He is known for his exceptional talent and has made a significant mark in the film industry as a director, writer, and actor. Tharun Bhascker, who has redefined the concept of Telugu cinema, has truly transformed the way people perceive films. With his earthy humour, he has made Telangana dialect the mainstay of Telugu cinema, captivating audiences. An introvert with a creative mindset, he has carved out a unique niche in the industry. In a one-on-one interaction, CE had the opportunity to speak with him about his journey so far.
Excerpts
Tell us about your journey in the film industry.
As I reflect on my journey, I remember always having a passion for art since school. There were many art competitions growing up, and my parents always encouraged me to participate in extracurricular activities. My dad, who was deeply into cricket and played at the district or state level, tried to push me towards the sport, but I didn’t take to it. However, I naturally gravitated toward art and lawn tennis. During that time, several major art contests for children were held, and my parents pushed me to take part in them. They did this because I was an introvert and struggled to talk to people. I would often hide behind my parents, and I was afraid of many things. So, my dad made sure I engaged in activities that could help me excel in something.
By the time I finished school, I had won over 60–65 awards in art. Some notable achievements include having one of my paintings selected for UNICEF cards in Africa and receiving the Bala Ratna award. The exposure I gained was incredible. However, I also faced criticism from cousins and friends, which was emotionally draining. One of the challenges was trying to please my parents, and it made me turn inward. I found that writing and painting portraits became my way of expressing myself, especially since I was deeply interested in people. But the only medium that truly felt liberating was films. I realised early on that filmmaking was a great way to translate emotions.
In my 12th grade at Hyderabad Public School, I accidentally stumbled upon a video camera that my mum had bought me. I initially thought I had done something horrible when I made a silly video, but my friends loved it and found it relatable. That instant feedback was far more gratifying than anything I had experienced with painting. I realised that filmmaking was the medium I wanted to pursue. My first major inspiration was Mani Ratnam. I vividly remember watching Alaipayuthey (Sakhi in Telugu) at an open-air theatre in Chennai, and it completely changed my perspective on filmmaking. From that point onward, filmmaking became my sole focus.
I started Vinoothna Geetha Media because I wanted to support my passion for short filmmaking. My father was strict about me going to university, so I enrolled in a BTech mechanical programme but had an abysmal 23% attendance and struggled with many subjects. I was far from a good student, but I kept making short films in my spare time, and most of them gained attention. Making short films as a student was tough, though, especially since it required funding. Anything cost a lot, and attending competitions meant bunking university. However, my professors began to support me, recognising my passion for filmmaking. They allowed me to miss classes, gave me attendance, and even encouraged me to write my internals while I focused on my films.
I vividly remember writing a short story during my thermodynamics exam because I had nothing else to write. Later, that story became another short film. It was a carefree time, going with the flow. But things got serious when I realised I needed to support my vision. Freelancing wasn’t an option — it didn’t bring the respect I needed, and I had to wait around for hours. So, I decided to register my own company, Vinoothna Geetha Media Pvt Ltd. I brought in a few childhood friends like Uppu, Vivek, and Kaushik to join me in this journey. Filmmaking became a thrilling, unpredictable adventure. We travelled to Goa for a Channel V festival, meeting people and gaining exposure. It was an exciting period.
The breakthrough came with a short film called Sainma. At that time, I was trying to break into the industry and realised how harsh the reality of filmmaking could be. The darker side of the industry hit hard, and I felt disillusioned. Out of this frustration came Sainma, a film in Telangana dialect, something I could truly relate to. I wondered why Tamil films, with their rural themes, were doing well, but we weren’t doing the same with Telangana. I had approached many producers who didn’t see the potential in it, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and made Sainma. Surprisingly, support came from unexpected sources, and I learned that film has the power to transcend boundaries. It was during this time that I discovered my own style and realised I wanted to continue making films in the dialect and style that I understood best. That’s when Pelli Choopulu happened.
How did you get the idea for making a film like Pelli Choopulu?
When I was making short films, I realised early on that I had a strong aversion to romantic comedies. To me, it felt like the easiest genre to crack — cast a decent-looking girl, add some background music, and you could easily get a lakh views. I saw it as a cheap hack, not real filmmaking. At the time, I had this ‘elite’ sense of cinema and had sworn never to make a rom-com because it seemed too simple.
Ironically, it was during a period of significant financial pressure that my perspective began to shift. I was participating in the ‘48 Hour Film Project’, where you randomly draw a genre. I picked ‘romantic comedy’, and it felt like the universe was telling me to put my ego aside and just do it. That’s when I made Anukokunda — a rom-com featuring Ritu Varma, a good friend of mine. It was a sweet story about a charming girl with some good music. Surprisingly, it did really well.
