Rima Kallingal: I don’t mind ‘activist’ tag, but I am an artist first

The film follows a mother and daughter living on an isolated island, whose lives suddenly go viral on the internet. Their story spreads across the world, opening up questions about truth, perception, and social media. In this post-truth era, we wanted to explore how narratives form and spread—without judging, but by observing. The film invites discussion, not conclusions.

Mainly, my character. The story resonated with my own experience of living both before and within the social media era. We’ve all seen how blurred reality has become—what’s real, what’s myth. That’s also the film’s tagline.

Honestly, I’m selfish... I needed this film. As an artist, I need work even while fighting other battles. Another reason was that Sajin was the only person who publicly admitted wrongdoing and apologised during the Me Too movement.

That’s a step forward, even if it isn’t the end of the problem. I wasn’t directly affected, so it’s not for me to forgive. But I saw his acceptance as significant. I can’t create my own industry; I need to keep working. Actors, especially women, are often powerless in such choices. Still, I do feel guilty... but also pragmatic.

Definitely. By 2020, I became more pragmatic. I realised I simply need work to survive. In this industry, people with serious charges continue to win awards. The system protects them, not us. It’s easy to sideline women who raise questions—we’re seen as difficult. But as creators, we have to keep imagining new spaces and keep going, even from the margins.

Yes. It’s ironic that those who speak up are the only ones held accountable. Everyone else carries on. We become the problem, the ones under the scanner. But I know where my real responsibility lies and I’ll continue doing what I believe in.

I was lucky to have Mamangam, my own space where I made all the decisions. My team of over a decade held me together. After the pandemic, we revived our creative energy through Neythe, a contemporary dance tribute to Chendamangalam weavers. Still, it was a difficult time—many of us faced severe lows and depression. Artists are always insecure but this silence was painful, especially when colleagues drifted away.

Both (laughs). Many producers openly said they wouldn’t work with WCC members. Directors discussed scripts with me. But once producers came in, I’d be replaced. Even today, people deny that such discrimination exists. Denial is easy—it keeps you “likeable”. I could do that too, but I chose otherwise. The struggle was real. I was once carefree and full of dreams, but the stress was immense. Thankfully, therapy, medication, and supportive circles helped us cope.

Never. Not once. I’m proud of all of us for standing our ground. We’ve no regrets — only gratitude. Today, I’m in a much better space, with clarity and far less chaos.

Yes. Every new woman entering cinema today knows her rights. We created a handbook explaining how to raise concerns—something I never had. Back then, we normalised everything, even double-meaning jokes that made us uncomfortable. Someone had to start the conversation, and we did. Now, women know there’s someone to talk to. I wish I’d had that support when I began.

Yes, but only for now. The next generation will question everything. Change is slow but certain... definitely within my lifetime (laughs). As Arundhati Roy says, “On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”

Everything about Ritu is precious to me. The way Shyam (Shyamaprasad) sir hand-held all of us newcomers is priceless.

I grew up in Ooty and Salem, so I watched a lot of Tamil films... Kamal Haasan, Rajinikanth. Later, in Thrissur, I discovered Malayalam cinema. But I was mainly a stage performer; dance was always my dream. Cinema happened by chance. I was part of Thaka Dhimi and was a Miss Kerala runner-up. Abrid Shine, then with Vanitha (Malayalam magazine), saw me and offered a photoshoot, which led to (director) Lal Jose calling me for a look test. That film didn’t take off but the same night Syamaprasad sir called me for Ritu. I auditioned and signed the contract the same day. It all felt unreal. Nothing was planned, everything was a happy accident.

My parents enrolled me for dance probably to tire me out (laughs). I had too much energy. I loved both dance and sports. I was even sports captain, but had to choose. I trained in bharatanatyam from childhood but couldn’t pursue a solo career because it’s expensive. I discovered my love for group performances... kaikottikali, oppana... and the thrill of creating something together.

WCC changed me more as a person than as an artist. The women there are my strength. I’m standing on their shoulders. They taught us how to find words for our experiences. That sisterhood, that assurance that someone will answer your call, means everything. It gave me belonging, hope, and faith that we’ll find our way forward.

Frankly, it happened by accident (laughs). We were just discussing the idea of creating a new, inclusive space and made a draft document. Then (director) Anurag Kashyap shared it online by mistake, and it went viral! It wasn’t meant as a reaction or a union... just a fresh space for collaboration. It simply got out of hand.

It’s natural. There are many artists but very few who are both artists and activists, so all questions come to us. If everyone had spoken up, we wouldn’t stand out. Not everyone feels safe to speak, and I don’t blame them. The world isn’t built for us. Every day is a struggle, especially for women. I’m privileged to have a voice and I don’t mind the ‘activist’ tag, but I don’t want that alone to define me. I work hard for my art and give it my soul. Even if it’s overlooked, I’ll keep reminding everyone—I’m an artist first.

It isn’t the audience, it’s the industry that forgets. Wherever I go, I only feel love. Trolls existed, but they don’t affect me now. I don’t even need to respond anymore.

The credit goes to the whole Lokah team... Dominic, Nimish, Santhy... and Dulquer for producing it on a big scale. We’ve collectively created a space where such films can exist. The audience here values good cinema, regardless of gender. The real bias lies within the industry—female-led films face smaller budgets though audiences pay the same. If the craft suffers, it isn’t the viewers’ fault. We need equal financial and distribution support. Cinema itself is powerful... I’m powerful only because of it.

