Kantara (2022)

In 1847, on the mist‑heavy coast of what is now Karnataka, a restless king rides away from his tiled‑roof palace and its courtyards of dancers and drummers, away from the comfort of his wife and children asleep behind carved doors. The monsoon has just begun to soften; the air is wet with the smell of earth and salt as he pushes deeper into the forest, torchlight flickering against colossal trees. Servants hurry behind him but hang back when the drums begin.

Ahead, in a clearing, the villagers of Kaadubettu are already in trance. Oil lamps burn low around a rough, moss‑slick stone set upright in the soil. The stone is garlanded, smeared with vermilion and turmeric. Around it, men and women sway, chanting to Panjurli Daiva, the boar‑faced guardian of their forest, while a single thin man in layers of anklets and a towering headdress circles the stone. He is the Bhoota Kola performer, the human vessel for the divine.

The drums accelerate. The performer's body shakes; he slashes a sword through the air and lets out a long, guttural cry that is not entirely human. In an instant, the villagers fall silent. The king, used to priests and Sanskrit, is struck by the rawness of this worship. The performer's painted eyes seem to glow. When he speaks, the voice is deeper than his own.

"Why have you come, O King?" the god asks through the man.

The king drops to his knees in the red‑mud clearing. "I have everything," he says, his voice trembling, "gold, elephants, a kingdom. But no peace."

The possessed performer laughs--a coarse, forest‑echoing laugh. "Peace," Panjurli Daiva replies, "comes when you give, not when you hoard."

The god's gaze sweeps toward the surrounding trees. He tells the king that the stone before him is Panjurli's own manifestation, that if the king will take this stone to his palace and worship Panjurli, he may find the peace he seeks. But there is a price. The god demands that the king donate this entire tract of forest land to the villagers, permanently. The land will be theirs and their descendants' to live in and live from, under Panjurli's protection, for as long as they honor him.

The king hesitates; the forest is rich--timber, game, perhaps future revenue. Yet the weight in his chest, the sleeplessness, the vague dread that no priest has soothed presses on him. He bows lower. "I agree," he says.

The performer's body straightens, sword raised. "Listen carefully," Panjurli warns through him. "My companion Guliga Daiva is not gentle like me. This vow you make today cannot be broken. If you or your blood ever try to reclaim this land, Guliga will not forgive. The one who breaks this promise will die, vomiting blood. His line will know ruin."

The king shudders. "I swear," he says. "Let all the gods witness." In the flicker of flames, his scribes set up a small table. By torchlight, ink and quill, the king signs away the forest in a royal deed, seals it with his crest. The Bhoota Kola performer, still shaking, traces the boundary in the mud with his sword. Villagers watch, wide‑eyed; this moment reorders their world.

The king rises and, with reverence, touches the holy stone. Wrapped in cloth and garlands, the stone is lifted onto a palanquin. The king himself takes the front pole, leading the deity toward his palace. Behind him, the villagers rejoice. For them, this is not a mere grant; it is a sacred contract between royalty, deity, and forest. The land is now irrevocably theirs, bound by the word of Panjurli and the shadow of Guliga.

Time thickens, and the firelight dissolves into the white glare of a later sun.

It is now 1970. The palace has electricity and concrete additions. The king of 1847 is dust; in his place stands his successor, a descendant who wears sunglasses and starched shirts but carries the same royal crest on his ring. He looks over maps spread across a table--old royal deeds, new government notifications--calculating profits. The coastal land is more valuable than ever, especially the forest the old king gave away in a moment of spiritual panic more than a century ago.

He drums his fingers on the table, then fixes on one document: the grant to the villagers of Kaadubettu. "All this," he mutters, "for those tribes?" To him, it is an error to be corrected.

He travels to Kaadubettu with a small entourage, dusty Ambassadors grinding to a stop at the village edge. The villagers, still lean and barefoot but now with transistor radios hanging from trees, come forward warily. The successor walks past them into the familiar Bhoota Kola courtyard, where preparations are underway. It is the night of Panjurli's annual invocation.

In the open grounds, the new Bhoota Kola performer--a man of intense eyes, strong jaw, and sinewy limbs--prepares his costume. This is Shiva's father, though the film will never speak his name. Children peek from behind pillars as he paints his face, attaches anklets, and ties the heavy, arching headgear that turns him into the living icon of Panjurli. Among those children is a wide‑eyed boy with messy hair: Kaadubettu Shiva, watching his father with awe and fear.

Night falls fully. Fires ring the courtyard. Drums sweat out rhythms that climb into the night sky. Shiva's father dances, steps ringing, sword flashing. The villagers shout prayers; some fall into minor trances. When the god comes, it is sudden, with a piercing scream and a stillness that follows. Now Panjurli is present.

The successor pushes forward, bowing but with careful calculation in his eyes. When the priests announce that the deity will answer questions, he raises his voice.

"Panjurli Daiva," he calls, "this land was once my family's. I have come to ask your blessing to reclaim it. Tell these villagers, in your divine word, to return the land to me. Then I will worship you even more grandly in my palace."

The crowd murmurs, stunned by his audacity. The possessed performer stops mid‑step and turns toward him. The painted eyes are fierce; the sword points like an accusing finger.

"Greedy child of that king," Panjurli's voice booms from the performer, "you forget the vow. This land is not yours. It belongs to these people and to me. You may not take it back."

The successor's face tightens. He persists. "If you order them, they will obey. Say it. Tell them the land is mine."

The god's laugh is harsh. The drums slam once, like a thunderclap. "Listen," Panjurli says slowly, "go to court if you must. File your petitions. Stand on those steps like a warrior of paperwork. But know this: if you defy my word, if you fight for this land in court, you will die vomiting blood."

The words shock the courtyard. Old women cover their mouths. Young Shiva stares, terror and wonder mixing in his chest.

The successor stiffens. There is a flicker of fear, but his pride wins. He leaves, issuing stiff smiles, and a few weeks later his lawyers file the case.

