By Suresh Nellikode
In the middle of the teeming, restless crowd at North Parur, the world was a blur of flashing cameras, whispering voices, and performative grief. They had all come for a final glimpse of Salim Kumar, the renowned Indian actor who had just closed his eyes to the world forever. Among the mourners were familiar faces from the silver screen—actresses meticulously styled, perhaps acutely aware of the mainstream news channels and social media cameras tracking their every move.
But if you looked past the glare of the lenses, toward the back of the hall where the actor’s wife, Sunitha, sat broken-hearted, you would have noticed a different kind of presence.
For hours, a young woman sat quietly beside her. She wore no noticeable makeup, nor was she draped in the ornate attire of her peers. To anyone passing by, she looked simply like a girl next door. Yet, her arm remained anchored around Sunitha’s trembling shoulders, offering the steady, unspoken comfort that only a true anchor can provide. In a room full of people looking at the stage, she was looking only at the grief.
Remarkably, the media guys and reporters missed her entirely. They did not recognize the gentle soul who had become the only shoulder for Sunitha to lean on.

Her name is Santhy Balachandran.
To those who truly know cinema, Santhi is an incredibly versatile actor and a dedicated theatre artist, with a dozen films to her credit—including striking performances in acclaimed movies like Jallikattu and Gulmohar, as well as various television series. Yet, she has never been one to blow her own trumpet. She doesn’t seek the spotlight; she lets her art speak for itself, which is precisely why the chaotic news feeds of the day overlooked her.
Seeing her there brought back a vivid memory from years ago, far away from this somber room. I had the privilege of meeting Santhi at the Toronto International Film Festival during the world premiere of Lijo Jose Pellissery’s Jallikattu. Even then, amidst the glitz and glamour of an international festival, her humility was striking.
True artists don’t need to perform when the cameras turn off. While the world prepares to see her step into the light again very soon—in Jiyen Krishnakumar’s upcoming film Ananthan Kadu, written by Murali Gopy—her most profound role wasn’t scripted at all. It was played out in the quiet, unvarnished grace of being a friend when the world was too loud to care.
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