Gehenu Lamai: Restoring A Sinhalese Portrait Of Girlhood As Sumitra Peries’ Legacy Returns To Cannes

In relationships where women lack the authority to define their own terms, love becomes a fragile thing, distorted by the forces of control and constrained by a system that values compliance over freedom. Adapted from a novel of the same name by Karunasena Jayalath, Gehenu Lamai (1978) ultimately asks: What becomes of women who are denied the power to shape their own stories? Briefly illuminated by fleeting desires and transgressions, it examines the insidious forces that shape women’s choices.

At the heart of this revival is the legacy of Sumitra Peries—born in 1934, Sri Lanka’s first female filmmaker, often revered as the “Poetess of Srilankan Cinema”. Her repertoire as screenwriter, director, editor and producer spans more than ten films. Still, it is Gehenu Lamai (1978)—her debut directorial feature in Sinhala, which she also edited—that fondly remains a luminous portrait of girlhood. It returned to global attention at Cannes this year, screened alongside films like Satyajit Ray’s Aranyer Din Ratri (1970), reaffirming its place not only in Sri Lanka’s cultural memory but within the broader canon of South Asian cinematic heritage.

Gehenu Lamai’s potency has long been diminished by the nature of its accessibility. The only widely available copy online, though graciously preserved, is heavily compromised— its subtitles often missing, or rendered illegible as the text appears white on white. Such a fragmented viewing experience limits the film’s ability to be fully received in all its emotional and political richness. Restoration of classics is a painstaking endeavour, involving the meticulous removal of embedded subtitles, the handling of fragile celluloid, and the navigation of degradation that time etches into tangible film stock. That a restored version could return to the global stage at Cannes through Indian organisations like The Film Heritage Foundation is not only extraordinary, but necessary.

The film opens with Wiyo Gee Gayena Hade, sung by Neela Wickramasinghe, commencing the film’s emotional terrain laced with longing and restraint. It is less an introduction and more a premonition—a sonic gesture toward the lives awaiting teenagers Kusum (Vasanthi Chathurani) & Soma (Jenita Samaraweera), burdened by the weight of circumstance. Much like girlhood, which masquerades as a tender threshold but arrives only to usher in the premature weight of womanhood, too brutal and too soon. In Vasanthi Chathurani’s stellar feature debut as Kusum lies a deliciously rare sophistication. Every gesture and glance is measured with a seamless interplay of yearning, poise, and reverence, affirming her as an extraordinary presence from the outset.

Class is intricately woven into this film, where Kusum and Soma are persistently relegated to the status of “basket woman’s daughters”. This label, meant to be an insult, follows them even in moments of personal triumph. Like when Soma is crowned in the beauty contest, or Kusum attains a school scholarship, or even when Kusum’s love for Nimal (Ajith Jinadasa) comes to the forefront. In a school setting where every child wears the same attire, the external uniformity is at odds with the underlying distinctions that are embedded into the collective consciousness of the characters.

In school, their teacher explains: “It doesn’t matter if you have a hundred bad sons. The one wise son is worth it. One moon illuminates the whole world at night. That doesn’t happen with a lot of stars”. It is a moment that lingers, not for its moral absolutism, but for how it gently sets a precedent for who is allowed to matter, and why. In a world that measures worth in absolutes, the metaphor of the moon becomes an aspiration, a silent indictment of women who feel led to stand out, yet are expected to conform. To reiterate the same, Kusum is asked what an ideal child can be compared to, and she utters, “The moon”, her voice barely above a whisper, as the camera moves closer to her face and her features begin to blur—echoing her visible confusion within the restraint of conformity.

Their classmates engage in weighty discussions about the politics of their nation, set against the backdrop of a pivotal time in Sri Lanka’s history. These dialogues about national freedom and sovereignty serve as an anchor for understanding the period’s socio-economic landscape. It is repeatedly questioned whether Sri Lanka is truly liberated or simply free under certain conditions and at the mercy of select powers. The film, while exploring the concept of fate, also keenly addresses the tangible, often oppressive realities of governance and capitalism. It questions not just the fate of its characters but the larger structural forces that shape and define the lives of those caught within its web.

The moments shared between Nimal and Kusum in the film are a delicate study of love untouched by vulgarity. Their conversations unfold with a deep admiration that never once trivialises their innocent love. A seemingly mundane exchange about curtains transforms into a mutual revelry of one another’s strengths, whether Nimal’s choice of the fabric or Kusum’s skilled stitching. Fate, in all its indifferent grandeur, stands as the ultimate architect of their love, poised to slip away when the time is right.

Podmini (Shyama Anandan) and Kusum too contemplate the aftermath of love, questioning the right time and age to fall for someone. As if such rationalising and foresight has the power to shield them from heartbreak. Most of girlhood is spent weighing the conflict between desire for connection or individuality, for its many costs. Soma’s beauty contest reveals the stark transition from innocence to looming corruption at the hands of the world. As the lyrics echo, “O girls, what are you dreaming of? Is it to fly away to a land of dreams?… Dazzled by the city lights, only to find them fade away.” The girls adorned in ornaments and saris are paraded in a row to be judged. They smile and perform, striving to be seen as beautiful and mature, yet unaware of the cost of this validation. Soma’s win grants her happiness and opportunities, but it also steals away her naivety, pushing her into a world that isn’t willing to be as kind to her as she is.

