Bison Kaalamaadan: Why This Is The Best Spiritual Movie This Deepavali Season

Few filmmakers ignite the passions of Tamil Nadu like Mari Selvaraj.

Emerging from one of the region's most exploited yet resilient communities, he has become a powerful chronicler of his people's suffering and strength. Yet, his canvas is broader than any single community; in giving voice to his own, his cinema strives to speak for all who have been silenced.

The late literary critic Venkat Swaminathan once observed that great art must journey from the particular to the universal, from the cluttered and specific to a truth that contains all. Mari Selvaraj's artistic odyssey—fuelled by a righteous anger against prevailing socio-political structures—is a testament to this very pursuit. It has been a path of brilliant successes, significant and even dangerous missteps, and of course a few compromises.

With his latest film, Bison, this odyssey reaches a new summit. The film is an unequivocal success, a triumph not just for its director, but for the very social fabric it portrays. Its success mirrors a society's own complex and determined march towards a more inclusive and unified nation.

Bison Kaalamaadan tells the story of Kittan, a gifted young Kabaddi player from a village in southern Tamil Nadu where life is overshadowed by a bitter, long-standing caste feud.

While Kittan sees the sport as his only path to dignity and a way to escape the suffocating politics of his home, he finds that the animosity is inescapable, seeping into the Kabaddi field itself. The film follows his fierce journey as he battles not only his opponents in the arena but also the deep-seated prejudice that threatens to crush his dreams and pull him into a cycle of violence he is desperate to break.

The narrative spine of Bison Kaalamaadan is anchored in the verifiable history of a real-world sporting icon: Manathi P. Ganesan. An Arjuna Award-winning Kabaddi player hailing from Manathi village near Tirunelveli, Ganesan is a figure of immense local pride and a personal acquaintance of the director.

Mari Selvaraj’s connection to Ganesan is deeply personal; he refers to the athlete as ‘brother-like’ and one of the greatest players he has known, whose story became the catalyst for a film intended to speak directly to the aspirations and struggles of the youth in his native region.

This foundation of lived experience provides the film with a powerful current of authenticity, establishing its protagonist, Kittan (portrayed with fierce physicality by Dhruv Vikram), as a cinematic counterpart to a genuine legend. The film is explicitly and repeatedly framed as being ‘inspired by’ or ‘based on’ Ganesan's life, tracing Kittan's arduous journey from a talented village player to a national champion who must navigate a landscape littered with social and systemic obstacles.

The political currents beneath the film’s surface are as turbulent as the history it depicts. The cinematic portrayal of the quasi-militant leader, modelled on Pasupathi Pandian, reflects a complex real-world trajectory that began within the Pattali Makkal Katchi (PMK) party.

This was an era of shifting alliances, where figures like controversial preacher Palani Baba sought to forge new coalitions, viewing the mass conversion to Islam, by a village mostly of Devendrakula Vellalars in 1981-82, as a potential blueprint for wider proselytising.

While Pandian navigated these powerful influences, he ultimately carved his own distinct path. The decision to cast director-actor Ameer—a figure known for his own association with a misogynist Islamic fundamentalist movement Tamil Nadu Tawheed Jamaat— adds another layer to the historical narrative with contemporary disquiet.

This has been rendered more complex by a subtle but significant visual erasure: while the real Pasupathi Pandian was frequently photographed with the traditional Hindu marks of faith—the vibhuti or vermilion—on his forehead, this signifier is conspicuously absent (except in one fleeting scene) from his cinematic counterpart. This seemingly minor omission is, in fact, a profound act of re-characterization, stripping the figure of his overt religious identity and reshaping his socio-political legacy for the screen.

An acclaimed director and actor of considerable mettle, Ameer does full justice to the complex role, delivering an excellent performance that is both powerful and politically charged.