That experience made me realise that rom-coms have a natural, broad family audience. There’s a reason they work: they’re light, relatable, and bring people together. It was then that I seriously considered writing a rom-com for my first feature film. I knew I wouldn’t be able to pull big actors for a debut project, and rom-coms felt like a more accessible way to break through.
The bigger challenge, however, was that producers didn’t fully understand the tone or the unique flavour I was trying to bring. Every time I narrated my script, I could see that they weren’t connecting with it. So, I decided to make a film with newcomers and a limited budget. To keep things simple, I decided to set the story in just five locations.
The inspiration for the story came from a poster I had seen in university — it depicted the conflict between the heart and the mind. That idea stuck with me, and I decided to personify the heart as Vijay and the mind as Ritu, crafting a love story around this core theme.
Initially, the project was titled Anukokunda. Around this time, my father’s health began to deteriorate. I was constantly shuttling between producers, trying to pitch the film, but progress was slow. Meanwhile, my dad’s condition worsened. I remember telling him, ‘Don’t just read the story — wait, I’ll show you the film in a theatre.’ Sadly, he passed away before that could happen, and I deeply regret that he never got to see the film.
After his passing, something shifted within me. In Hindu tradition, it’s said that a soul lingers for a year after death. I promised my mother — and myself — that within a year, I would make a film that my father could ‘watch’. That thought gave me the energy to keep pushing forward.
Eventually, I moved on from Lakshmi Manchu ma’am’s project, and that’s when Raj Kandukuri came into the picture. Together, we finalised Vijay Deverakonda and Ritu Varma as the leads. Before he passed away, my father had told me, ‘Don’t worry, your film will run for 100 days.’ Pelli Choopulu ended up running for 102 days, and for me, that was a sign — he was watching.
Making Pelli Choopulu was a deeply personal, emotional, and spiritual journey. It came together at the right time, in the right place, and with the right people.
How was it working with actors like Vijay Deverakonda, Priyadarshi and Brahmanandam?
Each person I’ve worked with has been unique, and the experiences with them have varied depending on the time and circumstances. Working with Vijay in the early days was one experience, and working with him now would be a completely different one. Similarly, 10 years ago, Brahmanandam sir was different from who he is today. I believe that you meet people at the right time, and they’re shaped by those moments. For me, it’s the experiences that matter, and I’ve had beautiful experiences with all of them — no issues at all.
With someone like Brahmanandam sir, the bond was immediate and almost fatherly. It’s that same feeling you have with a father — a mix of fear, love, and deep respect, all wrapped in complex emotions. He knows it too. He’s a very rebellious man at heart. In fact, I’m currently planning a documentary on Brahmanandam sir, and we are in discussions about it. Documentary filmmaking has always been on my checklist because it’s such a powerful form of storytelling. The more I learn about him, the more I realise that his story is universal because it’s rooted in real struggle.
Was it really challenging to break stereotypes?
In hindsight, it seems like we were breaking stereotypes, but at the time, that wasn’t the mindset we had. I feel like a lot of young people today get caught up in the idea of ‘breaking rules’ just for the sake of it. I often say — you can’t break the rules if you don’t even understand them. Otherwise, you’re just a rebel without a cause, trying to look cool.
What truly matters is authenticity. It’s not about doing something just because it’s trendy or everyone else is doing it. You have to look inward, ask the right questions, understand the roots of your fears, and act from that place of awareness.
For example, if someone teaches you in film school that a low-angle shot creates a sense of power, you can’t just intellectualise it and apply it blindly. You have to test it, feel it, and see whether it genuinely conveys the intended emotion in your scene. That level of personal authenticity — when applied at every stage of your craft — will naturally lead you to revolutionise something.
Because your voice is unique, and when you tap into that, you end up breaking stereotypes. But reaching that point is the real challenge.
It’s tough because not everyone gets it. People are scared — and I understand why. The film industry is a gamble, and that insecurity is natural. Most people prefer to follow familiar patterns because they feel safe. In many industries, experience and playing it safe are assets, but in cinema, they can become a burden.
In our industry, you must break patterns. You have to carve your own path because novelty itself is a valuable commodity. If you want to be successful and distinct, you must constantly challenge yourself. Yes, familiarity sells, but so does novelty. And novelty is what gives newcomers their breakthroughs.