Months pass. Monsoon clouds roll inland, rain hammering tiled roofs. In a distant town, on the worn stone steps of the court, the successor climbs toward his hearing. He pauses to adjust his tie, then coughs. A thin line of red appears at the corner of his mouth. He frowns, wipes it, continues. The cough returns, harder, deeper. He bends, clutching his stomach, as blood gushes from his mouth, splattering across the steps.

People shout. A clerk rushes forward. The successor's eyes are wild; understanding and terror dawn together. He vomits more blood, body convulsing, and collapses on the stone. Within minutes, he is dead. No doctor finds a clear cause. For the villagers of Kaadubettu, the news arrives as a whispered confirmation: Panjurli's word has been fulfilled.

After the funeral pyres fade, another shadow falls on Kaadubettu. On a misty day, the Bhoota Kola performer--Shiva's father--prepares for another visit to the forest. He stands at the edge of the sacred forest, looking toward the deeper green where Panjurli's presence is strongest. Little Shiva tugs at his cloth. "Appa, don't go."

The man looks down, eyes softer now. "The Daiva calls," he says. "We servants must go."

He steps into the trees and is swallowed by the density. Hours turn to days. He does not return. Men search with torches, calling his name under the thick canopy, but the forest gives nothing back. No body is found; only whispers remain--that the Daiva took him, that he walked into another realm. To the village, he is gone, presumed dead. To his son, he has been devoured by the very deity he served.

Young Shiva's grief turns to resentment. The anklets and headdress that once fascinated him become objects of fear. The sacred Bhoota Kola duty that runs in his blood becomes a cursed inheritance he swears never to accept.

The years wheel forward again, and the screen shifts into the year 1990. The coastal sun glitters on flooded fields. The cameras skim over paddy, then down onto a shallow mud track filled with water: the Kambala track.

Buffaloes snort, decorated with bells and bright cloth. Men shout bets; conch shells blast. At one end of the track, a muscular young man slaps his thighs and roars with laughter, his long hair flying as he pats the neck of his racing buffalo pair. This is Kaadubettu Shiva, now fully grown, fiercely alive, and known throughout the region as a Kambala champion.

When the race starts, he explodes forward barefoot, slicing through the water with his heels, buffaloes thundering in front. The spray rises like a silver curtain behind him. The crowd surges, shouting his name. He grins as he runs, intoxicated by speed, adrenaline, and the roar of his people. He wins, of course, chest heaving, teeth flashing. Friends mob him--Bhadra, sharp‑tongued and loyal; Mahadeva, the village blacksmith with soot on his arms and worry in his eyes; others whose lives circle his like satellites.

Near the edge of the crowd, a man in a crisp white shirt and gold‑bordered shawl claps with dignified amusement. This is Devendra Suttooru, descendant of that royal line, landlord, local power. He dangles a cigarette, pats Shiva on the back, and says, "Our Shiva has made Kaadubettu proud again."

Shiva, flushed and slightly drunk already from secret sips, grins. He calls Devendra "anna" with familiar respect. To Shiva, Devendra is a patron, someone who sponsors races, smooths bureaucratic hassles, and treats him like a younger brother.

In the same crowd stands Leela, her eyes following Shiva with a complicated mix of affection and annoyance. They grew up together, playing in the same forest holes, sharing stolen fruit. Now she watches him swagger with other men, sometimes feeling like he belongs to everyone but her.

That evening, Shiva lounges outside a small tea shop, nursing a drink. Leela approaches with a stack of papers clutched to her chest.

"Shiva," she says, "I got a call. There's a chance for a forest guard post. But I need a recommendation."

Shiva notches his chin toward Devendra's estate up the hill. "We'll ask Devendra anna," he says easily. "He will fix it. You'll be in khaki uniform in no time."

Leela hesitates. "You're sure?"

"Why not?" he laughs. "He moves the whole world with a phone call." He looks at her sideways. "Then you'll be too important to talk to people like me."

She snorts. "You're impossible." But there is warmth at the corners of her eyes.

They visit Devendra Suttooru's house, a sprawling ancestral estate with deep verandas, carved pillars, and fading portraits of kings on the walls. Devendra receives them in a polished hall where ceiling fans stir the heavy air. He glances over Leela's papers and nods.

"A good girl from our village working in the Forest Department," he says, "is good for everyone." He picks up the phone, murmurs a few words to someone important, and hangs up with a smile. "Done."

Leela's face breaks into relieved joy. "Thank you, sir."

Shiva claps her on the shoulder. "See? I told you."

Devendra watches them go, a thoughtful glint in his eyes. He has plans that reach beyond individual favors.

Soon afterward, M. S. Murali arrives in the region as the new Forest Range Officer. He steps off a bus with a small suitcase, ironed khaki uniform neat, shoes polished. His face is intelligent, serious, marked by the kind of righteousness that bureaucrats bring from the city. At the Forest Department office, he is briefed: illegal hunting, timber smuggling, encroachment. His orders are to enforce conservation laws, demarcate a reserved forest, and install fences where necessary.

Murali's first patrol into the forest introduces him to both its beauty and its contested use. He walks under towering trees, notebook in hand, as guards point out fresh tree stumps, snares, and the remnants of campfires. His jaw tightens. "We will stop this," he says, voice flat.

He encounters Shiva and his friends in the forest, carrying firewood, perhaps a trapped animal. Murali's lips thin. "You can't cut here," he says. "This is forest department land."

Shiva lets out a derisive laugh. "Forest department land? This is our father's land. Our grandfather's land. Panjurli's land. You people came yesterday with maps and pens."

Murali stands his ground. "I am only doing my duty. There are laws. There is a notified boundary."

Shiva steps up, eyes flashing. "Your law does not feed our children," he says. "This forest does. You go write reports; we will live."

The argument escalates; voices rise. Murali orders his guards to seize the wood. Shiva shoves back; his friends close in. It nearly comes to blows before older villagers and a wary Leela, now in her new guard uniform under Murali, step between them. "Enough," she says, pushing Shiva back. "Don't make it worse."

He glares at her. "So now you are also with them?"

Her face tightens. "I have a job. I have to follow orders."

