When we look back, Bahadoor’s journey in Malayalam cinema stretches across more than four decades, from the late 1950s to the early 2000s. Though remembered fondly as a comedian, his legacy is far more layered. He was an actor of surprising range, a performer who embraced myriad roles with a quiet confidence and instinctive grace. From P. Subramaniam and K. S. Sethumadhavan to Ramu Kariat, Sasikumar, I. V. Sasi, Hariharan, and Jayaraj, Bahadoor worked with the finest filmmakers, moving seamlessly through the ever-shifting rhythms of Malayalam cinema.
He belonged to a generation of actors who saw the industry transform before their eyes. Yet, he never struggled to find his place. He simply adjusted, stayed grounded, and grew with the times. When he entered the scene in the 1960s, the landscape of Malayalam film comedy was already thriving, populated by talents like Pattom Sadan, S. P. Pillai, Adoor Bhasi, Alummoodan, and Paravoor Bharathan. Each with their unique flavour and fan base.
Bahadoor, too, had to carve a space for himself. And he did quietly, but distinctly. His style had a boyish, often subservient charm. Whether playing a butler, a house help, or a relative on the fringes of the central family, he brought to these roles an individuality that never felt secondary. Unlike most comic actors of the time, he didn’t depend on being in a combination with the main hero. Instead, he existed in his own narrative stream. His characters had a life of their own, with independent subplots that enriched the larger story. That autonomy gave his work a rare freedom and diversity.
His most enduring partnership was with Adoor Bhasi. While Bhasi typically played the sidekick, Bahadoor often complemented him with perfect timing and contrast. Their camaraderie was electric, and together they created some of the most unforgettable comic sequences in Malayalam cinema. He also shared the screen with Prem Nazir in many films, forming a reliable presence in the golden era of mainstream cinema.
But what made Bahadoor especially unique was how his comic scenes often bloomed outside the hero’s shadow. He had delightful exchanges not only with the lead actors but also with supporting characters, especially women. Meena, T. R. Omana, and many others found in him a gentle, humorous counterpart. His characters often had their own comic love tracks, small but memorable, running parallel to the main romantic plot.
In a generation of comedians, Bahadoor stood out for how he used his body. Where Adoor Bhasi worked with expressions and voice, and others leaned on sharp dialogues, Bahadoor’s comedy was physical. He moved, flailed, stumbled, and reacted in ways that made his entire body part of the performance. He threw himself into scenes with total commitment, a quality that would later be seen in actors like Jagathy Sreekumar.
He was not limited to comic relief. Films like Thuraakkatha Vathil, where he performed alongside Prem Nazir, and Panitheeratha Veedu, where he portrayed a street vendor, showcased his depth as an actor. In his later years, Bahadoor moved beyond humour to embrace the quiet pain of ageing, loneliness, and loss. His roles became more reflective, helpless elders, broken souls, wounded men who carried sorrow with dignity.
There’s something poignant about the way he evolved. His early years were filled with brisk physical comedy, but over time, his strength shifted towards dialogue and silence, towards characters that held back, that didn’t need to entertain, only to exist truthfully.
Joker, written and directed by A.K Lohithadas, felt like the perfect final note to his cinematic journey. It was a role that brought together all the shades of Bahadoor. The humour, the pathos, the deeply human vulnerability. A farewell not with fanfare, but with feeling.