How Lokah Reimagines The Yakshi In Malayalam Cinema

In Lokah - Chapter 1: Chandra, the Yakshi isn't a cautionary tale or an erotic spectacle but a myth reborn as protagonist, a spirit who commands the centre of the frame without seeking permission.

Neelima+Menon

Sep 09, 2025

Promo poster for Lokah - Chapter 1: Chandra.

FEW FIGURES have haunted Malayalam cinema as insistently as the Yakshi — the spectral woman born of violation, weaponised by desire, and endlessly objectified by the male gaze. From the gothic corridors of 1960s horror to the psychological landscapes of the 1980s, she has lingered as both a fantasy and a threat, a projection of collective unease about female sexuality. Lokah: Chapter 1 – Chandra directed by Dominic Arun and co-written by Santhy Balachandran, takes this familiar trope and turns it on its head. Its heroine, Chandra, is not the seductress who lures men to their deaths, but a strait-laced superhero who carries the myth without succumbing to it.

The party is in full swing at Sunny’s apartment when Chandra (Kalyani Priyadarshan) appears — resplendent in white, her arrival heralded by a vintage song that leaves everyone momentarily spellbound. Yet she lingers at the threshold, hesitant, until Sunny ushers her in. It is perhaps the only time the film pauses to acknowledge her beauty in the way folklore and cinema often have, before she resumes her true form, as a self-willed force, almost austere in her strait-laced heroism. Even here, she seems blithely unaware of the effect she has on men, her gaze turned inward, preoccupied with the world she carries within.

This scene gains its full resonance when we realise that Chandra is, in fact, a vampire — a striking reimagining of Kalliyankattu Neeli the fearsome heroine of Kerala folklore. Its significance lies in the way Malayalam cinema has traditionally treated the Yakshi. She has always emerged from a space of violation, reincarnated as a spectral seductress, feared and heavily objectified. Chandra, however, quietly overturns this lineage. She inhabits the form without yielding to its clichés, subverting every trope long tethered to it. In her, the Yakshi is not a cautionary tale or an erotic spectacle but a myth reborn as protagonist, a spirit who commands the centre of the frame without seeking permission.

In fact, visually, she is framed not with the fetishistic close-ups that once lingered on flowing hair, blood-red lips, or gleaming eyes, but with a gaze that is steadier, cooler. The camera records her as a figure of intent rather than an ornament. In doing so, it denies the audience the familiar pleasure of consuming the Yakshi as an eroticised monster, but as a mythic subject in her own right.

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Traditionally, the Yakshi on celluloid has always been a predatory female spirit who lures men to their doom, often framed as a reproving tale against female desire. But in Lokah Chandra flips this by centring the narrative around the Yakshi herself — giving her not just a backstory, but an emotional and moral arc. Instead of being defined by the men she destroys, she becomes the story’s anchor.

Take her evolving friendship with Sunny (Naslen), where the gender dynamic is intriguingly reversed. Sunny is the boy-next-door, comic and clumsy, who almost faints at the sight of Chandra’s true, vampiric form. Though his fear nearly borders on the comical, the film refuses to let it calcify into ridicule. Instead, it becomes the ground on which their bond takes shape. Chandra, amused by his startled reactions, allows him into her orbit, and it is with him that she seems to shed her armour, revealing the contours of her vulnerability.

Soon, we realise that Chandra’s deceased lover eerily resembles Sunny. And it hovers like a spectral presence between them, a reminder that Chandra’s supernatural mission does not erase her human ache. For all her composure and single-mindedness, she is still a woman gathering the fragments of a broken heart.

This is where Lokah’s subversion becomes most poignant. In earlier depictions, the Yakshi’s attachments to men were framed as traps — a seduction that led to doom, or a wound that justified vengeance. Here, the relationship is cast in a gentler light. Sunny does not stand as the rational saviour or the terrified victim, but as a companion, offering a space where Chandra’s grief can briefly breathe. The Yakshi figure, once bound to desire or punishment, is reframed through companionship and quiet recognition.

Consider the moment when Chandra first reveals a glimpse of her power. When a man threatens to throw acid on her co-worker, an act steeped in real-world misogyny and violence, Chandra intercepts him with sudden, decisive force. The threat is neutralised in an instant, but what’s even more telling is how she turns to the terrified girl and, with calm authority, asks her to forget what she has seen. The scene is framed with a deliberate inversion of gendered expectations. Where women in such narratives are usually scripted as victims or witnesses, Chandra emerges as protector and arbiter, displacing the male perpetrator’s dominance with her own unflinching command. In this quiet assertion lies a glimpse of her resilience — and the suggestion that her power is not merely supernatural, but also deeply political.

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This balance of restraint and assertion deepens later, when her path crosses with the antagonist — a figure steeped in violent misogyny. For perhaps the first time, we glimpse not only Chandra’s anger but also her fear. In a rare lapse, she realises that not only has she unknowingly placed her power within his reach, but also that it intersects with a patriarchal cruelty that is all too real. What emerges is not a simple clash of good and evil, but a meditation on how easily women’s agency can be co-opted, even in myth.

It is also striking how the narrative introduces other supernatural presences without ever allowing them to eclipse her. The Chathan, rendered here as an affably mischievous figure, exists not to rescue Chandra but merely to nudge her forward, a companionable spark rather than a saviour. Even when she is warned that the antagonist is too dangerous to confront, Chandra chooses to face him head-on. The emphasis remains firmly on her agency — she is not shielded by allies or absorbed into a larger mythic ensemble, but allowed to carry the weight of the battle on her own terms.

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