Some of my very first memories are not of play or comfort, but of fear.
Of my mother’s silence. Of raised voices. Of watching her endure domestic abuse before I even understood what violence was. Those images stayed with me long before I had the language to name them.
After that, it was just the two of us. She raised me alone, carrying her pain quietly, in a time when it wasn’t common for women to work or survive independently here in Chennai . She went out every day to earn enough to keep us alive, and I learned early what it meant to wait, to be alone, to grow up faster than you should. The house often felt empty—but it was heavy with things left unsaid.
I spent most of my childhood by myself. A television, a DVD player, and a few pirated movie CDs became my companions. In the dark, cinema felt like presence. Like someone sitting beside me, saying, I see you. I’m here. Those films didn’t just distract me—they held me. They gave shape to feelings I couldn’t yet speak.
Somewhere in those quiet hours, a desire took root. Not just to watch stories, but to tell them. To make something that could reach children like me and say, Hey man, I got you. To give back the comfort I once received.
I don’t come from background or money. What I have is an undying, unyielding love for cinema—and a need to tell my stories honestly and loudly. If my films can make even one person feel less alone, then this journey means something.