He spits on the ground, turns away with his gang. The first fault line between old ways and new law, between Shiva and Murali--and between Shiva and Leela--opens.

Back in the village, in the Bhoota Kola courtyard, another figure is central to the community's spiritual life: Guruva, Shiva's younger cousin. He belongs to the same ritual lineage as Shiva's missing father and has taken up the inherited task of performing the Kola, invoking Panjurli to advise and bless the village. Guruva's eyes are gentle when not painted, his demeanor quiet, his devotion unquestioned.

On ritual nights, he transforms. He paints his face in intricate designs, ties on the layered costume, and dances in front of the Daiva's shrine. The villagers kneel as he speaks the god's words. Shiva watches from the shadows, drink in hand, tension in his jaw. The rhythm of the drums, the shimmering of fire on Guruva's ornaments, the trance--these are echoes of his father, of the night he disappeared. Shiva refuses to step closer. When someone suggests he should learn the Kola "as his right," he snaps, "I want nothing from that Daiva. He took my father."

Meanwhile, Murali receives orders to begin fencing off a section of forest to declare it a reserved area. This will restrict grazing and wood collection, effectively pushing the villagers away from land they have used for generations. Murali believes he is protecting wildlife and ecosystems. He organizes laborers, posts notices, and one morning arrives with guards and police at the forest's edge. Leela walks among them, uneasy.

Shiva wakes to the sound of hammers and the clatter of metal. He rushes with Bhadra and others to find posts being driven into the soil. Villagers gather, anxiety rising. Shouts fill the clearing.

"You can't fence our land!" an old man cries.

Murali stands on a rock, megaphone in hand. "This is government order," he announces. "No one is being evicted, but access will be regulated. This is to protect the forest."

Shiva pushes forward. "What right do you have?" he demands. "Our ancestors received this land from the king himself. Panjurli witnessed it. Your government paper is nothing."

Murali's patience frays. "If you have documents, show them in court," he says. "I have my orders."

The villagers surge toward the fence line, trying to pull out posts. Police swing lathis. The air fills with screams as rods crack against backs and shoulders. Women stumble, children wail. Leela stands frozen for a moment, then--heart pounding--raises her own stick, trying to keep people back rather than beat them, but the image to the villagers is the same: she has joined the oppressors.

Shiva sees her beside Murali, uniformed, stick in hand, and something breaks in him. "Leela!" he shouts. "You hit your own people now?"

Her eyes fill with tears. "I'm just doing--"

"Your duty," he spits. "Like him." He points at Murali. "Then don't come to my house again. We have nothing to say."

By the end of the day, a jagged line of fence cuts through the forest. Bruised and angry, villagers lick their wounds, resentment seething. Murali files a report, confident he has done the correct thing. Devendra, watching from the edges, smiles inwardly. The more conflict between villagers and the state, the easier it will be for him to slip in and claim the land.

Devendra's real scheme is intricate. He has been poring over land records, recruiting pliable officials, manipulating notifications. His aim is to erase or sideline the old royal deed and use the forest‑reserve process as cover to reclaim the Kaadubettu land as something like private estate or profitable lease. To give this plan deep legitimacy, he needs not just government papers but also religious sanction. If Panjurli himself appears to command the villagers to surrender their land, resistance will crumble.

For that, he needs Guruva.

Around this time, the tension between Shiva and Murali explodes in a dangerous accident. Murali, determined to clamp down on illegal tree‑felling, hears that Shiva's gang is chopping wood deep in the forest. He sets off with a guard and Devendra's trusted henchman Sudhakara, a hard‑eyed man who knows both the law and Devendra's darker instructions. They travel in a jeep, bumping along the narrow path under thick foliage.

In another part of the forest, Shiva, Bhadra, and others are indeed cutting a large tree. Sweat glistens on their arms as they swing axes, laughing and cursing. The tree creaks, begins to lean. Someone shouts, "Move back!" They tug ropes, guiding its fall.

At that exact moment, Murali's jeep appears on the path below. The driver has no idea what is above. A split second of terrible coincidence aligns tree and vehicle. Shiva sees the jeep through the foliage and shouts, "Hey, careful!" but it is too late. The tree groans and crashes downward, smashing onto the jeep's roof with a horrifying crunch of metal and shattering glass.

The jeep collapses. Murali is thrown sideways, head hitting the dashboard. Blood streaks his forehead; he loses consciousness. Sudhakara clambers out, shaken but alive, eyes darting to Shiva's group above. To authorities, to any outside eye, it will look like a deliberate ambush.

Shiva stares down, horrified. "We didn't know," he mutters. Bhadra grabs his arm. "Run. They'll say we tried to kill him."

They flee through the forest, hearts pounding. News spreads fast: the forest officer has been nearly killed by Shiva's tree. Murali is taken to a hospital, where he lies bandaged, pale. Officials swarm. The police open a case of attempted murder. Devendra, ever the opportunist, plays the concerned elder on one side while quietly urging the police to "teach Shiva a lesson."

Shiva, Bhadra, and the gang go underground, hiding in fields, abandoned sheds, even in the deeper parts of the sacred forest where only they dare tread. Days of fear follow. Leela wrestles with guilt and confusion. She knows Shiva is reckless, but she also knows he is not a cold‑blooded killer. Yet the evidence is damning.

After some days, Shiva can no longer bear the hiding. He meets Leela secretly near the edge of the village, in the shadow of an old tree where they used to play. She arrives in uniform, wary.

"Why did you do it?" she asks softly.

"We didn't," he insists. "We were cutting, yes, but we didn't know he was under the tree. Leela, I swear on my mother's life."

She searches his face. The boy she knew is still there under the stubble and bravado. "You must surrender," she says. "Running will only make it worse. I will… I will see what I can do."

He nods reluctantly. "If you say so." He steps closer. "You believe me?"

She swallows. "I want to."

The next day, Shiva and his friends walk into the police station, hands raised, mud‑stained but defiant. The inspector smirks, claps them in cuffs. Behind bars in the jail holding area, Shiva paces like a caged animal. Outside, villagers whisper and worry.

