Success has a way of sharpening a filmmaker’s voice. For Akhil Sathyan, that clarity arrives on the back of Sarvam Maya, a film that has gone on to become Nivin Pauly’s biggest commercial success to date. On the surface, it plays out as a tender fantasy about a millennial non-believer Prabhendu (Nivin), who performs Hindu rituals and a Christian Gen Z ghost Delulu (Riya Shibu). Beneath that, the film carries Akhil’s familiar preoccupations, shaped by the Anthikadan school of filmmaking: grief, belief, emotional incompleteness, and the small, human encounters that quietly alter lives.
Just like Akhil's directorial debut Pachuvum Athbutha Vilakkum, there is comfort here, but also curiosity, and a clear refusal to rush emotions for effect. In this conversation, Akhil speaks about how Sarvam Maya took form, writing trauma without spectacle, enabling Nivin to do what he does best in drawing audiences back to theatres, why editing his own films remains central to staying honest as a storyteller and more.
Excerpts:
Before Sarvam Maya’s one line took shape, what was the initial spark?
It goes back to 2021, when we had to stop shooting Pachu... due to COVID. Fahadh suggested I think of something smaller, since Pachu... was a relatively large-scale film. Around that time, I reread Neelavelicham, and something clicked. The idea of a struggling man and a friendly ghost stayed with me.
There was also a personal trigger. When things weren’t working, my mother asked me to visit a nearby temple. There, I met a college junior, an atheist and staunch SFI member, who was distributing offerings. When I asked him why, he said, “It’s just a business.” That inspired Prabhendu, and the idea of a non-believer doing pooja purely as a job. From there, everything connected, an atheist, namboothiri man encountering a Gen Z ghost.
The ghost in Sarvam Maya feels emotionally grounded rather than fantastical...
I never wanted the ghost to feel like a gimmick. Once a ghost enters the story, you have to address their death and past, and I saw that as trauma rather than spectacle. The hospital scene towards the climax is based on a real incident involving a family friend’s daughter. I wanted that realism to extend into the supernatural. Also, I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’m curious about them.
Death and grief seem to recur across your films...
I’m fascinated by people who speak about loss with a certain lightness, even a smile. The way they slip into grief and return almost instantly interests me. It’s a delicate space to write, and one wrong step can feel forced. In Sarvam Maya, death isn’t just an idea like in Pachu... . It’s deeply woven into the narrative. The characters grow directly out of that loss.
Sarvam Maya moves at a very relaxed pace in an age dominated by reels and shrinking attention spans. Did you ever doubt that decision?
It’s a misconception that people who watch reels can’t engage with slower cinema. The same people also sit on beaches for hours or have long conversations. In Sarvam Maya, we let scenes breathe and didn’t rush expressions. Once audiences enter the world, fast cuts aren’t necessary. I don’t believe trends should dictate how stories are told. After Pachu... was released on OTT, I kept receiving reels from it for over a year, mostly from the very generation assumed to have shorter attention spans.
You also edit your own films. Has that ever created conflict?
Editing is extremely personal to me. Having someone else edit would actually be easier, but when I do it myself, I put in more effort. There’s a common assumption that if a director edits their own film, they’ll be too attached to cut anything. But that’s not true in my case. In Sarvam Maya, I cut nearly eight to ten minutes. My co-editor Rathin (Radhakrishnan) kept asking me to stop cutting so ruthlessly. My filmmaking grammar lies in my editing. If I hand that responsibility to someone else, it starts to feel like a different director’s film rather than my own.
Music becomes the bond between Prabhendu and Delulu...
Initially, Prabhendu had a different profession when I began writing during COVID. After Pachu..., there was a turning point. One day, achan (Sathyan Anthikad) took me to a musical programme in Thrissur featuring Johnson mash’s songs. A young guitarist playing among much older musicians struck me deeply and became the film’s opening image. That led me to reimagine Prabhendu as a guitarist. Once Justin Prabhakaran joined, music naturally shaped the writing. In many ways, Sarvam Maya is a proper musical.
The Prabhendu-Delulu relationship carries deliberate ambiguity. Was that hard to crack?
Yes, especially the car scene towards the end. It was the hardest to write. The song before it isn’t a break. It’s part of the storytelling. Until then, Delulu has no romantic feelings for Prabhendu, but in the car, she admits he’s the only person in her life. It’s about companionship, loneliness and emotional panic.
Some viewers interpret that Prabhendu might actually be Delulu’s lover from the flashback...
(laughs) I’ve seen that. From a writing point of view, it wasn’t Prabhendu. But we kept things open-ended, whether the events are real or exist only in his mind. Both readings work. In the final scene with Delulu’s mother, what mattered was emotional closure. Prabhendu’s quiet response resolves the film.
Sarvam Maya seems to reaffirm Nivin Pauly’s crowd-pulling power. Did you sense that while making it?
Yes. Even during the shoot, I kept saying, “Ithu 100 kodi adikkum!” (laughs) I told my producer clearly that unless something extraordinary happened, the film would touch 100 crores. Seeing Hridayapoorvam collect around 75 crores gave me confidence. Some may call it arrogance. For me, it’s confidence. Also, Nivin has beautifully updated his craft over the year. On paper, Prabhendu was a slightly dull character, but Nivin brought a certain charm to it and subtly changed the rhythm of the role.
Aju Varghese’s character also really stands out...
I initially had a different actor in mind, and it was actually Nivin who suggested Aju. At first, I was hesitant because I didn’t want to repeat the familiar chemistry they’re known for. But after watching some of Aju’s recent work, I realised how much he has evolved over the past few years. Once Aju came on board, he made a few suggestions of his own—changing his look and adjusting his approach to the character—and suddenly everything fell in place. Also, there’s a natural ease and generosity between Nivin and Aju. When Aju has a strong moment, Nivin instinctively steps back and lets him shine.
One of the funniest sequences in the film is when Nivin tries to break the ice with Preity, by asking, “bunum chaarum kazhikkunille?”
That scene grew out of an awkward humour approach I had already used in Pachu... A lot of it also comes from my own life. My wife loves exploring different cuisines, and I often don’t know the actual names of many dishes. I end up inventing names based purely on how they look. For example, I used to call momos ‘ada puzhungiyathu’ (laughs). So the line came directly from those personal experiences.
Finally, what’s next for you?
I’m hoping to work with Nivin again, along with Aju Varghese, Althaf Salim and a prominent female actor. The idea is an urban romantic comedy about people in their mid-thirties, with the scale of Bollywood rom-coms like Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani. We’re jokingly calling it Yeh Jawaani Aluva Deewani now. (laughs) I’m also trying to revive an earlier project, a female-led take on Sherlock Holmes.