Manichitrathazhu is perhaps one of the most celebrated films in Indian cinema. Few stories have travelled across languages and generations with the kind of impact it has had. From Malayalam to Kannada, Tamil, Bengali and eventually Hindi, the narrative has repeatedly found new audiences, reinterpreted by some of the biggest names in Indian cinema.

At the centre of every remake stood one unforgettable woman. Nagavalli. The wronged dancer. The spirit. The spectacle.

She has been dissected endlessly over the years. But beneath the grandeur of Nagavalli, another woman remains hidden in plain sight.

Ganga.

And perhaps that is the greatest irony of all. Nagavalli was extraordinary, but she was never the enigma. Ganga was. Nagavalli had a story. A grief that could be traced, named and eventually avenged. Ganga had something far more difficult to contend with – a vast, contradictory inner world so deeply felt that even the film could only circle its edges and never truly step inside.

I do not wish to challenge Manichitrathazhu or diminish the compassion with which it treats its heroine. Quite the opposite. I think the film loved Ganga deeply. But perhaps it loved her within the emotional vocabulary available to its time. In a film so empathetic towards her suffering, there are limits to what it could fully express about her.

Ganga is introduced as an ordinary woman. Loving, caring, curious and deeply affectionate. An archaeology graduate fascinated by old stories, forgotten histories and beautiful objects. She laughs easily, indulges small joys and appears at home within the mundaneness of everyday life.

Until she isn’t. Until she begins speaking a language she does not know. Performing a dance she was never taught. Displaying emotional shades that perhaps Ganga herself was never offered by life.

Dr. Sunny traces her illness back to childhood loneliness. We see glimpses of a little girl longing for absent parents, finding comfort in a grandmother who distracts her with stories.

Stories become her sanctuary. Her armour. She learns to survive by slipping into fictional worlds, borrowing emotions from characters, feeling through them and experiencing life second-hand. It becomes the bridge between an unbearable reality and a bearable existence.

What If Ganga Was Simply A Woman Who Felt Too Deeply?

What if Ganga was not merely traumatised? What if she was simply someone who experienced emotions with extraordinary intensity?

Some souls simply feel too much. For them, fiction is more than entertainment; it becomes a space for catharsis and, at times, a form of safe transcendence. They do not merely read stories; they inhabit them. Imagined worlds feel more alive to them because ordinary existence can feel too contained, too restrained to hold the expansiveness of their inner lives.

Perhaps Ganga belonged to this category of people long before loneliness taught her to retreat into stories. But we will never know, because her story never pauses long enough for that introspection. Before she can outgrow the coping mechanisms she has begun to rely on, her world shifts once again. She is moved to Calcutta, medicated, “cured,” and encouraged to begin anew.

She falls into place, builds a career, marries Nakulan, and slowly settles into an affluent, stable, seemingly fulfilling life. Much like the lonely child she once was, Ganga once again has to adapt to a life that has been arranged for her, rather than one she has had the time to consciously step into.

And perhaps that pattern repeats itself even at the end of the film. Healing arrives, decisions are made, and life resumes. Yet Ganga is never truly given the time or space to ask herself who she wants to become once the dust settles.

Dr. Sunny himself acknowledges that medication addressed symptoms but never entirely healed the deeper wound.

And so Ganga returns to fiction. Again.

When I first watched Manichitrathazhu as a young girl, I remember feeling unsettled. Years later, revisiting it as a woman, I finally understood why.

A lonely child escaping into stories made perfect sense to me. But an adult Ganga losing herself to fiction amidst an enviable life puzzled me.

Why does Nagavalli awaken parts of Ganga’s inner world that the people around her cannot? Why does fiction continue to nourish her in ways reality seemingly does not?

Or perhaps more importantly, why does a woman who appears loved, secure and fortunate still feel compelled to step into another woman’s story? What is it about her own life that still leaves a part of her reaching elsewhere?

Perhaps the answer isn’t necessarily unhappiness. Perhaps contentment and emotional fulfilment were not synonymous for someone like Ganga.

She may have loved Nakulan.

She may have appreciated her life.

She may even have been grateful for it.

And yet still felt emotionally undernourished.

Because Ganga does not merely consume stories. She inhabits them. She performs them. It is almost as though the boundaries between her inner world and the worlds she imagines are more porous than they are for most people.

What If Ganga Found More of Herself in Fiction Than in Life?

Women like Ganga are often expected to remain gentle. She is the kind of woman others describe as accommodating, pleasant, and composed.

Nagavalli allows her to become more.

Angry.

Sensual.

Demanding.

Theatrical.

Passionate.

Perhaps Nagavalli became an emotional homeland for everything Ganga had quietly denied herself: her hunger to be seen, her wish to feel without restraint. In Nagavalli, these longings could finally take shape.

As Nagavalli, she could exist in a world where the enormity of her emotions was not something to be managed, explained or contained, but simply allowed to be.

What fascinates me most is that whenever Ganga speaks beyond what is expected of her, the film often attributes it to Nagavalli. Her fascination with jewellery. Her excitement about forgotten histories. Her curiosity. Her flashes of dissent. Her refusal to be questioned. Gradually, these become evidence that Nagavalli is emerging.

Because Ganga, apparently, would never.

But what if she would?

What if Ganga possessed all these emotions but lacked situations, permission or language to express them? What if Nagavalli merely offered her a script?

Perhaps this is also where the film’s gaze remains tellingly external. Everyone around her loves her. Sunny understands her illness. Nakulan protects her. Yet very rarely does the film allow Ganga to articulate her own inner world.

The film speaks beautifully about Ganga. It seldom allows Ganga to speak beautifully about herself.

The climax consists largely of Ganga realizing Nakulan’s love. And it is undeniably moving. Nakulan is often read as an emotionally mature husband; loving, forgiving, protecting without expectation.

For many women, Nakulan may indeed feel like a dream. But perhaps not for Ganga. Not because he is inadequate. But because he exists at a quieter emotional frequency than she does.

Perhaps no individual person could ever satiate someone whose emotional landscape is as vast as Ganga’s. That is precisely why it felt important for Ganga to find a sense of completeness within herself. Her coming into an identity she had consciously chosen and claimed would have been the perfect culmination of her journey.

I do not believe Manichitrathazhu failed Ganga. I believe it loved her with extraordinary tenderness. But tenderness is not always understanding. Love is not always recognition. And healing is not always returning to the life one left behind.

Perhaps Ganga simply needed more time – perhaps solitude, perhaps therapy. A genuine chance to discover herself. To channel the depth within her into something meaningful and purposeful. She simply needed a little longer; not to choose, but to become acquainted with a self she had so rarely been allowed to meet.

She might still have returned to Nakulan. She might have loved him more deeply than before. Or she might have chosen an entirely different path.

Perhaps that is why Ganga continues to haunt me decades later. The film perhaps imagines healing in forms that are easier to recognise – love, stability, safety, return. And perhaps that is the most compassionate ending it could conceive.

But women like Ganga often seek something more difficult. Not to be contained within love, but to be seen in full emotional scale. Not to be resolved through acceptance, but to be allowed to remain unbounded.

I do not think Ganga was a woman who loved fiction too much. I think she was a woman who felt too deeply for the small emotional containers life handed her. A woman whose soul refused to become smaller simply because the world preferred her grateful, agreeable, unassuming and content.

Even Nagavalli is granted closure only in fiction. Ganga, in reality, is expected to return home. And perhaps it is in that gap that her need for fiction begins to make sense.

And perhaps that is why, even after all these years, I find myself wanting to sit beside Ganga and ask her the one question the film never lingers on long enough to hear her answer; who she is, when no one is speaking for her.