Actor Sivakumar has penned a tribute to director Bharathiraja, who passed away in early hours of June 10, 2026:
There may have been controversies surrounding him. At times, he may have spoken impulsively and emotionally. He may have carried the bitter experiences of youth and possessed the convictions often found in village folk.
Yet, no one can deny that Bharathiraja was one of Tamil cinema’s greatest filmmakers. No one can claim the distinction of authentically portraying Tamil Nadu’s villages on the screen.
He started off as a man from a village and carved a unique place for himself by portraying village life.
A look at the history of Tamil cinema makes this clear. In its early years, cinema adapted Puranas. Later, it focused largely on the lives of the upper classes.
Even Parasakthi, despite its social message, did not truly depict the lives of ordinary rural people. It largely reflected a certain urban milieu. There are films about kings, the wealthy, and devotional subjects.
Even director Bhimsingh, who gave family relationships a central place in his films, largely portrayed urban middle- and upper-class life. K. Balachander’s films reflected the Brahmin and upper-class worlds he knew. You cannot blame him. He grew up in that milieu.
But it was Bharathiraja who, for the first time, brought the villages of southern Tamil Nadu—especially those around Madurai—alive before our eyes.
It was a revolution. A monumental revolution.
He shattered the notion that authentic village life could not be portrayed on screen. He showed the dusty, drought-stricken landscapes, the quiet beauty of rural existence, and the simple yet profound lives of ordinary people.
He captured their affection, innocence, anger, stubbornness, tenderness, and contradictions. He gave voice and form to people who had never truly been seen in Tamil cinema.
What he began was an era.
It was because of him that rural gems such as Ilaiyaraaja and Vairamuthu found opportunities to reach the pinnacle of their careers. His success, the success of kindling the rural sensibility that made people enjoy it, opened doors in Tamil cinema. He broke open doors that had remained shut.
How can Bharathiraja ever be forgotten?
In a world where those who leave their native soil for job opportunities in cities forget their soil and do not respect its people, Bharathiraja remained different. He deeply loved his soil and its people, as they and their lives had left a deep impact on him.
Even after becoming a city dweller, the mind of a villager never changed.
He portrayed the stories he loved through the characters of the people he knew. What he cherished, Tamil Nadu cherished as well. It celebrated him by elevating him to great heights.
From 16 Vayathinile to Kadal Pookkal, how many masterpieces did he create?
Kadalora Kavithaigal, Alaigal Oivathillai, Vedham Pudhithu, Kizhakku Cheemayile, Karuthamma, and so many others have become milestones in Tamil cinema. Above all stands Mudhal Mariyadhai, one of the greatest classics ever made.
Watch his films closely. They did not just promote him; they nurtured generations of artists. Directors, actors, actresses, technicians—countless careers blossomed because of him.
An accomplished filmmaker must take a story that has moved him, transform it into cinema, hold audiences spellbound for 2.30 hours, and leave them emotionally transformed and attached to the film. Bharathiraja mastered that art.
Consider 16 Vayathinile and K. Balachander’s Nizhal Nijamagiradhu. At their core, they share similar themes. Yet 16 Vayathinile remains etched in popular memory in a way that the latter does not. It is because Balachander’s film belonged to an urban world, while Bharathiraja wove the story against the backdrop of a rural landscape. Deep within, many of us are villagers; the DNA of the village runs through our blood. That emotional connection made the film resonate profoundly.
Unknowingly, Bharathiraja accomplished something extraordinary. That achievement will secure him an immortal place for all time.
Today, villages have shrunk. Some have become ghost villages. Others have become extensions of cities.
In just 30 years, many of the markers of rural life that existed for centuries have been wiped out.
There are no houses with verandahs, thatched huts, village elders with big moustaches, grandmothers wearing pampadams, firewood stoves, clay pots, betel boxes, elders and their affectionate words. The lanterns, small lamps, village gatherings, panchayats, kinship networks, and countless customs.
The old ways of negotiating cattle prices by placing hands under towels, seeing the bride without being noticed by others, and so many other charming customs. There are no young women in half-sarees, elderly women draped in traditional styles, or farmers walking behind cattle with ploughs on their shoulders and turbans on their heads.
Bullock carts, bullocks waiting to be shod, farm animals, sparrows in courtyards, ploughing, harvesting, irrigation, and the rhythms of agricultural life have largely disappeared.
The lakes brimming with water, the lush green fields on their banks, the birds they attracted, the scent of fertile earth carried by the breeze—much of it is gone. The paddy fields often resemble a battlefield abandoned after war.
Even village weddings have changed. The old warmth, simplicity, emotional scenes and fantastic food are no longer there.
The humble schools where children arrived in patched trousers carrying yellow cloth bags, and the teachers who cycled miles to educate them, now survive only in memory.
Now every village generation considers itself a great-granddaughter of King George. The old and wondrous times have become just dreams. The villages of Tamil Nadu are clad in a new way. Where will we search for those scenes? Who will show us that there was such a time?
Bhimsingh’s films remain a testament to the emotional bonds of traditional Tamil families and brotherhood. Bharathiraja’s films alone show what Tamil Nadu’s villages were.
It comes to mind whenever I watch his films. He documented every aspect of village life.
From a simple hairpin to a mud-walled chicken coop, he preserved an entire rural way of life on celluloid.
If you grew up in a village, but were later swept away in the swirl of time, urbanisation and circumstance, watch a Bharathiraja film.
The sight of an elderly grandmother wearing pampadams, a farmer working in the fields, women carrying gruel pots, gathering firewood, or boys tending cattle will transport you back to your own village.
The characters he created will remind you of your grandparents, neighbours, relatives, and the people who raised you. Tears will well up in your eyes.
That is the triumph of Bharathiraja—the village man who restored our identity, culture, and way of life through cinema.
It is the success of a great artiste who, without any artificiality, captured rural landscapes, dialects, emotions, motherhood, fatherhood, friendship, love, separation, betrayal, and sacrifice exactly as they existed in village life.
After the success of Mudhal Mariyadhai, Sivaji Ganesan once remarked:
“Bharathiraja is a fine actor. If we actors perform even half as well as he demonstrates a scene, it is enough. He is that brilliant. But if he starts acting, what will happen to our livelihood? That is why I tell him—thousands will come to act, but who will come to make films like you do? Who? So you must continue making more films.”
What else do we have other than Bharathiraja’s films that allow a father to sit beside his son and say:
“My grandmother was exactly like that… We had a cow like that… Our fields looked just like those… We used the same irrigation system in our well…”
He touched the hearts of Tamils everywhere. His sensitive soul and his refusal to forget his rural roots found expression in every frame he created.
You will forever have our love and gratitude, Bharathiraja.
Just as Ki. Rajanarayanan is regarded as the patriarch of Tamil rural literature, Bharathiraja will forever remain the patriarch of Tamil rural cinema.
We offer our heartfelt condolences on the passing of our beloved Bharathiraja.
Farewell, Perusu.
Translated from Tamil by B. Kolappan
