There were days when it genuinely looked like the film would not happen at all. That fear was always at the back of my mind. Bison Kaalamaadan was supposed to happen right after Pariyerum Perumal. Then it got pushed to after Karnan and then again after Maamannan. Each time we would say, “Okay, now it is Bison’s turn,” only for it to get delayed again. Looking back, I see why. Dhruv was not meant to just pretend to be a kabaddi player—he had to actually become one. That kind of transformation does not happen overnight. When you see him now, you realise Mari sir was right to hold the line. Also Mari, sir, having found such a lot of success, also gave us the kind of stage that this film deserved.

As a producer, though, it often felt less like making a film and more like running an endurance race while juggling flaming torches. But I never had second thoughts. There was no doubt in my mind that Mari Selvaraj would make a really powerful film. My biggest fear was not about his vision—it was only about whether we would get the chance to execute it. And today, I can honestly say it was worth the wait.

What helped was finding the right partners. Pa Ranjith, who has always been a pillar of strength, and Applause Entertainment, who steadied the ship when the seas were rough, gave me the confidence to keep going. In a business where people usually want quick turnarounds, their faith and patience made all the difference. And that is why we are here today, with Bison Kaalamaadan finally complete.

I do not think Bison Kaalamaadan has lost a shred of relevance—in fact, the wait has probably made it sharper. Stories do not get old; storytelling does. And that is never a fear when you have someone like Mari sir at the helm.

Second, you could call it a delay, but you could also call it preparation. Maybe not as producers, but as filmmakers, you always thirst for that one film where everyone puts their muscle into getting it right, not just getting it done. I have never had that chance so far in my career—independent cinema does not usually allow for prep to be longer than production. But with Bison, we finally got that luxury.

And you will see that work on screen—from every department. The cinematography, the music, the sound, the staging of the sport—it all carries the weight of time, attention, and craft.

I am just about ready to earn 1000 crore—sign me up! Who does not want it? But chasing it like a holy grail is a bit misguided. Instead of running after a mythical number, we should be chasing something more concrete. And by concrete, I mean literally—bricks and mortar, new theatres. Because the truth is, what you earn depends on how many cinemas you can get your film into. Even the biggest pan-Indian films may reach high thousands in terms of screens, but rarely more than that. Compare that with China, where the screen count is routinely 10 times the number that Indian films get, probably more. A film releasing in 1500 screens in India may get up to 25,000 screens in China. How do you compete with that? It is simple math: you cannot earn from theatres that do not exist.

That is why I feel the real barrier is not the lack of a 1000 crore film; it is that of platforms to give films the reach they deserve. The Telugu industry, for example, thrives not just on the strength of its films, but because it has the highest density of screens and significantly lower ticket prices on average. More screens plus affordable tickets equals more people watching films.

So yes, I am ready for my 1000 crore, but I would prefer to earn it the boring way—through more theatres, more access, and more audiences. That way, it will not be a unicorn; it will just be good business.

I think everyone in the industry knows film work is back-breaking—whether you are in front of the camera or behind it. An 8-hour day sounds like heaven, but the truth is, the ecosystem itself has to change. Producers are hanging on by a thread. The lack of institutional funding means we carry huge interest burdens. Film releases are delayed by months, sometimes years, because of sales bottlenecks and the lack of theatrical space. There is a lot of fat that needs trimming, even from the above-the-line costs on a film. This is not an “oh-woe-is-me” rant from a producer. What I would love to see is an honest atmosphere of collaboration across the board—because the industry desperately needs it.

That said, I do think the conversation is important. Burnout is real. Crew and technicians often put in the longest, toughest hours with the least recognition. If we cannot get to 8 hours immediately, at least we should move toward a culture of care—more structured schedules, proper breaks, and dignity of rest.

As a producer I can admit that I am culpable and that the doctrine of care is hard to implement. I would be the happiest person if we could make films with shorter days and better planning. Right now, making a movie can feel like running a marathon while sprinting at the same time. If this discourse pushes us toward a healthier working culture, I am all for it.

There is a moment in Vaazhai that tells you everything about Mari Selvaraj as a filmmaker. A young boy smells the handkerchief of his crush. In almost any other film, that moment would have played on the boy’s face, the actor “acting” the ecstasy of first love. But Mari does not do that. He cuts to the boy’s bare feet under the table. You watch his toes curl and press into the floor—and suddenly you feel that cool cement under your own feet. You are not observing the boy anymore; you are in that classroom with him. That is Mari sir’s gift: he takes a big idea and makes it startlingly intimate, almost tactile.

