Kishkkindha Kandam

widowed Forest Department employee living with his strong-willed father, Appu Pillai in their ancestral home deep within the Wayanad forest. As Aparna attempts to navigate the complexities of her new family, an investigation into Appu Pillai's missing gun uncovers mysteries of a forgotten past. The film weaves together themes of family, memory, and identity, all set against the backdrop of a thrilling narrative that keeps you hooked until the very end. Encircling all the human drama in the film is a dense forest. It is an omnipresent entity that silently watches over the family. It blurs the line between the human and the animal, much like the Vanaras of the Ramayana, and serves as both a refuge and a threat. It's a place of secrets, where the past and present come eye-to-eye. And where the family is constantly confronted by truths they'd rather ignore. As a silent witness, the forest challenges the characters to confront what they've chosen to keep hidden, pushing them towards uncomfortable revelations. As the story unfolds, the idea of a family emerges as an invisible fourth character, haunting every comer of Ajayan and his father's home. This is no ordinary house, it's a space filled with photographs and the unseen presence of those who are no longer there. Ajayan's son, his late wife, and even his father's lost past linger as silent specters, turning memories into living ghosts. Each room echoes with absence, allowing the audience to feel the weight of these missing figures without ever seeing them. The home becomes a powerful symbol of loss, capturing how past traumas continue to shape the present. The movie amplifies these unseen tensions through its unique play with perspectives. Ajayan's relationship with his father is often portrayed through windows, mirrors, and screens, creating a sense of distance even in proximity. His wife, Aparna's perception of his father is similarly fragmented, glimpsed through windows and shadows, adding layers of ambiguity. Even in Ajayan's conversations with his brother, his closest confidant, there's always a screen dividing them, offering reflections that distort as much as they reveal. The film constantly challenges the audience to piece together the true nature of these relationships, keeping them engaged through a visual allegories. At the heart of these intertwined lives lies a potent symbol: the missing gun of Ajayan's father, Appu Pillai. More than just a plot device, the gun represents unresolved conflicts and the lingering scars of the past. It serves as a reminder that history, no matter how deeply buried, has a way of resurfacing. Appu Pillai's emotional outbursts reveal a man wrestling with a lifetime of unhealed wounds, and the gun's absence is a constant, silent testimony to battles fought and lost. It's a smoking gun of history, always threatening to disrupt the fragile peace of the present. But for Appu Pillai, losing his memory is more devastating than his missing gun. His fragmented recollections blur the line between past glories and family losses, creating an inescapable loop of pride and pain. The film masterfully weaves Appu's struggle into a broader commentary on the fragility of memory, illustrating how it shapes human connections. Memories hide secrets, expose vulnerabilities, and haunt the present, pushing the characters and the audience, to figure out what is remembered and what is being intentionally forgotten.