Ajith Jinadasa’s performance as Nimal exudes his own charm yet is deeply rooted and respectful, allowing space for Kusum and her story to take centre stage in the film. Nimal, as young as he is,  reflects on the cyclical nature of life— how we have no control over birth or death, but we hold the power to choose who we marry. In this nuanced framework, love is not just a passive experience, but one that becomes an act of choice, even within the constraints of fate. Nimal’s mother, Kamalawathi (Chitra Wakista), despite her evident fondness for Kusum, cannot separate her from her social identity. The class divide between them was too drastic for her to support Nimal’s desire to marry her. At a pivotal juncture in the film, Nimal asks Kusum if she could live without him. It is in this moment that Kusum, previously restrained in her expressions, finally reveals the depth of her longing. Her words are not confessional in the romantic sense alone, but are tethered to a quiet, sacrificial kind of love—one that is willing to recede so the beloved may rise.

Perhaps it is here that the lesson once imparted to her resurfaces: that the ideal child is like the moon. In her eyes, Nimal embodied that celestial ideal— rare, luminous, untouchable. She wanted his mother to continue seeing him the same way and wanted the world to allow him a life unburdened by the weight of their love. Nimal, from his privileged societal standpoint, couldn’t see beyond their affections and resisted this mythologising. He was willing to fight for their love, undeterred by anything but the joy they brought each other. But love, as the film makes clear, does not always bend to personal will.

This evocative visual grammar of Gehenu Lamai owes itself to MS Ananda,  whose vision for this film can aptly be described as delicately rich black-and-white moving poetry. Often bringing in elements from an intangible world through imagination, the film tries to bargain a little more joy against its stark realities. Kusum and Nimal stand on either side of a glass window outside the town hall, their palms pressed together, united in gesture but separated by a cruel, transparent barrier. In fleeting flashes, we glimpse their imagined union: a signed marriage contract, dolled-up attires, exchanged rings— a life they can almost touch. But the glass, cold and lucid, remains unbroken. The transparency of the glass renders the illusion even more painful: they can see each other, almost feel the warmth of the other’s skin, yet are powerless against the social architecture that dictates where one love can go, and where it must end.

As they prepare to part ways, the film grants us a tender glimpse into Nimal and Kusum’s farewell. They embrace and kiss gently, not as children suspended in innocence, but as adolescents brushing against the edges of adulthood. The camera does not intrude. At times it leans in, as though curious, and at others it retreats, offering them the dignity of privacy. This hesitant oscillation reflects the emotional delicacy of the moment: the intimacy of a goodbye layered with a grief they do not yet fully understand. It is an unspoken recognition that something sacred is being lost, or perhaps sealed away forever.

What is remarkable about Gehenu Lamai is its deeply empathetic gaze towards the girls. At no point does the narrative ostracise them for their transgressions, nor does it cast them in the shadow of moral failure. The film holds space for them with an uncommon tenderness. It listens. It watches. It understands. Yet while the film’s gaze is soft and merciful, the world it is set in is not, as the girls are only met with punishment, silence and abandonment.

The film consciously refrains from recounting the incident itself when Soma falls pregnant, choosing instead to explore its aftermath four months later. The film withholds explicit details about the father’s identity apart from his name, Indrapala. Although he possibly could have been someone who exploited her after she won the beauty contest. This emphasis on consequence over cause reveals the film’s deeper critique of gendered expectations. The film chooses to draw attention to Soma’s abandonment, positioning it as a mirror to the systemic neglect that women endure even when wronged.

When Nimal (now in the position of a teacher) poses a question in class, Kusum remains silent. Her inability to answer is not rooted in ignorance, but in the quiet erosion of her time and self, spent tending to Soma’s infant and her ailing father. Once a promising student, Kusum’s academic silence now echoes the cost of care that women are expected to bear without acknowledgement. Her failure to gain university admission and subsequent unemployment are not personal shortcomings, but outcomes shaped by the invisible labour she performed in service of others.

What strikes immediately, though, are the sisters’ very names— Kusum, meaning a flower that blooms by day, and Soma, the moon that shines in the night. The film draws a devastating parallel between two girls: one who chose to conform and one who dared to transgress. Kusum’s transgressions remain confined within the realm of corrective possibility: she falls for Nimal, yet ultimately chooses to affirm her dignity by letting him go: “I have feelings, I want no favour, I just want to be left alone”. Kusum turns away, not out of indifference but as an act of self-preservation. In the solitude that follows, she wipes her tears in front of a mirror, confronting the fragile remains of girlhood with a clarity that feels both earned and cruel. Soma, meaning “the moon”, upheld by Kusum’s teacher as the metaphor of an ideal child, is the one who crosses boundaries more visibly— entering a beauty contest and later bearing a child out of wedlock.

Yet, regardless of the nature or degree of their actions, Gehenu Lamai insists on one unyielding truth: women bear the burden of consequence, no matter their choices. This relentless imposition of morality and unattainable standards does not safeguard women but instead imprisons them, forcing them to navigate a terrain where every decision is policed and punished. It reveals a world where both innocence and transgression dissolve into the same costly experience.

The film resists offering reward or redemption to either Kusum or Soma, instead casting a stark light on the rigidity of social structures that fail women regardless of their choices. In this convergence lies the film’s most searing critique: that female agency, whether expressed in rebellion or restraint, is persistently undermined. The question is not what kind of woman one is, but whether the world has ever made room for her at all. For a film so bold in its gaze and unflinching in its portrayal of girlhood, it deserves to be seen not through the veil of technical damage and distortion, but in the fullness of its original vision. To restore Gehenu Lamai is not merely an act of archival duty; it is a reclamation of a voice that once dared to speak the unspeakable.

Sakshi Salil Chavan is a documentary filmmaker and an entertainment writer based in Mumbai.