Published on March 27, 2026
Some filmmakers make movies; a rarer few redefine the possibilities of cinema itself. Shaji N. Karun, who passed away at 73, belonged to that rarefied second category — an artist who carried Malayalam cinema across borders, long before global platforms and hashtags, and deep into the human soul.
With *Piravi* (1988), his masterful debut, Shaji N. Karun made it clear he wasn’t primarily here for applause but for posterity. A masterwork of grief and restrained storytelling, *Piravi* won the Caméra d’Or at Cannes and played at nearly 70 international festivals — a career opening that most filmmakers can only dream of, but one that Shaji shouldered with quiet humility.
Six years later, *Swaham* (1994) made history as the last Indian film to compete for the Palme d’Or at Cannes for almost 25 years — a drought broken only recently by *All We Imagine As Light*. In the interregnum, *Swaham* remained a quiet north star, its aching silences and raw humanity influencing those who cared to listen.
The accolades followed — seven National Awards, as many Kerala State Awards, the Padma Shri, France’s Ordre des Arts et des Lettres — but Shaji N. Karun wore his honors lightly. His cinema never surrendered to trend or fashion; it remained a solemn act of meditation. With *Vanaprastham* (1999), starring Mohanlal, he further demonstrated his gift for blending the mythic and the intimate, the personal and the cosmic. The film premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, where it was selected in the *Un Certain Regard* section.
Only days before his passing, Shaji N. Karun was honored with the J.C. Daniel Award — Kerala’s highest film accolade. Fate seemed to have conspired to recognize him just in time.
In December 2018, fresh from surviving a brutal road accident, I had the privilege of making my comeback with an interview of Shaji N. Karun for *The Hindu*. Beneath a cap hiding my stitched forehead, I found myself speaking with a man of such gentleness and grace that it felt almost like a second healing. He thanked me for the conversation; I still hold that memory close. When I later praised his film *Olu*, in an email I wrote to him, he even sent me a beautiful note thanking me, “My dear Murtaza, thanks for your support and good heart… My film and ad attempts always require the honest supports from critics like you who understands the cinema as passion and devotion. I am indebted to your honesty…”
Shaji N. Karun’s cinema taught us that pain could be beautiful, and beauty could be unbearably human. His frames were prayers; his silences, entire conversations.
Today, even as his bodily form departs, Shaji N. Karun’s spirit remains — in every frame he composed, every silence he sculpted, every story he whispered across time and language.
A giant has left the stage, but his light — soft, searching, and everlasting — continues to glow.
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