Readers Write In #838: Of Mani, Men and Minimum Standards

By Ponc

One is never a stranger to Mani Ratnam’s men—the soft-spoken Chandrakumar, who marries the girl who doesn’t want to get married; Sekhar, the doting Appa who harbours a tiny secret of epic proportions from his family; and Thiru, the idealistic writer who wants to be a dad even before he has a wife; the hostage-turned-patriot Rishi Kumar; the die-hard romantic Karthik.

In my teens and early 20s, I loved him for creating these “ideal” men—the kind who crafted heart-flutters over cups of coffee and glances across passing trains. For a girl who refused to grow up, these fictional men were the yarn that helped weave colourful dreams.

But 40s? The less said the better.

However, this essay is not about being better.

Friends and family hoped I would kinda sorta grow up. At least a smidgeon. The rose-tinted glasses fell, and what was green before looked anything but. Not flaming red, but it wasn’t ideal anymore.

Where I once found stoic men who kept their hearts hidden behind brooding eyes appealing, they suddenly felt too troublesome.

When I stepped into the world of K-dramas—a world sharpened by chiseled jawlines and softened by cherry blossoms—it felt too ethereal.

But underneath all that veneer, I did find what I thought I could no longer recognize: the romantic ideal. Not to be confused with the overly romanticized ideal in technicolour.

But what is this ideal?

Is it nineteen-year-old Gwansik (Park Bo Gum in When Life Gives You Tangerines) jumping into a cold sea to swim to his AeSun? The forty-year-old in me balks at that. Makes for a grand romantic gesture on screen. And that’s all it is.

What gives me butterflies now is this: Gwansik seeing his wife being slapped by his mom—he drops his bag, picks up his daughter, takes AeSun’s hand and walks out. No questions asked. No sermon on filial duty. Just action—soft, firm, and rooted in respect.

Jung Hae-In playing a single dad, Yoo Ji-Ho, in One Spring Night—he is another dimension. The way he says he’s a dad as soon as he realizes he’s attracted to Ha Ji-Min.

His son comes first even as this woman suddenly takes his breath away. And then stepping away, knowing she’s taken. No pressure to make her choose, just silently waiting, knowing it’s not easy to walk away from a relationship.

This is not a fantasy man. This is an emotionally fluent man.

Take Korean Appa Do Hyun-Soo (played to perfection by Lee Joon-Gi) in Flower of Evil. He didn’t know how to emote or show his feelings. Do Hyun-Soo had all the characteristics of a sociopath, yet when you first see him, he is cooking a fancy breakfast for his daughter and you think there can’t be a better daddy-daughter duo.

Later you see him practicing in the bathroom mirror—how to smile, how to say I love you, how to wink—and you realize what a herculean effort it must be for him to not just recognize the emotions in others through their facial expressions but also learn how to mimic them so they feel comforted.

Among all of Mani’s men, the one who truly stands tall is Thirutchelvan from Kannathil Muthamittal—a man who could easily share screen space with the best of my K-drama heroes.

Thiru, who wanted to be a dad even before he became a lover or husband. He didn’t just spout values to sound cool; he breathed them. He lived with them. And he was not just tuned into both the girls in his life—he loved them unapologetically.

In a way, Mani’s Thiru would fit perfectly within a K-drama universe—his softness towards the people he loved, his unwavering moral compass, unafraid of being the emotional yet driven father who will drop everything to take his daughter to a war-torn nation to search for her birth mother.

What made Thiru last the test of time and become a gold standard? Why does he shine even after those tinted glasses of mine have fallen?

There are moments when you want someone to shout flirty nothings from a train, to hug you from behind as you marvel at snow for the first time, to dance with you during rain showers.

Then there are days when you want someone to make you a steaming cup of coffee as you sit huddled with a book, to spin elaborate bedtime stories for you and the kids, to treat you with respect because that is the only way.

Fiction told me both these kinds of men were possible, but life taught me which one I would truly want by my side.

Maybe Mani finally wrote a man not for the teen who watched with hearts in her eyes, but for the forty-year-old, who wanted more than just the butterflies. A man who could hold both—the grand gestures that make your heart race and the quiet constancy that makes it rest.

Maybe, just maybe, against all best intentions, I had grown up.