Seeing Shiva locked up pains Guruva, whose loyalty to his cousin runs as deep as his devotion to the Daiva. He decides to seek help from the one man with the power to influence the police and courts: Devendra Suttooru.

Guruva goes to Devendra's estate, carrying the humility of a ritual servant. Devendra receives him in a side room cluttered with ledgers and land maps. The air smells of old paper and incense.

"Devendra anna," Guruva begins, hands folded, "Shiva has surrendered. He did not mean to harm the officer. If you speak to the police, the matter can be softened. The village needs him."

Devendra listens, fingers steepled. Then he smiles, the kind of smile that never reaches his eyes. "Of course," he says. "Shiva is like a brother. I will help. But I also need help from you, Guruva."

Guruva frowns. "From me?"

Devendra leans forward. "You speak for Panjurli during the Bhoota Kola. The villagers believe every word from your mouth is the god's. At the next Kola, you will say that Panjurli Daiva commands the villagers to hand over their land to me. You will say the time has come to return the land to the king's family, for the good of all."

Guruva goes very still. The weight of the request presses like a hand on his throat. "But… that is not what the Daiva wants," he says slowly. "The land was given before him. His word has been clear for generations."

Devendra's gaze hardens. "I can make many problems disappear," he says, voice low. "Shiva's case. Fencing. Loans. Or I can make many problems worse. For you. For your village."

Guruva's hands tremble. "I cannot lie in the name of Panjurli," he whispers. "It is a sin beyond anything. Please don't ask me."

The air in the room thickens. Devendra stands, moves closer. "Think carefully," he says, menace now barely veiled. "The world listens to gods only through men. Men can choose what gods say." He places a bundle of cash on the table between them. "Take this. Do as I say. No one will ever know."

Guruva's eyes fill with tears. He pushes the money back. "I will not," he says. "Panjurli would curse me. You too. Leave the Daiva out of your plans, Devendra anna."

There is a long silence. Devendra's face empties of charm. "Then you leave me no choice," he murmurs.

The film does not linger on the details of what happens next, but the outcome is clear: Devendra murders Guruva. Whether with a knife in a secluded part of the estate, or a blow with a blunt object, or strangulation, it happens in secret, with only the trees and walls as witnesses. Guruva's body is disposed of--perhaps hidden in the forest, perhaps buried where no one will find it. To the village, he simply vanishes.

Days later, when Guruva fails to appear for rituals or casual visits, worry grows. People search paths, call his name. No trace. Some mutter that perhaps, like Shiva's father, he has "gone with the Daiva." Others fear a mundane crime. Devendra feigns concern. "We will find him," he says soothingly, while Sudhakara stands at his shoulder, silent as a blade.

In jail, Shiva hears that Guruva is missing. A knot of dread tightens inside him. He rattles the bars, shouting at the guards. "Let me out! My cousin is missing!"

The system does not care. Eventually, after formalities and perhaps due to behind‑the‑scenes machinations, Shiva and his friends are released on bail or after short remand. They return to a village very different from the one they left: fenced forest, bruised elders, a missing guru‑priest.

Shiva's grief turns to rage, and he needs someone to blame. Devendra, careful as ever, nudges that anger in a particular direction. Over drinks, in half‑heard comments, through Sudhakara's insinuations, the idea is seeded: the outsider forest officer, Murali, who clashed with Guruva's rituals over "superstitious interference," has made the priest disappear. Whether through a trumped‑up legal case, abduction, or worse, it is suggested--never directly stated--that Murali is responsible.

Shiva's resentment flares. He already hates Murali for the fence, the police violence, and the misunderstanding about the falling tree. Now, believing that Murali has also harmed his cousin, he sets his jaw around a new intention.

"I will kill him," he tells his friends, eyes dead cold. "For Guruva. For my father. For our land."

Bhadra shifts uneasily. "Shiva, think--"

"I have thought," Shiva snaps. "When courts and gods do nothing, we do it ourselves."

He begins to plan. He knows Murali's routes, his routines. Knives and crude weapons are discussed. The forest, once a place of hiding and hunting, becomes a potential killing ground.

But in the background, another mind is working. Mahadeva, the blacksmith, has seen too much. He noticed Guruva going to Devendra's estate. He saw the tension in their body language. Perhaps he glimpsed Guruva leaving in Devendra's car and never returning, or perhaps he overheard dangerous fragments near the estate's boundary wall. He does not have full evidence, but his instincts are sure: Murali is no murderer, and Devendra's hands are not clean.

One evening, as the sun bleeds orange over the rice fields, Mahadeva finds Shiva alone, sharpening a blade. Sparks fly; Shiva's face is set.

"What are you doing?" Mahadeva asks.

"What does it look like?" Shiva snaps. "I'm going to send the forest officer to see my father."

Mahadeva takes a breath. "You're going after the wrong man."

Shiva looks up sharply. "What?"

Mahadeva sits, voice low. "I saw Guruva go to Devendra anna's house the day after you were arrested. He went to ask for help. He never came back. That night, I passed by the back of the estate. I heard shouting. Guruva's voice, pleading. Then a thud. Then silence. Later, I saw Devendra and Sudhakara carrying something heavy to the jeep. Wrapped. They said it was wood. But there was no wood in the jeep when they drove out."

Shiva's hands still on the blade. His mind races through memories: Devendra's oily sympathy, his eagerness to pin blame on Murali, his casual power. "You're sure?" he whispers.

Mahadeva looks him in the eye. "As sure as I am that iron melts in fire. Guruva would never betray Panjurli. The only reason for him to disappear is if someone silenced him. And the man with the most to lose from his honesty is Devendra."

Shiva's breath comes shallow. The world tilts. The image of Murali as murderer dissolves, replaced by Devendra's smiling face overlaid with blood. Rage surges anew, now with a clearer target. "That dog," he snarls. His knuckles whiten around the knife handle.

"Think before you rush," Mahadeva urges. "He is powerful. He has police, officials. If you strike without proof, you will be crushed. And the land--our land--will be lost."