Such choices reflect the complex reality the film confronts. Beyond any critique, the uncomfortable stimuli such depictions pose to the collective conscience of Hindu society cannot and should not be ignored. The film implicitly points out that this social reality places the onus generally on all the society, but particularly on those with a stake in Hindu unity. It points out the pressing need for an approach that is uncompromising on social justice with the critical need for social harmony.

Fortunately the movie also provides a blue print.

The film subverts the conventional binary of the oppressor and the oppressed. While it truthfully portrays the dominant presence of Christian educational institutions in the villages of the Thirunelveli and Thoothukudi districts, the spiritual ethos that permeates the narrative is distinctly indigenous and rooted in the soil of this land.

This nuanced worldview is mirrored in the protagonist's journey.

Weighed down by bloody village conflicts and domestic turmoil, the young player, Kittan, is forced by his father to vow that he will never play Kabaddi again. As he sinks into depression, his path is serendipitously crossed by the Physical Education master who first discovered his extraordinary talent and made him play Kabaddi against the wishes of his father.

In a powerfully symbolic scene, the master urges Kittan onto his motorcycle. While riding, he imparts a profound lesson: that promises should exist not to restrict, but to help one realise their highest potential through joy. He reminds Kittan that his body and mind are made for Kabaddi, a calling he must not forsake.

The symbolism here is unmistakable: a sarathi guiding a fighter who has lost his will, back towards his true purpose.

The film grounds its spiritual landscape in the worship of Kaalamaadan—the Bull Lord—the community's ancient deity.

Kittan’s father, portrayed with extraordinary talent by the actor Pasupathy, serves also as the traditional priest to this powerful godhead, embodying the deep-rooted faith that anchors his people. This sacred role is inextricably linked to the identity of the Devendrakula Vellalar community, and the choice of the Bull as the central divine symbol is particularly resonant, tapping into one of the most potent and recurring imageries in the Rig Veda for the Vedic God Indra.

Vedic hymns are replete with descriptions of Indra as a bull (vrsan), the ultimate emblem of physical strength and spiritual virility, whose very birth is visualised as that of a ‘stout calf, an unconquerable, a brawny bull-Indra’.

This bull-like nature defines Indra’s character: He drinks Soma ‘as a very thirsty bull drinks a fountain dry’, and his energised and elevated state is described as ‘dreadful as a horned bull’.

Crucially, however, this divine Bull is not merely a symbol of static power but an agent of cosmic liberation.

This Vedic archetype of the divine barrier-breaker, who liberates life-giving resources for the subjugated, is the very essence of the film's central theme. Accordingly, at every pivotal point in the narrative, the divine energy of Kaalamaadan is movingly and powerfully invoked to manifest this struggle for liberation.

It is a fascinating paradox that such potent spiritual symbolism should emerge from the work of director Mari Selvaraj, a self-professed atheist who has described his people's spiritual expressions as manifestations of righteous anger rather than ontological reality. It is therefore improbable that he consciously embedded these Vedic archetypes. Rather, it seems the collective memory of Indian culture—the primordial symbol of the Divine Bull—has surfaced through the mind of an artist fiercely committed to his medium of expression and his genuine story telling.

The art, in its raw honesty, channels a truth deeper than the artist's own stated convictions.

This same unflinching gaze allows the film to dissect another, often neglected, dimension of the caste system.

While many caste-based movements shrink-focus on past glory, present grievances, and future power, the film argues that this perspective is incomplete.

It posits that a jaati is not an entity unto itself, but a single node within a vast, interconnected web. Its identity, its very function, is defined not in isolation but through its complex and often volatile relationships with every other node in the social matrix.

Through a pivotal piece of dialogue, the movie illuminates this profound interdependence, offering a timely warning against the dangers of a fragmented understanding of society.

Another monumental triumph of the movie is that it does not paint a world of monolithic hatred. Amidst the systemic oppression, it reveals pockets of genuine humanity, where a love for the sport transcends caste lines. A series of allies emerge to champion the talented player, fighting the very hurdles their own systems create.

