Larger-than-life cutouts are a staple of Tamil cinema. A ritual. A spectacle. But the very first cutout wasn’t of a male superstar. It was of a woman in a silk saree. And it stood for something much bigger than fandom.
This is a story of one filmmaker’s relentless resistance to caste system. In 1940, Tamil director Krishnasamy Subrahmanyam released Bhaktha Chetha—a mythological film that delivered a message that was anything but mythical.
The story centered on Chetha, a lowborn cobbler and devotee of Vishnu living near Hastinapur. Played by the legendary Papanasam Sivan, Chetha’s journey to divine grace challenged everything the caste system stood for.
His antagonist? Dronacharya—the revered Brahmin guru of the Kauravas.
In Subrahmanyam’s world, Drona wasn’t just a character from the Mahabharata. He was a metaphor for an unjust system that rewarded birth over virtue.
By pitting Chetha’s devotion against Drona’s pride, Subrahmanyam was making a direct attack on caste-based discrimination within Hindu society. The film’s spiritual message was unmistakably political: in the eyes of God, caste and untouchability has no place.
But, this wasn’t a one-off. Subrahmanyam had already made a name for himself as a reformist filmmaker. He was a Brahmin himself. But, shaped by reformist ideals—especially those of his father, he didn’t shy away from questioning the structure he came from.
In 1937, he made Balayogini, one of the first Tamil films to be set in a contemporary setting. It told the story of widows trapped by caste and patriarchy within Brahmin households. He cast his own niece, Baby Saroja, in the leading role.
Baby Saroja—a child star at the time who was known as the Shirley Temple of India—was the voice of conscience in the story. Balayogini criticized not just caste, but the Brahmin supremacy, child marriage, and ritualism. It caused a stir. But he didn’t stop.
Then came Seva Sadhanam in 1938. This time, Subrahmanyam went further. He exposed the horrors of dowry. As Nandini Murali mentioned in her book Light and Shadow, it was a sharp critique of the practice of old men marrying young girls.
He even dared to cast a real widow with shaved head and white saree in the role of a widow in this film. Something that hadn’t been heard before. Predictably, this didn’t sit well with the orthodoxy. He was ostracized by his own community.
His most politically bold film was undoubtedly Thyaga Bhoomi, released in 1939. The protagonist was modeled on Gandhi and the film glorified Indian freedom movement. It even featured real-life footage of Gandhi spinning the charkha.
The movie also called for the emancipation of Dalits, condemned the denial of temple entry, and held a mirror to the treatment of women.
It was banned by the British colonial government.
Subrahmanyam operated under his own banner—Madras United Artists Corporation. That freedom allowed him to make the films he believed in, even as he faced backlash from his own community. What he created was not just cinema, it was protest in the guise of popular art.
Bhaktha Chetha was made with the same intent. It took a tale from the Mahabharata and used it to question the Hindu caste system. It was visually grand, musically rich—and yet, unmistakably subversive. It was a box office success.
Subrahmanyam cast debutant G. Subbulakshmi as the cobbler’s daughter in this film—a girl from an “untouchable” background who falls in love with a Brahmin boy. She was the soul of the film. To promote the film, Subrahmanyam did something Tamil cinema had never seen before.
As historian Madabhushi Rangadorai noted, a life-size cutout of actress G. Subbulakshmi, dressed in an exclusive silk saree, was put up at the intersection of Broadway and China Bazar Road—what we now call Netaji Subhash Road in Chennai, opposite to Madras Law College.
Every week, the cutout was re-dressed with a fresh silk saree. Not only was this bold marketing—it was a statement. The daughter of an “untouchable” character was being displayed with dignity, glamour, and pride, at the heart of colonial Madras.
Subrahmanyam was redefining who deserved visibility—and who was allowed to be admired. The symbolism wasn’t lost on anyone. This was believed to be Tamil cinema’s first life-sized cutout.
And it wasn’t of a male hero, or a mythological god. It was of a character—a Dalit daughter on screen—placed boldly at the center of public gaze. When was the last time we saw a character like that—marginalized, defiant, and central—being celebrated in the public eye?
We still debate caste today. We still see art being censored, activists being silenced. But in 1940, under colonial rule, with limited means, a filmmaker used the silver screen—and a street corner—to speak truth to power. That deserves to be remembered.
Sources:
Ramakrishnan, V., Ramakrishnan, V., & Dtnext. (2023, October 29). dtnext. Dtnext. dtnext.in/news/city/pion
Guy, R. (2010, June 25). Bhaktha Chetha (1940). The Hindu. thehindu.com/todays-paper/t
Vijayalakshmi, B., Vijayalakshmi, B., & Chronicle, D. (2019, March 17). Deccan Chronicle. Deccan Chronicle. deccanchronicle.com/nation/current
Murali, N. (2019). Light and shadow. Notion Press.
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