Parallel to this, Murali has been undergoing his own transformation. As he recovers from his injuries, he reads more deeply into land records, listens to villagers' oral histories, and slowly realizes that the "encroachers" he has been policing might be rightful owners. He uncovers discrepancies between the ancient royal deed granting land to the villagers and the recent notifications being used to fence them out. Threads lead, inevitably, to Devendra's name--signatures on suspicious documents, influence over mapping decisions.

Murali's sense of justice, once narrowly focused on forest conservation, expands. He sees that law without context becomes another tool of oppression. His trust in Devendra erodes. He begins to suspect that the landlord is not the benevolent patron he claims to be but the architect of a land‑grab conspiracy.

He decides to confront reality, not in private but in front of those whom it affects most. Calling a meeting, he invites villagers to gather in the Bhoota Kola grounds or another central area. Men and women come, wary, suspicious. Shiva arrives too, drawn by both anger and curiosity. Devendra stands at the edge, smiling thinly, Sudhakara beside him, hand on a concealed weapon.

Murali stands before the villagers with official maps and orders in his hands. "You all know me as the man who brought fences," he begins. "Many of you hate me for it. I thought I was protecting the forest from you. But I have learned things. Today, I want to tell you what I found."

He holds up a yellowed copy of the royal deed. "In 1847, your ancestors were granted this land by the king of that time, in the presence of Panjurli Daiva. I have seen the documents. Legally and historically, you are not encroachers. You are landholders."

A murmur runs through the crowd. Some glance at Devendra; his jaw ticks.

Murali continues. "Recent attempts to show this land as unclaimed or royal property again are illegal manipulations. The fencing I implemented covered areas that include your granted land. I was misled by people who wanted this land for themselves."

Shiva's gaze sharpens. "Say his name," he calls out.

Murali looks directly at Devendra. "Much of this manipulation leads to Devendra Suttooru," he says. "He has tried to misuse both government procedures and your faith to take what is yours."

Gasps; some men shout. Devendra steps forward, outrage painted on. "How dare you?" he demands. "I have only ever worked for the welfare of this village. This outsider officer now wants to blame me for his own mistakes?"

Shiva steps between Murali and Devendra. For the first time, he stands on Murali's side. "Stop acting, Devendra anna," he says, "or should I call you something else now?" His voice cuts through the noise. "Tell them what you did to Guruva."

Devendra's eyes flicker, just for a moment. "Guruva disappeared," he says smoothly. "We all are sad. How dare you accuse me?"

Shiva's rage is barely contained. "Mahadeva saw what you did," he says. "You bribed him to lie in the Daiva's name. When he refused, you killed him. You killed the one man who could bring Panjurli's word to us without corruption."

Mahadeva, reluctantly but resolutely, steps forward. "I saw enough," he says loudly. "Enough to know. We may not have the body, but we have truth."

Devendra's mask slips. He realizes the room is turning. The villagers' eyes, once trusting, are now full of suspicion and anger. Even Leela, in her uniform, looks at him as if seeing a stranger.

Murali adds, "Devendra also stood to gain the most from declaring this land 'reserve' and then shifting titles. He has been playing both sides--using me to fence you out while positioning himself to claim ownership later."

Devendra's temper breaks. "You ungrateful fools," he snarls at the villagers. "Who sponsored your festivals? Who paid for your children's schooling? You dare accuse me because this officer waves papers and this drunk races buffalo?"

Shiva takes a step toward him, fists clenched. "All your charity was just bait," he says. "You can't buy Panjurli. You can't buy our land."

Devendra glances at Sudhakara, who nods almost imperceptibly. The moment for pretence is over. Devendra leans in, voice low and venomous. "Then we settle this another way," he says. He turns and stalks off, gathering his henchmen as he goes.

The tension in the village crackles like dry leaves. Murali looks at Shiva. "He will come back with guns," he warns. "You need to be ready."

Shiva nods grimly. "We are not afraid. Not anymore."

Murali, now fully allied with the villagers, helps them prepare as best he can. He has a service weapon, some training, some authority. They have numbers, knowledge of the terrain, and a faith that is roaring back to life.

Night falls thick and humid. The forest looms, both threat and shelter. The final confrontation will not happen in the daylight, but in the same liminal spaces where gods and men have always met in this village.

Devendra does not delay. That night, or soon after, he gathers Sudhakara and a group of armed henchmen--rough men with sticks, crude firearms, and machetes. They move toward the village and the forest/Bhoota Kola grounds, intending to crush resistance, eliminate Shiva and Murali, and terrorize the villagers into submission.

The villagers, warned, do not sleep. They cluster near the Daiva Sthana, torches in hand, some clutching farm tools as makeshift weapons. Children are hidden away; women stand with grim determination. Leela moves among them, torn between her role as a forest guard and her loyalty to her people. Tonight, she chooses the latter.

Murali stands at the edge of the crowd, gun loaded. He has shed the aloofness of an officer; sweat glistens on his brow, but his eyes are steady. Shiva, in simple clothes, muscles coiled, stands in front of him. In the shadows near the shrine, the sacred paraphernalia of Bhoota Kola gleam: bells, anklets, headdress, swords.

As Devendra's group approaches, the night fills with the crunch of footsteps and the occasional metallic clink of weapons. Then the first shout, the first thrown stone. Chaos erupts.

Devendra's men surge forward, swinging sticks, firing shots into the air. Villagers scream and scatter, then regroup, hurling stones, swinging sickles. Murali fires his gun in warning, then at armed attackers aiming at unarmed villagers, his training kicking in. He fights not as a distant official but as one of them, protecting rather than policing.

In the thick of the melee, Shiva fights hand‑to‑hand, his Kambala‑honed body a weapon--fists, elbows, knees driving into henchmen. He ducks a swinging bamboo, punches a man in the throat, grabs another's wrist and twists until bone snaps. Blood spatters his face; his hair flies as he moves, primal and furious.