Most strikingly, this includes the rival patriarch Kandasamy, who shows a caste-free admiration, recognising Kittan's raw talent and becomes an unlikely catalyst in his journey.

Another crucial figure is Kandipan, a dedicated Kabaddi enthusiast and a powerful person in sports establishment, who acts as a guiding force, ensuring the player gets his rightful place in the state team against the forces determined to keep him out. He is implied as hailing from the Vanniyar community.

The film also probes the deeper dynamics of this vengeful hatred, resisting the simplistic impulse to lay blame on a monolithic system for systematized discrimination. Instead, the movie presents a more granular and unsettling origin story. It demonstrates how primal human failings—jealousy, the lust for power and resources, wounded pride, and personal vengeance—serve as the true kindling for the fire of hatred.

The narrative carefully shows how individual acts of psychological and physical aggression coalesce, hardening over time into the bedrock of communal animosity. In this portrayal, the film suggests a crucial mechanism in the emergence and perpetuation of that inhuman phenomenon called untouchability in its myriad, insidious forms.

This focus on individual pathologies finds a striking parallel in the Bhagavad Gita. While discussions on caste often center on the verse "Chatur-varnyam maya srstam" (4:13) and the endless debates over guna and karma, the film's analysis aligns more profoundly with the psychological diagnosis offered in Chapter 16, the Daivasura Sampad Vibhaga Yoga.

Here, Krishna identifies the precise "Asuric" or demonic qualities that lead to a hatred of others—and ultimately, of the Divine within oneself. These are pathological ego, brutal power, vanity, lust, and vengefulness.

"Blinded by egoism, brute force, arrogance, lust, and anger, these malicious people hate Me (the Divine) in their own bodies and in the bodies of others".

The movie, in effect, becomes a powerful dramatisation of this teaching, showing exactly how these individual failings ignite and sustain a prolonged, destructive caste war.

This complex, layered narrative is brought to life by a series of brilliant performances. Dhruv Vikram as Kittan is a revelation; his portrayal is measured and controlled, yet radiates an undercurrent of power and force that carves for him a top-notch place among his peers. He embodies both the mettle of a veteran actor and the dynamic freshness of a new star.

Actor Pasupathy, as the hero's father, does not merely play a role; he lives the character, masterfully portraying a man torn between a proud fascination with his son's gift and a paralyzing fear of losing him to the very game that defines his greatness.

As Raji, the hero's elder sister, Rajisha Vijayan personifies the quiet, guiding strength that energizes her brother's deepest dreams.

Anupama Parameswaran, as the lover Raani, offers a scintillating performance of a realistic love that finds its expression not in conventional duets, but in shared silences across the chasm of family feuds and pain.

The film's music, with its distinct earthen fragrance, complements these performances, growing on the listener with each hearing.

The pinnacle of the hero’s achievement is the Kabaddi competition at the Hiroshima Asian Games, which leads to his Arjuna award. Here, Selvaraj introduces a deliberate, telling twist. The final match is depicted as a high-stakes clash between India and Pakistan. In historical reality, India’s final was against Bangladesh; Pakistan competed with Japan for the bronze medal. This alteration is a masterful stroke of cinematic license, substituting a lesser-known contest for the subcontinent's most emotionally charged rivalry, thereby amplifying the symbolic weight of the hero's victory on the national stage.  

I watched the film twice in a packed theatre in Kanyakumari district, a region where the community portrayed has little demographic presence. The audience was a cross-section of all communities, including a substantial number from the very group depicted as kind of antagonists. Yet, the entire hall was visibly moved, a testament to the film's power to transcend local conflicts, identity politics and touch a universal human chord.

The final scene is deeply poignant: in a moment of anguish, the father hurls the skull of a forest bison—once a sacred symbol on the altar of the Divine Bull, Kaalamaadan—into the water. But the hero submerges himself, reclaiming the lost Divine from the depths.

And the audience remained.