The hardest part is the mental battle. Often, the experienced people you meet sit on a pedestal, acting like they’re ‘giving you life’ (‘Nenu neeku life istunna’). But the truth is that without you, they don’t have life either. It’s a mutual relationship, though many filmmakers don’t realise it.
If you blindly surrender and say, ‘Take my life, I’ll do whatever you say’, you lose your essence. Instead, you must convince people, sell your vision, and pitch yourself authentically. If you do that, and if you’re articulate and persistent enough, you’ll eventually find the right person. It’s a matter of destiny — but you still have to put in the energy and effort to reach that point.
That’s why, honestly, breaking stereotypes was never the agenda. It was simply a natural result of staying authentic.
Your dialogues are very famous. How do you brainstorm them — is it spontaneous?
They’re actually very spontaneous. Dialogue, for me, happens naturally because of the vibe I share with the friends and collaborators I work with. Even otherwise, I tend to exaggerate things in my head — constantly making people laugh by saying the wrong things at just the right time.
I think that stems from having very intrusive thoughts. For example, if we’re in a serious meeting, my mind might suddenly wander and think, ‘What if I pull his chair and he falls?’ — and I start imagining the chaos that would follow. Comedy, in many ways, comes from rebellion. Brahmi sir (Brahmanandam) rebels against authority, and that’s something I deeply relate to. That’s just how my mind operates.
When it comes to writing, I realise that in real life, most of us aren’t very articulate. But in films, characters often speak so perfectly, delivering the right line at the right moment — and that sometimes feels unnatural. So, when I write, especially for a protagonist, I make sure the dialogue feels real.
For instance, if a character’s friend says something like, ‘Girls are like this only’, I immediately imagine another character retorting, ‘This fool knows everything!’ — and that spontaneous, honest reaction usually makes the audience laugh. It’s not about making things sound profound; it’s about naturally deflating the situation. That feels real and funny to me.
I think that’s a big part of my process — constantly questioning things. I sit in theatres and wonder, ‘If this character knew the entire moral of their life from the beginning, why did they even go through the whole journey?’ I find flaws in conventional storytelling, and I let all those intrusive thoughts spill onto the page. That’s how most of my dialogues come to life.
What do you like to watch, apart from your own films?
I appreciate all kinds of films now. In the past, I used to be very narrow-minded — I would think, ‘This is the kind of cinema that works for me’, and I wouldn’t even consider watching certain types of comedy or commercial films. I often questioned why some films even existed. But over time, I realised that these films connect with a lot of people, and as an artist, elitism is something I should never foster within myself. In fact, the more empathetic I become, the wider my range of appreciation grows.
So, consciously, I’ve been learning to love all kinds of cinema. There’s no particular genre that I stick to anymore. Like many people when they’re growing up, I used to have strong preferences — picking certain things to form my identity, and those choices would define my entire life. What we often don’t realise is that we tie ourselves too tightly to these ideas, treating them as perfect, non-negotiable parts of who we are.
But when I observe older, happier people, I notice that they didn’t restrict themselves with such rigid choices. It’s like how someone might jump into veganism today just because it’s trending, without truly connecting to the cause. Similarly, when I was younger, I gravitated toward filmmakers like Martin Scorsese because he was considered ‘cool’, and knowing about him gave me a sense of identity.
Now, I understand that it doesn’t really matter. I still deeply admire certain filmmakers’ work, but I genuinely enjoy watching all kinds of films, especially those from new voices and fresh perspectives. I even enjoy commercial entertainers — like Sankranthiki Vasthunam, which I loved in parts. I now realise why films like Hanuman Junction or Dil resonated so much with me when I was a kid. Somewhere along the way, I had distanced myself from that kind of cinema, but now I feel like I’ve come full circle and am learning to embrace it again.
What kind of web series do you prefer watching?
My all-time favourite has to be Breaking Bad. I really loved the characters — it shocked me and kept me hooked. It made me reflect on why I felt so connected to someone who was dealing drugs and battling cancer. It’s a very dark show, and I think it’s important to question why we react the way we do to such complex characters.
Surprisingly, I enjoy eating while watching Saturday Night Live (SNL). I also have a soft spot for Tamil comedies — Vadivelu and Goundamani Senthil were huge parts of my childhood, and I still rewatch their classic clips. I also frequently watch Brahmi sir’s comedy scenes; they’re timeless.
I love thrillers, and oddly enough, I’m quite drawn to documentary series about killers. I’m not sure why — maybe it’s just my way of exploring the darker sides of human nature.
What do you do when you are not writing for films or directing?
