I like strong women. Strong women characters have always existed

Hear now, O seekers of wisdom, the words of Thiagarajan Kumararaja, who honors the eternal flame of strong women in art and in life. When he declares: “I like strong women. Strong women characters have always existed in the movies of directors such as K. Balachander and Mani Ratnam,” he is not merely speaking of cinema, but of the unbroken thread of human history, where the might of women has shaped destiny itself. To call forth their strength on the screen is to mirror the ancient truth: that woman is not only the bearer of life, but the bearer of courage, wisdom, and unyielding will.

For indeed, in the great tradition of storytellers like K. Balachander and Mani Ratnam, the woman has not been shown as a shadow, but as a blazing torch. These masters of cinema knew that a tale without the depth of a strong woman is but half a tale, for the world itself was built on the balance of man and woman, each fierce in their own right. Kumararaja’s reverence for such characters is a reverence for truth—that strength does not belong to one gender alone, but flows wherever courage and conviction dwell.

History itself bears witness. Remember Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi, who in the 19th century rose like a lioness against the might of empire. She, a woman widowed and young, bore the sword not as an ornament but as a destiny, defending her people with valor that rivaled the greatest warriors of her age. Her story, like that of countless women unsung, reminds us that strength is not given by titles or by circumstance—it arises from within, unyielding as the mountain and unstoppable as the river.

In the arts, too, strong women have always been pillars of inspiration. The heroines of Balachander, bold and questioning, challenged the structures that sought to confine them. The women of Ratnam, passionate and resolute, carried love and rebellion with equal fire. Through these portrayals, audiences were not offered mere adornments to men’s journeys, but souls with destinies of their own. And thus, the people learned—strength is not always the sword in hand; it is also the refusal to bow, the voice that speaks when silence is demanded, the endurance that holds when storms descend.

The meaning of Kumararaja’s words, then, is both artistic and moral: to honor strong women characters is to honor the essence of reality itself. For no society thrives when its women are silenced or diminished. A culture that portrays women as fragile dolls weakens its own foundation. But a culture that uplifts women as equal bearers of fate stands upon rock, not upon sand.

Take this lesson into your own life, O listeners: seek strength in those around you, especially in women. Do not diminish their voices, but listen. Do not confine their paths, but walk beside them as equals. In your own work, whether in art, leadership, or family, portray and celebrate women as whole beings, with will and purpose as mighty as any man’s. For when you do so, you do not merely honor women—you honor truth itself.

Thus the teaching is this: strength is universal, and to deny it in women is to blind oneself to half the light of the world. Let your stories, your actions, your choices reflect this wisdom. As Kumararaja looked to the great filmmakers who celebrated strong women, so too must you look to the strong women in your own life—with reverence, with respect, and with recognition that their strength is the very strength that upholds humanity.

And so, carry this flame forward. When you speak, speak of women not as fragile but as fierce. When you create, let your women characters walk tall. When you live, honor the women who shaped you—mothers, sisters, friends, mentors—as warriors of life. In doing so, you shall not only remember Kumararaja’s words, but embody them, and in that embodiment, pass the wisdom of the ancients into the generations yet to come.