Sudhakara charges toward him with a machete. The two collide in a flurry of blades and fists. Sudhakara snarls, "Devendra sir should have finished you long ago." Shiva knocks the machete aside, the blade grazing his arm, drawing a line of red. He grunts, pivots, and drives his knee into Sudhakara's ribs. The henchman staggers, then lunges again, slashing wildly. Shiva catches his wrist, head‑butts him, and drives a knee up into Sudhakara's face. Bone crunches. The machete falls. Shiva grabs it and, in one fluid motion fueled by rage and a sense of justice for Guruva, drives it into Sudhakara's chest.

Sudhakara gasps, eyes wide, blood blooming across his shirt. He collapses onto the trampled earth, dead. One of Devendra's key enforcers is gone.

But the tide of violence is far from over. Flames leap as torches are knocked to the ground, licking at dry leaves. Smoke thickens. The shrine's flags flutter wildly. The drums, which had been silent, begin to beat--at first tentatively, then with gathering intensity. Someone, perhaps without conscious thought, has started the Bhoota Kola rhythm.

Shiva, chest heaving, hears the drums like a heartbeat outside himself. His gaze is pulled toward the shrine. In the flickering light, the Bhoota Kola regalia seems to glow: painted mask, towering headgear, anklets, sword. It is as if his father's and Guruva's presence hangs there, waiting.

A strange stillness enters the cacophony. The villagers, even while fighting, sense something. The drums grow louder, faster. Shiva feels a tug--ancestral, irresistible. His fear of the Daiva, his resentment over his father's disappearance, his grief for Guruva--all swirl inside him, then become something else. Destiny.

Leela, blood on her cheek, catches his eye as he steps toward the shrine. "Shiva," she calls, confused.

He barely hears her. Hands shaking, he reaches for the anklets, tying them around his ankles. Bells cling to his skin like memories. He lifts the layered skirt, wraps it around his waist. He paints his face in broad, brutal strokes of vermilion and white. With each piece of the costume he dons, the line between man and deity blurs.

Murali watches, breath held. The rational officer in him protests, but something deeper, humbled by the days' revelations and by the weight of history in this place, holds him silent. The villagers drop to their knees or simply stare. The drums thunder.

Shiva lifts the towering headgear and sets it on his head. Its weight settles on his skull like a crown, like a burden centuries old. He takes the sword in his right hand. When he straightens, his body begins to shake--not with fear this time, but with the old familiar tremor of possession, as if his father's last dance and Guruva's last trance are coursing through him.

He lets out a scream that tears the night open. It is not quite his voice, not quite human. His eyes, behind the paint, roll white for a moment, then fix with piercing focus. The Panjurli Daiva has come. There is also something else in his movements--something wilder, darker: the ferocity of Guliga Daiva, the one who punishes broken vows.

The battle pauses as everyone turns to stare. Even Devendra falters, mid‑command. He has tried to manipulate this very ritual, but he never expected it to turn against him with such raw force.

Shiva begins to dance. Anklets jingle, sword flashes arcs of light through smoke. He moves with inhuman agility, stomping, spinning, leaping--not Shiva the Kambala rogue now, but Panjurli and Guliga incarnate. His breaths come in growls; his eyes blaze. The Daiva has taken his hereditary seat.

When he charges into Devendra's henchmen, the effect is devastating. Possessed, he fights like a storm. A man swings a stick at him; he ducks, slashes the sword across the attacker's chest. Another points a gun; Shiva is upon him before he can fire again, knocking the weapon away and striking him down with the hilt. Each blow lands with an inevitability that feels more like judgment than mere violence.

Murali, seeing the fight tilt, covers Shiva's flanks, firing at henchmen aiming from a distance. The combination of trained marksmanship and divine frenzy breaks Devendra's ranks. One by one, the landlord's men fall--some from bullets, some from sword and fist, some from the chaotic crush of bodies driven by fear and faith.

Devendra tries to rally his men. "He's just a man," he shouts. "Shoot him!" But his voice cracks. Deep inside, he remembers the old stories of curses and vows, the death of his ancestor on the court steps. Panjurli's words echo in his mind: If you try to reclaim the land, you will die vomiting blood. He thought himself clever enough to outmaneuver gods with paperwork and bribes. Now, facing the Daiva's blazing eyes in Shiva's painted face, his confidence evaporates.

A small fire at the edge of the grove catches dry brush, then leaps up, casting a hellish glow. Sparks fly. It feels as if the forest itself has awakened to witness this reckoning. The sacred ground where Panjurli was first invoked in this village has become a battleground where gods and men settle long‑deferred accounts.

Shiva, in full possession, stops in front of Devendra. For a moment, time suspends. The landlord stares at the man he once called "brother," now transformed into a terrifying avatar. The sword hangs at Shiva's side; his chest heaves. When he speaks, it is with the layered voice of the Daiva.

"Devendra Suttooru," he growls. "Child of the king who broke his word. You were warned. Your ancestor died spewing blood on the court steps, yet you did not learn. You used law like a knife. You used my name like a coin. You killed my servant Guruva. You tried to steal the land I guard."

Devendra staggers back. "They are lying!" he croaks, but the protest is weak.

Shiva's head tilts, listening to something only he can hear. When he speaks again, the tone is that of a pronouncement. "You asked once, through my performer, that I order this land returned to you. I refused. You tried again in secret. You thought I did not see." His sword rises.

Devendra drops to his knees, hands up. "Forgive me," he babbles. "I will give the land back. I will build a temple for you. I will--"

"Your line's debt is due," the Daiva's voice cuts him off. "This land is not yours to give or take. It belongs to the people and to me. Guliga has waited long."

There is a sudden snarling energy behind Shiva's eyes. It is as if another presence surges forward--Guliga, the fierce enforcer. For a heartbeat, Shiva's body trembles violently. Then he lunges.

The sword arcs in a final, unstoppable sweep. Whether it cuts Devendra across the chest, slices his throat, or drives into his belly, the effect is the same: Devendra jerks, eyes bulging, blood bursting from his mouth. In a grotesque echo of his ancestor's fate, he coughs, chokes, and vomits blood, the red pouring down his lips and onto the sacred earth. He collapses, body spasming, then going still.