I have a ton of things to do, but most of the time, I just hang out with my friends. I love meeting people, but if I’m in a space where I need solitude, you won’t be able to reach me — I’ll be completely cut off, binge-watching TV shows and binge-eating.
Lately, I’ve been wanting to use my time more productively. I have a shelf full of books, but I’ve probably read only about 10% of them, so I’m hoping to finally get started on that. My friends always ask me if I’ve actually read all those books, and honestly, it’s about time I start living up to it! I also have a few LEGO sets lying around that I’ve been meaning to try out.
All this sounds great on paper, but in reality, I mostly end up binge-eating and binge-watching!
Tell us about the bond you have with your mother.
It’s been a rollercoaster ride. I think a lot of us would agree that the previous generation worked much harder and was far more sincere. There’s always this lingering guilt — that we aren’t living up to the standards they set — and it weighs heavily on us.
I’ve seen my mother prioritise me above everything else. When I was a toddler, she didn’t even have enough money to take the bus to drop me off. The bus driver, feeling sorry for her, would sometimes pick her up and drop her off, but most of the time, she would walk, saving every coin she could. That’s how much she put me above everything else. It’s beautiful, but also heavy — growing up with that kind of sacrifice tied to your story adds a lot of emotional weight.
At some point, you realise you need to free yourself from that generational chain. I see Gen Z being much calmer — they don’t seem burdened by these things the way we are. They seem to let go of hate and guilt much more easily. But for me, it’s not so simple. I’ve seen my parents struggle up close, sometimes even hitting rock bottom, and that makes the bond much deeper and more emotional.
I prioritise my mom and dad above everything. I wouldn’t be who I am today without them. That attachment has sometimes led people to say I’m too close to my parents and should move out or live separately, but I don’t see it that way at all. I’m proud of the bond I share with them. Whether someone calls me a ‘mumma’s boy’ or anything else, I embrace it fully.
I’m especially happy now seeing my mom finally living a little more for herself. Just recently, we had an argument — I told her she doesn’t even know how to enjoy life because she’s been running the rat race for so long. She wakes up looking for work to do, unable to relax. I realise I inherited that mindset too. If I take a holiday before achieving something ‘productive’, I get anxious. And honestly, I blame her a little for that! But in the end, that’s just another part of the deep connection we share.
What keeps you motivated?
For me, motivation comes in bursts. I’m not motivated every single day, and I think it’s important for people who promote hustle culture to be honest about that. They make it seem like they’re grinding non-stop, but that’s not the reality for everyone. Maybe some people wake up at 4 am and go to bed at 9 pm, but that’s not what matters to me. Life is messy, and it definitely doesn’t come with a rulebook. We can’t set those unrealistic standards for future generations and tell them it’s all about perfection. It’s okay to fail, to stumble, and to have a breakdown.
I’ve been through all of that. Sometimes, I procrastinate, feel lazy, and can’t get anything done. But other times, I work like a machine, and when I’m in that zone, nothing can stop me. One day, I might wake up and tell myself, ‘Today, I’m going to rule the world’, only to end up spending the whole day scrolling through reels in my bathroom. And that’s the reality for all of us. We need to normalise it.
How would you define success?
For me, success right now is acceptance. I used to believe success meant being the youngest filmmaker to achieve certain milestones — this drive came from the dopamine rush I got when my parents praised me every time I won something. It felt like we were hamsters running on a wheel. Now, I feel like I’ve become more human. I’ve realised that it’s okay, and I’m genuinely happy where I am.
Success, for me, is about accepting yourself and understanding others. When you hate someone, it’s often because of something they’ve done to you. But when you see things from a different perspective, you realise they might be acting out of their own insecurity. I was bullied by my cousins because of their own insecurities. Once you forgive and start empathising, you stop harbouring hatred. You let go of all that negativity inside you that can slowly eat away at you — and that’s when you become emotionally whole.
Achieving that level of peace isn’t easy. It’s a journey, and I believe God brings the right people into your life to help you along the way. For some, it might take a near-death experience to jolt them into this realisation. I’m not waiting for that; I want to fix myself now. Some days will be bad, some days will be good, but that acceptance — being okay with both — is success.
Tell us about your upcoming films and projects.
A lot of people have been asking me one question for a long time, and I think the answer is clear: this year, it’s finally happening. This project will mark the end of one phase of my journey and the beginning of another. After this, you might forget the ‘new age boy’ you’ve come to know. I want to step away from comedy for a while and explore a different genre to see how it resonates. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll quickly retreat and dive back into comedy.