The notion that a filmmaker can simultaneously be a literary storyteller is one that many renowned directors have exemplified. Given cinema’s intrinsic connection to literature, this is hardly surprising, with Satyajit Ray being the most prominent example. Furthermore, the creative fundamentals of writing a novel are remarkably similar to those of filmmaking, making it challenging to separate storytelling from filmmaking entirely. Both creative endeavors rest on the three pillars: character, plot, and language, which is why they converge and often provide similar approaches in both creation and analysis.

My conviction was solidified after watching Sheshadri’s 2004 Kannada film Beru (The Root). It’s a film that maintains a singular focus on its central theme from the opening frame to the conclusion, weaving various events seamlessly in between. It offers an experience similar to reading a good novel. The narrative intertwines two threads, each complementing the other to reinforce the core theme. At its heart, the film explores the concept of justice, inviting us to examine our perceptions of it from multiple perspectives.

One narrative strand revolves around Goravayya, a Jogappa – a mendicant, who resides in the mountainous town of Kardigudda. He is an aged man who survives by begging in the neighborhood. During the Mylara Lingeshwara festival fair, he encounters Gauri, an orphaned girl. He takes her under his wing and brings her to his small hut in Karadigudda. Goravayya raises her in the Jogappa tradition, instilling in her his principles: ‘I will never lie, never steal. I will beg in the name of Lord Shiva, share what I receive, and live a life of simplicity.’

His hut is situated beneath a massive tree, whose roots penetrate its walls, destabilizing the structure. The situation becomes dire, as the hut risks collapsing at any moment. There are only two options to save the home: cut down the tree or relocate the hut to a different site. This is where the dilemma intensifies, highlighting the complexity of choice.

When the villagers suggest, ‘Ayya Goravayya, the entire field in front of your hut is empty. Why don’t you build your home there?’ But Goravayya argues that his hut cannot be relocated because it houses the consecrated idol of Mailara Linga. This marks the beginning of an exploration into the multifaceted nature of justice. Is it justifiable to sacrifice a tree to save a hut? While we urban environmentalists might vehemently oppose such an act, Goravayya, who lives in harmony with forests, hills, and mountains, might argue otherwise. Before we dismiss him as a nature antagonist, let us ponder: We measure a person’s environmental impact by their carbon footprint, yet, how can we, who wear shoes, drive vehicles, and consume countless material goods, morally criticize Goravayya, who walks barefoot, uses no motorized transport, carries no traces of modernity, and lives by sharing with others what he receives each day? Do we truly possess the moral authority to judge his choices?

Goravayya approaches the government office to seek permission to cut down the tree. This marks the beginning of the second narrative thread, which introduces us to a corrupt government office. The corruption is so pervasive that a bus ran over and damaged the office bathroom’s water pipe, and for months, paperwork has been shuffled between departments, blaming the local panchayat, while the employees have been forced to relieve themselves behind the office or go home for the shyer among them, due to the lack of water in the office. 

It’s an office that absorbs and perpetuates every possible inefficiency, making such chaos its own. How, then, can such an office solve Goravayya’s problem? The system is incapable of even approaching the issue. Goravayya becomes entangled in the office’s bureaucratic red tape like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Much like in Poornachandra Tejasvi’s widely acclaimed story Tabarana Kathe, he finds himself wearing out his bare feet on futile trips to the office. The senior clerk, Venkateshayya, exploits him for personal favors while deliberately delaying any progress on his request.

A new officer has recently been transferred from the city at this juncture. He is markedly different, steering clear of authoritarian tendencies. He values the sincerity and integrity of his staff. However, the irony lies in the fact that Goravayya’s problem never even reaches the ears of this new officer. The bureaucratic system of the government office is so adept at deceit and manipulation that it ensures such issues remain buried.

The new officer, Raghunandan, faces his own set of challenges. On one hand, his wife is struggling to adapt to rural life. On the other, barely a week into his new position, he is tasked with preparing the Inspection Bungalow (IB—Guest House) for a visiting minister and his foreign delegates, who are scheduled to visit Karadigudda to inspect a newly discovered metal ore deposit. Raghunandan does not know the IB’s condition or even its exact location. The pressing responsibility of ensuring the IB’s suitability falls squarely on his shoulders.

Ironically, none of the office staff knows the IB’s location. Yet, every month, someone receives a salary for its upkeep. Funds are also allocated periodically for its maintenance and are duly spent. The new officer’s first priority becomes locating this elusive IB. In his search, he uncovers many dark truths.

