Sreenivasan Movies on Video Cassettes in 1980’s

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, petroleum-rich Gulf countries such as Kuwait entered a period of rapid prosperity. This economic boom coincided with the rise of a large Kerala diaspora. Malayalees arrived in the Gulf with their education and skills, and through relentless hard work, they achieved financial stability. Yet prosperity never loosened their emotional moorings. Kerala remained firmly rooted in their hearts.

They carried with them nostalgia for lush greenery, familiar cuisine, and the rhythms of life back home. While contributing substantially to Kerala’s economy through remittances, they preserved a distinctly Kerala lifestyle in their private lives. Homes smelled of coconut oil and spices; men wore Kerala lungis while washing their cars—Abbasiya colony was known as “lungistan”—and women wore sarees to social gatherings. Kerala Department stores stocked coconuts, fat kerala rice, spices, and bananas, turning Gulf cities into extensions of Kerala kitchens.

Life moved at a gentler pace then, in the years before the Kuwait War. Evenings ended early. By five o’clock, families were home, escorting children to Bharatanatyam classes and music lessons. Men gathered to practice traditional art forms such as parichamuttu and margamkali for upcoming functions. Church festivals and Malayalee association events showcased these performances, reinforcing cultural continuity far from home.

Few things, however, stirred collective excitement like the arrival of a new Malayalam movie on video cassette. The release of a VHS cassette generated more anticipation and conversation than a theatrical release of the movie. In the early 1980s, video cassettes transformed film consumption in the Gulf. The moment a new cassette reached a rental shop, it was circulated like hot cake under strict return deadlines.

Evenings often ended with families gathered around VCRs or VCPs for a Kerala-style dinner while watching the newly available movie of video cassette. By the next morning, reviews spread rapidly—most often at school bus stops. Children discussed the malayalam films in English, rating them “good,” “bad,” or “OK.” Some dialogues became instant legends. One famous scene translated “upmavu” as “salt-mango-tree,” breaking it into “uppu” (salt) and “mavu” (mango tree). The humour transcended language barriers, drawing non-Malayalees and even foreigners into Malayalam cinema. In my class, a Tanzanian girl memorised the song “Oru Madhura Kinavin.”

My own introduction to this world of malayalam movies on video cassettes came in 1985, when my father, an Orthodox priest, was posted to the Kuwait Orthodox Church and moved our family there. This timing proved fortuitous. It coincided with the emergence of Sreenivasan as a scriptwriter, marking a transformative phase in Malayalam cinema—one whose echoes remain deeply embedded in Malayalee consciousness.

Sreenivasan’s films were strikingly different. They avoided tragedy and embraced optimism, often ending on hopeful notes. Until then, Malayalam films I remembered tended toward sorrow. Before Kuwait, while living in Bhopal, I watched Bollywood cinema precisely because its stories promised happy endings.

There were, of course, “serious” viewers of malayalam movies in Kuwait—uncles who believed cinema was high art and favoured the works of directors like Adoor Gopalakrishnan or films featuring actors such as Shanthi Krishna and Srikant. They belonged to the politically charged and artistically bold generation of the 1970s. Yet even they could not ignore the cultural shift brought about by Sreenivasan.

His films were game-changers. Housewives embraced his accessible humour and relatable characters. His antics as the police sub-inspector in Sanmanassullavarkku Samadhanam became iconic. Whether it was the anxious homeowner in Sanmanassullavarkku Samadhanam or the Gulf returnee with entrepreneurial aspirations in Varavelpu, the stories struck a universal chord—speaking equally to men, women, and children.

It took time for audiences to realise that Sreenivasan was the creative force behind these films. Eventually, a common assumption emerged: if Sreenivasan appeared in a movie, he must have written it. Few people read film credits; cinema knowledge travelled instead through conversations and gossips.

Video cassettes of Kalabhavan Gulf comedy shows also circulated widely. The first Kalabhavan show in Dubai, featuring Jayaram and his troupe, became hugely popular. Jayaram’s effortless performance, particularly his mimicry of Prem Nazir, made it instantly clear about his destiny towards stardom.

I remember an Alexander Uncle whose daughter married Cheriyan Kalpakavadi, the scriptwriter of films such as Lal Salam, Sarvakalasala, Minnaram, and Pakshe. The wedding reception in Kerala, attended by nearly every prominent figure in Malayalam cinema, became so famous that its video cassette was in high demand in Kuwait—circulating like a blockbuster release.

Priyadarshan’s nurturing of Sreenivasan as a scriptwriter coincided perfectly with the Gulf boom and the rise of VHS culture. These films were watched and rewatched, rewound endlessly for favourite dialogues and songs. Over dinners of rice, fish, and moru curry, Malayalees were transported back to Kerala—its humour, warmth, and familiar struggles unfolding on screen.

Those lines, gestures, and comic moments lodged themselves permanently in memory. The children of that diaspora—now in their forties and fifties—still carry them.

After four years, we returned to Jabalpur, India. Kunj Uncle, who ran a video rental shop in Ahmadi, gifted us several treasured cassettes: Sanmanassullavarkku Samadhanam, Sreedharante Onnam Thirumurivu, Gandhi Nagar Second Street, and TP Balagopalan MA—all scripted by Sreenivasan.

In Jabalpur, these tapes circulated among Malayalee teenagers and college students. Many did not speak Malayalam fluently, yet they delighted in the films. Their Hindi-speaking friends joined them, reading subtitles and laughing along—especially at Mohanlal’s Gurkha character in Gandhi Nagar Second Street and his unforgettable line, “Main Gurkha hum-hai!”

From Malayalee children in Kuwait to the Tanzanian classmate, from Malayalee children in Jabalpur to North Indians, Sreenivasan’s stories travelled effortlessly—like Kerala banana chips carried across oceans—touching lives far beyond their point of origin.