When I lost it. When film offers stopped, I felt a deep void. Earlier, I was moving from one character to another, always surrounded by creative people. Suddenly, it all ended... I cried myself to sleep, not knowing what hit me. That’s when I realised how much I needed this. Neythe made me see that it isn’t just about films. I need a creative outlet. I simply can’t stay still.

Yes. Much of it comes from invisible conditioning passed down through generations. I realised I was role-playing... seeking validation for keeping a “perfect home”. It took time to see that the institution itself doesn’t work for me. It’s built by men, for men. I regret signing that paper. Love doesn’t need official approval... I’ll still love wholeheartedly, with or without it.

(Laughs out) No, not between us. The problem is with marriage as an institution... it adds nothing and brings pressure instead. We love each other more now. We only signed because our parents wanted it, but it’s a trap of conditioning.

No, he’ll have his own take. But we understand each other. Both of us are strong-headed, yet love holds us... not the certificate. Aashiq and I are very different. He’s into tech and AI while I’m old school. I still write by hand and don’t even know how AI works (laughs). We disagree creatively at times, and that’s fine. Marriage hasn’t erased our individuality. We’re two people who just happen to share one signature (laughs).

Absolutely. That awareness keeps us alert, it’s a healthy kind of fear. Our viewers can forgive technical flaws but never dishonesty in writing or performance. They’ll call it out, and that honesty is precious.

(Laughs) I don’t need to. My journey speaks for itself. I arrived in Thiruvananthapuram with one suitcase, then to Kochi for Miss Kerala with the same one. I auditioned, worked, and built everything on my own. I met Aashiq in 2014, but I’ve been in films since 2008. I never had a manager... I handled everything myself. When M T Vasudevan Nair offered me Sharathe Ammini (character in Neelathamara), my father told me to do it for free (laughs). That’s the kind of start I had.

Many girls told me, “Thank you for the fish fry statement. Now we use it at home too!” (laughs). It gave them a language to express something. That’s enough for me. You can’t change the world, but you can communicate. I just used the space I have to speak my mind. Trolls don’t matter. I said what I wanted to say.

I want to do mad, physical comedy. I saw Shobhana chechi’s performance recently... her comic timing was brilliant! We haven’t seen women get such space in cinema, except maybe Urvashi chechi. I’d love to do full-fledged comedy.

I go by instinct. If something instantly excites me, I do it. I can’t approach cinema with pros and cons; it has to spark something inside.

Yes, that’s the sad part. Even when I try something light, people can’t see me that way. Those who meet me in person find me very different. Some even tremble while doing my makeup! (laughs) Strength and opinion are often mistaken for intimidation. That’s how the world sees women.

Yes, I’m a very romantic person... but I can’t say that openly (laughs)! I have many sides, but people love putting you in boxes — like calling you an activist.

Not at all. I’m proud of what I stood for, though it cost me a lot emotionally. I’ve felt lonely and struggled, but I don’t regret it. If wanting change and believing things can get better make me an activist, then yes, I am one.

True change happens only when you step into the creative space. When women start writing and directing from lived experiences, cinema transforms. Like when Santhy, Revathi chechi, or Ratheena made Puzhu... those layers came from truth. We need more women behind the camera. The issue isn’t talent, it’s trust. Once the industry begins investing in women, everything will shift.

Yes. Cinema still feels magical to me, and I want to write and direct some day. But I often struggle with imposter syndrome.

It’s like how Kerala was reported on most during Nipah or Covid outbreaks... because we’re aware and vocal. Problems exist everywhere but we discuss them openly. That isn’t shameful... that’s progress. The question is, where do we go from here?

Definitely. Earlier, we didn’t even know whom to approach if something went wrong. Now, every film set has an Internal Committee. Whether people use it or not is another matter. I expected more, but change takes time. We’re dismantling centuries of patriarchy and that won’t happen overnight. Still, things are shifting.

I don’t expect instant change. But for the first time, we’re seeing things through a new lens — not just a male one. That itself is progress. I admire Shwetha (AMMA president)... she’s bold and fearless. I’m excited to see what she brings.

After its release, I was branded a feminist. I seem to get a tag after every film! 22FK upset a lot of men... that showed its impact. It started a conversation I deeply believed in. Around that time, my TED Talk also happened, and together, they shaped how people saw me. But I don’t mind such labels... they come from standing by what I believe in.

Those roles were equally enriching. They reflected real women I see around me. Playing characters unlike myself helped me understand people better and develop empathy. It’s a challenge, but one I enjoy.

It depends on the director’s intent. If I were shooting an intimate scene, I’d want to see how I view it as a woman. Like Anjali’s scenes—they’re intimate yet human. It’s about context, not exposure. The audience’s reading matters as much as the creator’s intent.

Of course. We’re all sexual beings, women included. We have light and dark sides and I want to own both. We shouldn’t be bound by the ‘kulasthree’ image. Men must also learn to see women as we truly are. Social media has helped—women like Mathimol are unapologetic and bold, creating amazing work with just their phones. It’s liberating to watch.

I want to explore comedy—and romance—from a woman’s perspective. There’s so much humour and tenderness in our stories that we haven’t shown enough.