This article will have spoilers; read at your own discretion
Cope. For years, sections of our society that have been grossly underrepresented in our cinema have followed this tenet. When they were misrepresented, the dissenting voices fell on deaf ears. In fact, we have exalted enough films that treated them in poor light, and it has been so ingrained in our collective consciousness that even the slightest slight against such films makes us irritable. But is this collective comfort actually inclusive? But when the subdued finally find the resources to showcase their voices using the same tool that was used to enforce negative stereotypes about them, many are not interested in looking through the mirage of this perceived reflection.
One such voice from the subaltern was Pa Ranjith, and a variety of voices followed, and one of the strongest among them was Mari Selvaraj. Right from his terrific debut in Pariyerum Perumal to his latest, Bison, Mari has been trying to tell a story about how there are four, and not three, basic requirements to live a life in this world. Apart from the first three — Veedu (food), Udai (clothing), Unavu (shelter) — there is an all-important fourth… samathuvam (equality). In fact, all of Mari’s films can be encompassed in the same universe since the wants of all his protagonists are the same, and the problems they face are also the same.
Let’s talk about two particularly striking and similar scenes from Mari’s Karnan and Bison. Both films are set in the 90s, and Bison seems to be set a few years before Karnan. However, for the sake of clarity, let’s assume Bison is set a couple of years after the events of Karnan.
A bus, a donkey, and a voice from the past
In Karnan, the absence of a bus stop in the protagonist’s village of Podiyankulam, due to caste-based hierarchies, is the burning issue. This inaccessibility has lead to one too many untimely deaths and trampled ambitions. Why does the bus that stops in one particular village, not stop for the inhabitants of Podiyankulam? Why aren’t they considered equal enough to get their rightful place in a mode of transport that should be common to all? What will it take for the ones in power to consider them as people, let alone equals?
Unless the ones facing oppression raise their forcibly bowed heads, they won’t be able to look at their oppressors in the eye. That is why, when Karnan’s grandfather Yaema Raja, gets beaten up by the bus staff, the former first breaks the shackles of a donkey that loiters around the village. Of course, it is a metaphorical representation of oppression. Then, Karnan walks up to the scene with a log in his hand. Before hitting the bus staff who are kicking his grandfather to the curb, Karnan smashes the bus. He knows the vehicle of oppression has to be destroyed because people in power understand capitalism better than casteism. Karnan and a few others were constantly asked by their village elders and family to be like the proverbial donkey that doesn’t raise its head against oppression, and lives through it all just long enough to find a way out of the village.
But then, Karnan and his friends take it upon themselves to find the justice that has been consistently denied to them. And if adopting violent means would allow the next generation of youngsters to dream and aspire big without being bogged down by issues like the absence of a bus stop, then Karnan would do it ten times out of ten.
A bus, a goat, and a voice to the future
The bus that didn’t stop at Podiyankulam and completely disrupted the lives of Karnan and the villagers is now not only stopping at Podiyankulam but also halting at the village of Vanaththi. This is the village where Kittan, the protagonist of Mari’s Bison, hails from. The bus is now regularly used by Kittan and his villagers. They are sharing this resource with their oppressors. It is mercurial territory where every turn of the steering wheel could mean a burst of violence. And it is amidst this threat of violence that Kittan, his father, his sister, and their goat get on the bus to go to their family temple.
One can assume that it is the Karnans of this world who fought to get a bus to stop at Vanaththi. And so, it is on the efforts of many such Karnans that Kittans of the world reach their dreams a bit easier.
In Bison, Mari shows that it isn’t enough if the resources are common. When Kittan’s goat urinates on the leg of a man from the oppressor caste, all hell breaks loose. Each side of the fight finds a group for itself to rely on. The father’s cries to stop the violence fall on deaf ears. The son’s anger at seeing his father being manhandled is uncontrollable. The oppressor’s hatred towards Kittan and Co for simply fighting back and questioning the status quo is unbridled. But what happens in the end? The voiceless and powerless goat is mercilessly gutted and killed. The bus moves away almost immediately. The oppressors run away after their dastardly act.
Kittan, his father, his sister, and the dead goat are on the road trying to make sense of what just happened, and they see how easy it is to enter the circle of violence and retribution. It could just take an animal urinating in public. An animal for whom a ticket was bought to legitimise its presence on the bus.
Oppressors can’t digest the fact that equality means breathing the same air and using the same resources as the people they oppressed. Even in Karnan, we are shown how the education certificates or markers of improvement in lifestyle are destroyed to remind the oppressed of their place in the system.
The more things change, the more they remain the same. And Bison points out that change has to happen top-down, and it will always be increasingly tough for the change to be enforced from bottom-up. But that doesn’t mean the tough fight won’t be fought. Rebellion grows stronger when the agitation is organised, and there is a platform to voice the problem of inequality. And that is why it is important filmmakers like Ranjith and Mari hold the mic very close to their chest, and make the kind of films that they do.
Oppression, suppression, depression. Three words that carry the weight of our sordid deeds and the burden of generations of people are also used to mock certain kinds of films in Tamil cinema. Considering how casteism continues to rule roost in 2025, how can people, in good faith, even say these films are only dividing society further? There is an inherent difference between a casteist film and a film that is anti-caste. And it isn’t like the ones terming these films with those three words don’t know better. Of course, they understand the difference, but if they accept it, then it makes their existence uncomfortable. That is why they want to brand these films as unnecessary or uninformed or unwanted or unwarranted or undesired or unimportant or simply… unasked for. And with their films, all that the unfazed Ranjiths and Maris of the world are telling them to do is… Cope.
