It requires a high degree of intelligence—and perhaps detachment—to separate the characterisation from the cast playing the role. The writer creates a character to carry meaning, to embody a truth, or to reflect society back to itself. But somewhere along the way, the audience shifts its gaze. The message dissolves, the character fades, and what remains is the dazzling shadow of the actor.
In our times, we see this in cinema. The role may be written as a critique, a tragedy, or a reflection of human struggle, but the crowd applauds the star. The audience leaves the theatre quoting the actor’s mannerisms, not the character’s lesson. The performance becomes celebrity currency. The character becomes collateral damage.
But this is not new. In Treta Yuga, mythological figures themselves became “stars.” Ram, Lakshman, Sita, Hanuman—these were not just narrative devices or carriers of dharma. They were transformed into objects of worship. The message of the Ramayana was vast, nuanced, and philosophical, yet many chose to celebrate the characters themselves, forgetting the layered messages hidden within.
The irony is striking: in both epochs—the mythological past and the cinematic present—the audience prefers personality over philosophy. The author intends a mirror, but the people build a pedestal.
And so, the tragedy of art repeats itself across ages. The character was supposed to outlive the actor, but the actor always walks away with the applause.