. Moreover, like many neorealist films, a strong social or political dimension exists beyond its narrative. Should you decide to read further, be aware the key plot development will be revealed.
To begin with, if you’re not familiar with the Kannada language (which has about 44 million native speakers), the title “Ghatashradda“, sometimes referred to as “The Ritual”, gives away parts of the plot: the term ‘Gatha Shraddha’ specifically refers to the ceremony of honouring the deceased, a key ritual in a Brahmin’s daily life. When a Brahmin breaks certain taboos, such as marrying outside their caste, they face excommunication, which automatically implies they would be barred from performing the Gathashraddha for their ancestors—considered the ultimate personal and spiritual failure. Nevertheless, before you can recognize the connection between the plot and the title, the director carefully orchestrates the narrative, dispensing subtle clues throughout the story. Gradually, the framework of the tragedy begins to take shape, a tragedy that Naani will brutally witness.
Hence, the young widow is not ill: off-screen she enters a romantic relationship with a schoolteacher from a nearby village, dating secretly at night on few occasions. Predictably, she becomes pregnant by this educated but lower caste Casanova. The young man eventually arranges a discreet abortion, but one of the jealous students uncovers the secret and sells it cheaply to the village gossip and the manipulative Godavarama. As a result, she faces excommunication. While we might expect the typical fatal demise often seen in such narratives, Kasaravalli opts for a more brutally realistic outcome: Yamuna is eventually safe, but following the terrible “Patta” ceremony led by her own father, she is relegated to the status of an untouchable and expelled from the village. Naani and Yamuna are forcibly separated by a returning father bringing his son back to the noble Brahmin community. Yamuna’s father, despite losing his now-infamous school, finds consolation in marrying a young bride who is half his daughter’s age.
Ultimately, the movie serves as a denunciation of the brutal caste society in India, but it goes further by offering a universal portrayal of individuals struggling against societal norms, relevant across all civilizations. What sets Kasaravalli apart is his ability to depict the helplessness of the victims without resorting to overemphasis or conventional artifices, relying entirely on the intensity of his inhabited lead actors, completely devoted to their roles. The film is indeed a very late opus, meticulously crafted by a brilliant disciple, but it goes beyond that. The constant dialogue between the sobriety of its display and its underlying intensity elevates it to a major work of cinema, undeniably making it a masterpiece of Kannada cinema. Martin Scorsese and George Lucas cannot be wrong in currently restoring the film.
