Tenali Rama and The Brahmins

On the 6th of July, our home in Varanasi was transformed into a film set.

I live with a Banarasi family and their extended relatives in a three-storeyed courtyard house near Panchganga Ghat, close to Thatheri Bazaar. There are nine of us in total. On the third floor is Espírito Kashi, our little office, where much of our dreaming happens.

For weeks, we’d been tossing around ideas for our second folktale-based fiction film—this time, inspired by the clever wit of Tenali Raman. And then, as if conjured by the story itself, Pankaj, a member of the family, walked into the house with a freshly shaven head and a small tuft at the back—just like Tenali Raman.

I shared with him a short story about how Tenali tricks a group of greedy Brahmins using a hot iron rod and the promise of golden mangoes. Not just Pankaj, but the whole household lit up. Excitement spread quickly. Everyone was ready to take part.

The landlady took charge of costumes and makeup. The landlord handled the food. The 90-year-old woman who rents a room on the ground floor played the role of the king’s mother. Friends from the neighborhood joined in too. No auditions, no rehearsals—just a spontaneous agreement that we’d shoot on July 6.

We debated whether to shoot the film in a contemporary setting or bring in costumes—robes for kings, dhotis for Brahmins, swords for soldiers. The audio and visuals would clearly place us in the present, but the absurdity of traditional costumes layered over a modern world had its own comedic logic. Costumes, we realized, could bring not only humor and ambiguity to the film but also help first-time actors step into their roles. It worked.

The story itself is a sharp little satire: four Brahmins allow themselves to be branded with a hot iron rod, convinced that it will earn them an extra golden mango from the king. It’s a tale about greed, gullibility, and belief. The family I live with is Brahmin too, but they embraced the story with open arms. There was no offense—only laughter, and a shared sense of storytelling as something alive and evolving. After all, the story was first told to us in Varanasi, and now it was being retold here—by us.

Soon we were editing together—huddled around laptops, laughing as we pieced scenes together, marveling at the way two disjointed moments could suddenly click. That was the real magic: seeing the family, who had never imagined themselves as actors or editors, fall in love with the rhythm of filmmaking. They began asking when we’d make the next one. The house is no longer just a house. It now exists in the in-between—a film set that bleeds into daily life.

And that’s how our second short film came to be. It may not be a faithful retelling—characters shifted, scenes improvised—but that’s the point. None of us wanted to repeat a folktale word-for-word. And besides, who’s to say what version of the tale was ever truly authentic?