Around them, the remaining henchmen either lie dead or drop their weapons, fleeing into the darkness. Sudhakara is already a corpse in the dirt. The landlord's army is broken. The forest falls into a thick, ringing silence punctuated only by the crackle of fire and the ragged breathing of survivors.

Shiva stands over Devendra's body, chest heaving, sword dripping. The possession does not end immediately. He turns in circles, still half in trance, half in battle mood. The villagers, bruised and bleeding, begin to inch closer, eyes lowered in reverence and fear.

Murali lowers his gun slowly. Leela, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face, stares at Shiva--not as a lover or childhood friend now, but as something much larger and terrifying.

One by one, people kneel. Some press their foreheads to the ground. An old woman sobs, "Panjurli Deva has saved us." Others whisper Guruva's name, thanking the Daiva for avenging his death.

Shiva, still in costume, climbs onto the shrine platform. The drums, sensing that the battle has turned into ritual, resume in a measured pattern. Those under the trance's influence guide him through the familiar motions of the Kola: the deity addressing the community, blessing some, scolding others. His words now, though coming from Shiva's mouth, carry the weight of the god's voice.

He declares that the land is and will remain under his protection, entrusted to the villagers of Kaadubettu. He warns that any future attempt--by king, officer, or landlord--to usurp it will meet the same fate as Devendra. He looks at Murali and says, in cryptic but clear terms, that written law must walk with ancient vows, not against them. Murali bows his head, accepting both rebuke and guidance.

Finally, the possession begins to ebb. Shiva's body slackens slightly. Sweat and tears mix with the paint on his face. The headgear feels heavier now, a literal and symbolic weight of responsibility. His eyes, when they meet Leela's for a moment, show a flicker of the man inside the deity.

The night passes into a bruised dawn. Smoke from small, controlled fires rises into the pale sky. The dead--Devendra, Sudhakara, other henchmen--are dealt with according to the authorities who eventually arrive and the villagers' own customs. The precise legal aftermath is less important to the story than the spiritual and communal resolution: the land‑grab plot is shattered, its architect killed by the very divine forces he tried to exploit.

In the days that follow, Murali uses his position to set things right as far as human institutions allow. He files reports that expose Devendra's manipulations and affirm the villagers' historical rights. He pushes for boundary corrections so that the reserved forest designation respects the old grant. Letters and hearings will continue beyond the frame of the film, but the crucial shift has occurred: a state officer now stands with the villagers, not above them.

Leela, still a forest guard, becomes a bridge between law and custom, enforcing rules that protect the forest without trampling people's lives. The rift between her and Shiva softens. There may be arguments in their future, but now they share a common devotion to both land and deity, though expressed differently.

As for Shiva, the biggest transformation is internal. The man who once cursed Panjurli for taking his father, who fled from the anklets and paint, now cannot deny what happened. He has experienced possession from the inside, felt the Daiva's will course through his veins. He understands that his father did not simply vanish into cruelty; he walked a path Shiva has now stepped onto himself.

In a quiet moment after the climactic night, Shiva sits at the edge of the forest, the costume folded beside him. Morning light filters through the leaves, turning dust motes to gold. He hears the rustle of animals, the distant chatter of villagers beginning their day. His body aches from the fight; his soul feels oddly light and burdened at once.

Mahadeva joins him, sitting without a word. After a while, he says softly, "Your father would be proud. Guruva too."

Shiva looks into the trees, eyes misty. "I always thought Panjurli took him," he says. "Now I think… maybe he went where he was meant to. Maybe he became part of this." He gestures to the forest, to the unseen currents of faith and story.

Mahadeva nods. "You are part of it too now. The Kola is yours."

Shiva picks up an anklet, runs his fingers over the tiny bells. Once, he would have thrown it aside. Now he ties it around his wrist, a promise. "I will not run anymore," he says. "If Panjurli calls, I will dance."

The film's final scenes return us to the Bhoota Kola grounds, but now in a different mood: not besieged but celebratory, though the memory of violence lingers. Another ritual night has come. The village gathers, oil lamps outlining the sacred space. Children press forward, eyes wide, as older women murmur prayers.

Shiva stands behind the shrine, preparing. He paints his face slowly, reverently. There is no fear in his hands now, only a solemn acceptance. Leela watches from a distance, pride and a hint of sorrow in her gaze. Murali stands respectfully at the back of the crowd, head bare, the outsider who has learned to bow.

When Shiva steps out in full Bhoota Kola regalia, the crowd gasps. The paints and ornaments echo his father, his cousin, and countless forebears. He begins to dance, steps surely finding the patterns embedded in his blood. The drums build, and once again, Panjurli descends. The Daiva speaks, blesses crops, warns against greed, assures the people that the forest and the village are under his watchful gaze.

At some point in the trance, Shiva--no longer entirely himself--turns toward the forest's dark edge. The camera follows his gaze into the trees, where wind sighs through leaves. For a heartbeat, the spectral presence of his father and Guruva seems to stand there, watching. Then they are gone, merged into the rustle of branches and the glow of fireflies.

After the ritual, as dawn grays the sky, Shiva walks--still in partial costume--toward the forest. Villagers trail behind for a time, then stop at the boundary. He continues alone, anklets ringing softly, sword sheathed. The forest that once took his father now opens before him as a domain he is sworn to guard, not just with fists and weapons but with the ancient, living contract between god, land, and people.

He disappears into the trees, not as a lost child this time, but as a chosen guardian. Behind him, Kaadubettu stirs to its daily life on land secured not by courts or guns alone, but by the reaffirmed vow of Panjurli Daiva and Guliga, enforced through the body and soul of Kaadubettu Shiva. The story that began in 1847 with a king's restless heart and a god's demand finds its closure here, in 1990, with a villager's acceptance of his fate and a community's land saved--for now--by the intertwined justice of men and deities.

In the ending of "Kantara," Shiva confronts the corrupt authorities and the spirit of his ancestors. After a fierce battle, he ultimately sacrifices himself to restore balance and honor the traditions of his land. The film concludes with a sense of peace returning to the village, as the community acknowledges the importance of their heritage.

