On Aging, Loneliness, and Media With International Film Director R.V.S. Nikhil

By Taruni Tangirala

In this conversation, the director of the foreign film Brahma Anandam, R.V.S. Nikhil, reflects on the film’s nuanced portrayal of aging, mental health, and intergenerational relationships. Through it all, he emphasizes one simple but profound idea—aging is not an ending, but another stage of life, one that deserves to be seen with honesty and warmth.

There is a moment in the foreign language film Brahma Anandam—a quiet, unassuming one—when a man sits by a pond, his emotions finally unraveling, in a position of regret and acknowledgement of his carelessness towards his loved ones. The camera holds the shot, resisting the urge to cut away or dramatize this moment of raw but restrained vulnerability. It is also a moment that, for all its emotional weight, never veers into the overly-sentimental.

That is what makes the recently released comedy-drama from India, Brahma Anandam different. Directed by R.V.S. Nikhil in his debut, the film resists the idea that aging is either a tragedy or a nostalgic golden era. Instead, it presents it as what it is—another phase of life, with its own complexities, humor, and quiet transformations.

At its core, Brahma Anandam tells the story of a grandson and his grandfather, both self-absorbed in their own ways, who find themselves unexpectedly drawn together over time. Both are portrayed by a real-life father-son actor duo– Brahmanandam (the movie’s namesake) and Raja Goutham. The former is a highly recognized and celebrated comedian, holding the Guiness World Record for most screen credits as a living actor in more than 1,000 films over 40 years, and is deemed one of the finest and highest paid actors in India, particularly in Telugu-language films. 

In some ways, it is this renown of the leading cast members that makes the execution of the movie all the more admirable. Given his repertoire as a comedian in India, the actor playing the grandfather, Brahmanandam, is often relegated to the role of comedian to the point where an audience’s immediate reaction when seeing him on screen is laughter. His name sake movie, however, portrays how there is more to his acting chops than just comedy, mirroring his character’s multidimensionality in old age. 

In the movie, when the main character (played by Raja Goutham) is sent to his grandfather’s village, he initially resents the forced proximity. But as their days unfold, they begin to see each other in a new light. Their growing relationship is indirectly shaped by Jyothi, an elderly woman whose quiet resilience and presence bridge the gap between them. Through her, the film explores not only the bonds between generations but also the often-overlooked emotional lives of aging individuals.

“I didn’t want to make a film that treats old age like a disease,” the director told me. “It’s not something to be endured—it’s just life.”

A Story That Hadn’t Been Told

The idea for the film did not come from personal experience, nor was it drawn from an existing story. Instead, it came from an observation:

“We never talk about old people. And even when we do, it’s always in emotional, sentimental dramas. But old people are also funny, sharp, full of life. We come from them. The DNA of the fun we have—it’s from them. So why don’t we explore that side of aging, but in a way that’s organic and real?”

That realness extends to the way relationships are depicted in the film. There is no forced closeness, no exaggerated declarations of love. One of the most striking choices in the film is that Jyothi and the elderly man who grows close to her never touch each other.

“That was intentional,” the director explained. “The distance between them had to be at least two feet at all times. Because they respect their age. They respect their privacy. They want companionship, conversation. That’s what matters.”

It’s a subtle but powerful choice. In a time when intimacy is often equated with physical closeness, Brahma Anandam suggests a different kind of intimacy—the kind built through conversation, shared silences, and the unspoken comfort of familiarity.

Visually, the director explained, the film evolves with its characters. In the beginning, the grandson’s world is small—his home is framed tightly, its walls pressing in. The grandfather’s introduction, by contrast, takes place outdoors, surrounded by trees and open air. These choices are deliberate, meant to show not just where the characters are physically, but where they are emotionally. As the grandson’s perspective broadens, so does the space around him. His time in the village allows him to open up, and the film reflects that in its wider frames and freer movement.

The film’s use of music is also a quiet but significant force. R.V.S. Nikhil explained that each major character has their own theme, subtly woven into the soundtrack to reflect their personal journeys. The grandson’s music carries a restless energy, while the grandfather’s theme is steadier, more grounded. Jyothi’s music, meanwhile, is delicate, appearing at key moments that highlight her role as the film’s emotional anchor. These musical choices, though unobtrusive, deepen the audience’s connection to the characters without demanding attention.

Despite its serious themes, Brahma Anandam finds space for humor, treating aging with warmth and wit rather than sorrow or nostalgia. The director emphasized that he wanted to avoid the exaggerated sentimentality that often characterizes films about old age.

“The film never asks its audience to pity its elderly characters,” he explained. “Instead, it finds humor in the quirks of old age—the sharp wit, the stubbornness, the unexpected playfulness.”

The humor doesn’t undermine the film’s sincerity. Instead, it reinforces the idea that aging isn’t just about loss—it’s also about laughter, companionship, and shared history. The elderly characters in the film are not passive figures to be cared for; they are active, lively individuals with their own desires and personalities.

The inclusion of Jyothi was particularly deliberate. The director spoke at length about how older women in India live lives of routine and quiet confinement, often without even realizing it.

“In India, and most other countries around the world, many women are in a kind of permanent lockdown. They wake up thinking about breakfast, while making breakfast they think about lunch, during lunch they think about dinner. That’s their life. They don’t get to breathe fresh air. They don’t have space.”

This is what Brahma Anandam challenges—the idea that aging, especially for women, is just a series of tasks to be completed, rather than a time to reclaim some part of life for oneself.

Generational Selfishness and Learning to Listen

The grandson-grandfather dynamic in Brahma Anandam is striking because, as the director put it, “they are the same person.”

“They both start off as selfish, self-centered. The grandfather knows this, and that’s why he brings his grandson to the village—so he understands the reality of being alone. Losing a companion is the biggest regret of your life. That’s what he wants to teach him.”

In a world that celebrates independence, Brahma Anandam makes the case for interdependence. The film subtly questions the modern obsession with self-sufficiency, showing that fulfillment comes not from isolating ourselves, but from finding people to share life with.

When I asked the director what he hoped young audiences would take from the film, he hesitated.

“Maybe they’ll just enjoy the fun parts and the comedy,” he said with a smile. “Maybe they’ll understand the rest later.”

He might be right. While Brahma Anandam has resonated deeply with older audiences—“35 and up,” the director noted—its full impact might only reveal itself to younger viewers years down the line, when they, too, begin to understand time differently.

For now, though, the film leaves its audience with a simple but important reminder:

To listen. To ask. And most of all, to recognize that aging is not an ending—it is simply another beginning.