First, the officer who had previously secured funds claiming to have constructed the IB is now a minister. The officer who later secured funds claiming to have maintained the IB committed suicide after his retirement. The man who was drawing a salary as the IB caretaker hasn’t shown up at the office for months. In his absence, the senior clerk, Venkateshayya, has been misappropriating the funds in his name. Ultimately, the stark reality emerges: the IB doesn’t exist at all.

An iceberg reveals only a fraction of its true size; the rest lies beneath it. Good films and novels are much the same. They reveal one part while leaving nine parts unspoken yet understood. In this film, the nonexistent IB becomes a tool for people to exploit for reasons that are equally nonexistent. Each of these reasons carries its own intricate undercurrents.

However, nothing is straightforward. The senior clerk, Venkateshayya, who stole the caretaker’s salary, uses it for his daughters’ weddings. His life is mired in extreme poverty. He sends a message to his superior, saying, ‘If you file a complaint, I will take my own life.’ Throughout the story, crimes in the form of corruption come cloaked in the guise of compassion.

Despite being an honest officer, Raghunandan wrestles with the dilemma of untangling a web of interconnected problems without wounding his conscience. His wife offers him a suggestion: declare that the IB has collapsed. That way, your headache will be resolved, and Venkateshayya’s job will be saved. Against his will, he follows her advice, only to find that the problem has worsened, making it even more hideous. Everything comes back to haunt him with unrelenting intensity.

The various facets of Officer Raghunandan’s problems and their solutions form the crux of this film. There is a saying, ‘The notion of justice is individualistic.’ Can the law be bent to benefit a few solely based on the situation? This debate is not new. Moreover, there is no definitive answer. Some forms of justice appeal to the conscience, while others adhere to the letter of the law. In navigating these complexities, should an officer heed the voice of their conscience or the dictates of the printed lines?

At times, human situation cannot be measured through logic alone. Logic has limitations, and transcending them is often the aim of great literature and cinema.

This idea is beautifully illustrated in Masti Venkatesha Iyengar’s short story Jogiyora Anjappana Koli (Mendicant Anjanappa’s hen). Like this film, that story too explores the boundaries of justice. Masti Venkatesha Iyengar was a renowned storyteller and a Jnanpith Award winner in Kannada literature. In the story, a young girl drops a hen in the bag of a mendicant named Jogappa, whispering, ‘Don’t tell anyone I gave it to you,’ before running off inside her home. However, within moments, Jogappa is arrested and accused of stealing the hen and brought before a magistrate. Jogappa has only one thing to say: ‘I did not steal it.’ When the magistrate asks, ‘Then how did the hen end up in your bag?’ Jogappa offers no reply. When pressed further, he eventually quips, ‘It must have entered on its own because the inside was warm,’ eliciting laughter. In the end, the magistrate fines him for the theft. Years later, the story’s narrator, who himself a budding magistrate, asks Jogappa, ‘If you didn’t tell the truth, how was the magistrate supposed to know what really happened?’ Jogappa responds, ‘If justice could be done by merely stating the facts, why would wise people like you be needed? It’s the magistrate’s job to discern the truth.’

The dilemma faced by Officer Raghunandan in P. Sheshadri’s Beru is similar. The injustice is undeniable; reporting it is straightforward, and dismissing clerk Venkateshaya from his job would be the logical solution. But beyond the realm of justice and injustice lies a family entirely dependent on Venkateshaya. If he is punished, the family’s situation will become dire. Yet, can the crime simply be forgiven?

This moral conflict drives the narrative, forcing the audience to grapple with justice, responsibility, and human compassion complexities.

While this film delves into the various facets of systemic corruption, it simultaneously sheds light on the underlying humanity, much like the other side of a coin. What initially seems like an easy solution gradually reveals itself to be far more complex. Alongside Officer Raghunandan, viewers are drawn into the emotional and intellectual conflict between justice and injustice.

The hallmark of a good film lies in its ability to draw viewers into its narrative, making them participants in its sensational and emotional journey. This film accomplishes that with remarkable finesse, which is why it deservedly earned a National Award.

At a time when cinema is increasingly dominated by violent and sexually explicit content, designed solely for commercial gain and devoid of artistic merit, films like this restore our faith in the medium. They provide a mirror to our human behaviors.