As the climax of "Kantara" unfolds, the tension escalates in the village, where the conflict between the local people and the authorities reaches a boiling point. Shiva, portrayed as a fierce protector of his land and traditions, finds himself at the center of this struggle. The villagers, who have long been oppressed by the corrupt government officials, rally behind him, driven by a shared desire to reclaim their ancestral rights.

In a pivotal scene, Shiva learns about the true nature of the land's spirit, which has been angered by the injustices inflicted upon the villagers. This revelation ignites a deep sense of responsibility within him. He understands that he must not only fight for his people but also appease the spirit that has been wronged. The emotional weight of this realization is palpable; Shiva feels the burden of his ancestors' expectations resting heavily on his shoulders.

As the confrontation with the authorities escalates, the atmosphere becomes charged with tension. The villagers, armed with their determination and the blessings of their ancestors, stand united against the oppressive forces. The cinematography captures the raw emotions on their faces--fear, anger, and hope intertwine as they prepare for the impending clash.

In a dramatic showdown, Shiva faces off against the corrupt officials, who are determined to exploit the land for their gain. The fight is intense, showcasing not only physical prowess but also the spiritual connection Shiva has with his heritage. As he battles, flashes of his ancestors appear, guiding him and reinforcing his resolve. The visuals are striking, with the lush landscapes of the village contrasting sharply against the dark intentions of the authorities.

In a moment of ultimate sacrifice, Shiva realizes that to truly honor his ancestors and protect his people, he must give himself to the spirit of the land. This decision is heart-wrenching; the audience can feel his internal struggle as he weighs his own life against the greater good. In a powerful scene, he embraces the spirit, merging with it in a symbolic act of unity. The villagers witness this transformation, their expressions shifting from despair to reverence as they understand the depth of his sacrifice.

As the dust settles, the oppressive forces are vanquished, and a sense of calm envelops the village. The community gathers to pay homage to Shiva, who has become a legend in their eyes. The final scenes depict the villagers engaging in traditional rituals, honoring both Shiva and the spirit of the land. The vibrant colors of the celebrations contrast with the earlier darkness, symbolizing the restoration of balance and harmony.

In the aftermath, the fate of the main characters is clear. Shiva, having sacrificed himself, becomes a revered figure, his legacy living on in the hearts of the villagers. The corrupt officials are defeated, their power stripped away, allowing the community to reclaim their land and traditions. The film closes on a hopeful note, emphasizing the importance of heritage, unity, and the enduring spirit of the land, leaving the audience with a profound sense of closure and reflection on the themes of sacrifice and cultural identity.

In the movie "Kantara," there is indeed a post-credit scene that adds an intriguing layer to the narrative. After the main story concludes, the scene shifts to a serene forest setting, where the camera pans through the lush greenery, creating a tranquil atmosphere.

As the scene unfolds, we see a group of villagers gathered around a sacred tree, engaged in a ritual that reflects their deep connection to the land and their traditions. The villagers are seen performing a dance, embodying the spirit of their ancestors, which emphasizes the film's themes of heritage and the bond between humans and nature.

The focus then shifts to a young boy who is observing the ritual with wide eyes, filled with curiosity and reverence. His expression conveys a sense of wonder and the weight of cultural legacy, hinting at the continuation of the traditions that have been passed down through generations.

This post-credit scene serves as a poignant reminder of the film's central message about the importance of preserving one's roots and the spiritual connection to the land, leaving the audience with a sense of hope and continuity. The emotional weight of the scene resonates, reinforcing the film's exploration of identity, tradition, and the struggle against modern encroachments on sacred spaces.

Shiva, the protagonist, is deeply connected to his village and its cultural heritage. His motivation stems from a personal loss and a strong sense of duty to uphold the traditions that have been passed down through generations. He feels a spiritual connection to the land and its customs, which drives him to confront external threats that seek to exploit or destroy this legacy.

The conflict escalates as the land mafia, led by a ruthless antagonist, begins to encroach on the village's sacred lands. Initially, Shiva tries to negotiate and protect his community through peaceful means, but as the mafia's actions become increasingly aggressive and violent, Shiva is forced to take a stand. This leads to intense confrontations, showcasing his transformation from a protector to a warrior, fueled by anger and desperation to save his home.

The spirit of the deity is a pivotal element in Shiva's journey, serving as both a guiding force and a source of strength. Throughout the film, Shiva experiences visions and signs from the deity, which reinforce his connection to his heritage and the importance of his mission. This spiritual guidance becomes crucial during moments of doubt and fear, ultimately empowering him to embrace his destiny as a protector of the land.

Shiva's relationship with his father is complex and deeply influential. Initially, there is a rift due to differing views on tradition and modernity. Shiva's father represents the older generation's adherence to customs, while Shiva embodies a more rebellious spirit. As the story progresses, the father's wisdom and experiences become a source of reflection for Shiva, leading to moments of reconciliation that highlight the importance of understanding and respecting one's roots.

The traditional dance and rituals are not just cultural expressions; they symbolize the village's identity and connection to the land. These elements serve as a backdrop to the narrative, illustrating the community's unity and resilience. As Shiva engages in these rituals, they become a source of empowerment, reinforcing his commitment to protect his heritage against the encroaching threats, and highlighting the emotional weight of cultural preservation.

"Kantara," produced in 2022, contains several elements that may not be suitable for children or sensitive viewers. Here are some potentially objectionable or upsetting aspects:

1. Violence: The film includes scenes of physical confrontations and violence, which may be intense and unsettling for younger audiences.

2. Death: There are moments that depict death and loss, which can be emotionally heavy and distressing.

3. Supernatural Elements: The film incorporates themes of folklore and spirituality, including rituals and supernatural occurrences that might be confusing or frightening for some viewers.

4. Cultural Practices: Certain cultural rituals and practices depicted in the film may be intense or graphic, which could be uncomfortable for sensitive viewers.

5. Emotional Turmoil: Characters experience significant emotional struggles, including themes of revenge and conflict, which may resonate deeply and evoke strong feelings.

These elements contribute to the film's mature themes and may require parental discretion for younger viewers.