Bison Kaalamaadan is no different. Yes, sport is the setting, but the soul of the film is pure Mari Selvaraj. The politics of power and powerlessness, the deeply human details of a community’s life—they all run through the story. Kabaddi here is not just a sport; it is an arena where everything collides: identity, resistance, ambition, and survival.

Mari Selvaraj’s cinema is always personal, always political, and always human. Bison continues in that tradition. 

What stands out for me in Pariyerum Perumal and Vaazhai is that you can feel a filmmaker in absolute control of his material. There is a clarity and confidence in those films—you never doubt whose hand is guiding you. That, I think, is the common thread that makes them resonate so strongly.

With Bison Kaalamaadan, that same sense of authorship is present, but the canvas is larger. Kabaddi gives the story its physical scale, but underneath, it is the same meticulous attention to detail, the same lived-in truth, and the same visual artistry. It carries the urgency and intimacy of Mari’s more personal films, even while reaching for a bigger audience.

As for Maamannan, that was its own film with its own trajectory. We did not approach Bison as a response to its reception. This story has been with us since 2019—it came with its own weight and its own path. Our only task was to honour it fully.

So where does Bison sit? To me, it feels like a film that marries the discipline of Mari’s most personal work with the reach of a mainstream sports drama—without losing the precision of his voice.

I was a student of history, and I always felt there was so much that got left behind in textbooks and tomes—knowledge meant for a select few. That is really what drew me to cinema. I was never a movie buff. My parents stopped watching films the day Amitabh Bachchan stopped being angry! But I had this conviction that there were conversations we needed to have as a nation, and the only medium powerful enough to carry them was cinema. Maybe that is also why we are so intent on destroying it today—it still has that disruptive power.

When I found Pa Ranjith, I felt like I had finally found someone who spoke to my cinematic soul. Here was a powerful, unapologetic political voice making films meant for everyone. That is my greed too. I think films are burnt into the DNA of this country, and the real question is: how much can we keep the conversation going?

Ranjith and Mari are very different kinds of filmmakers, but both are extraordinary in their own ways. Ranjith, to me, is about the power of collectives. His office feels like a movement—musicians, writers, activists, artists all orbiting in the same space, feeding into each other’s work. Being around him is like stepping into an ecosystem that is alive with ideas. You can see this energy in his films because he is constantly allowing himself to evolve—that is why no two films of his are ever the same. If you do not move as fast as him, you will get left behind. I even lost the opportunity to work with him on a film simply because of the warp speed at which he moves.

Mari, on the other hand, is far more personal and precise. He chisels his stories out of lived experience, detail by detail, and builds a world that feels both intimate and universal. With him, it is not about a large circle of collaborators feeding into the vision—it is about the vision itself being relentlessly carved from truth. You can feel the director’s stamp on everything. Music directors, cinematographers, every single technician—people rise to their very best work with him because he is so exacting in his expectations.

And both of them share one thing: they are unrelenting in their politics. Whether it is Ranjith building an entire ecosystem around his films or Mari insisting on truth at the most granular level, neither of them compromises on the stories they want to tell. That is what makes them who they are, and why I feel privileged to have built with one and produced with the other.

Though we had signed the film back in 2020, I actually met Dhruv in person only in April 2023. It was a very formal meeting where he nervously asked me if the film was really happening. I do not know if he realised it, but I was equally nervous. The film had already had its own journey by then, and here was this lean, stylish young boy who had been training, but as Mari sir said, he was not yet a kabaddi player. He could not just act it—he had to be it.

We kept in touch, and I would get updates from his kabaddi camps. I am not sure he knew, but I would often see the BTS training footage. I could have told you then that the film would be incredible because even in the grainy BTS camera footage, you could tell that the chemistry between Mari sir and Dhruv was crackling. It was a WOW! 

When the film is done—and hopefully we have all made our 1000 crores—I hope we can share that BTS with the world. Everyone talks about actors “preparing”, but very, very few actually do it—and certainly not for four years straight. I think Dhruv will take a lot of people by surprise, and yes, there will be much talk of being swept off one’s feet.