There are some calls, some people, that would drive you crazy, actually frighten you, because of the evilness layered in the conversation. Through this piece, I’m gonna discuss different kinds of pretentious, malicious, venomous people, not just ones I’ve encountered, but I’m sure you all have witnessed or experienced too.
And to make things more entertaining (and painfully accurate), each type is explained through a few unforgettable characters from Malayalam cinema.

Type 01: The jealous one
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Now, this kind of jealousy doesn’t always announce itself loudly. It wears a smile, asks polite questions, compliments your saree, but the eyes give it away. Jealousy can stem from anything: the way you laugh freely, or how easily people talk to you. It’s rarely about big things. It’s always the small, lived-in, everyday things that make them burn.
Take Kanchana from Thalayanamanthram. The simmering, passive-aggressive jealousy, it’s her. She enters her husband’s ancestral home like she’s the queen of decorum, and slowly, methodically, starts observing and dismantling. Her insecurities turn into sharp judgments disguised as concern. Her jealousy over her sister-in-law’s ease and joy becomes this slow poison she feeds into her husband’s ears. And the worst part? She masks it all under the label of “culture,” “upbringing,” or “wanting the best.”
But Kanchana isn’t a monster. That’s what makes it scary; she’s real. You might have met her at a cousin’s wedding. She might be sitting across from you during Onam lunch, pointing out gently how you’ve “changed” after your promotion. She might be in your circle, camouflaged in tradition and thin smiles. The jealous ones are rarely violent. They simply plant doubts and step back.

Type 02: The one who manipulates.

This one doesn’t yell, doesn’t blame, and rarely asks directly. Instead, they sacrifice silently, make decisions “for your own good,” and let you carry the burden of gratitude. It’s not open control, it’s quiet rewiring. You grow up thinking you owe them your life. They don’t just guide you, they script your life, and all the while, they make you believe it’s your choice.
Vanaja from Achuvinte Amma. Played by Urvashi with unnerving precision, Vanaja is the kind of mother who loves fiercely, but with conditions buried under layers of protection. Her manipulation doesn’t come from malice; it comes from fear, from an unresolved past, from wanting to keep her daughter close and untouched by pain. But in doing so, she hides the truth, erases the past, and shapes the future on her own terms.
She makes Achu feel safe, but only in a world Vanaja controls. And when the daughter begins to step out, ask questions, fall in love, or choose, Vanaja withholds, sulks, withdraws love, until silence becomes punishment. The worst part? She never calls it manipulation. She calls it “a mother’s duty.”
Manipulators are dangerous not because they shout, but because they whisper. They smile. They nod. They understand. And then they slowly bend reality around you.

Type 03: The one who plays the victim


This one is always suffering. Always misunderstood. The world is out to get them, and somehow, you are the villain in their story. You forgot to return their call? They’re hurt. You take a stand for yourself? You’ve become cold. You get ahead in life? You’ve left them behind. It’s exhausting, because you’re constantly tiptoeing around their emotions, while they casually bulldoze yours.
While Dasan (Nadodikaatu) is lovable and genuinely struggling, he constantly positions himself as the one who’s had it worst. Every time Ramettan tries to lighten the mood or solve something, Dasan wallows deeper. He makes his misfortunes into a badge ”ente jeevitham muzhuvan nashtam aayi!” It’s funny, but it’s also classic victim-playing in friendships, where one person’s gloom takes over everything.

Type 04: The one who is always competing


This one turns everything into a scoreboard. You bought a new dress? They had one stitched in Bombay last month. You shared a happy moment? They one-up it with something louder, glossier, or just more tragic, because even suffering is a contest. It’s not about joy or pain, it’s about staying ahead in the emotional economy of any room they walk into.
They’re not always loud. Some of them play the game subtly, through pointed compliments, selective silence, or occasional envy-tinged applause. They’re your friend but also your shadow rival. And they get deeply uncomfortable if you begin to shine without their permission.
Satheeshan Kanjikuzhi in the movie Classmates is the classic achiever-turned-resentful-competitor. What starts as ideological rivalry with Sukumaran slowly gets personal. He is constantly trying to outdo, expose, or counter him both politically and emotionally. This kind of competitive energy hides behind labels like “principle” or “truth,” but deep down, it’s about not wanting someone else to take the spotlight.

Type 05: The fake well-wisher


This one is sugar dipped in salt. They smile, ask all the right questions, use words like “so proud of you!” but only when others are watching. Alone, the tone shifts. The compliments become caution. The encouragement comes with a side of warning. “I’m just saying this for your own good…” is their favourite opening line before they cut you down, softly.
They never oppose you directly. They just plant seeds. Doubt, fear, hesitation. They’ll ask if you’re “sure” about your decisions, point out someone who did something similar and “failed.” And they never leave a trace. You’re left second-guessing, feeling weird, but unable to put a finger on why.
Think of Dineshan from Vadakkunokkiyantram. Insecure to the core, but hiding behind a facade of concern. He constantly monitors his wife, questions her choices, cloaks his jealousy as protectiveness. To the world, he’s the doting husband. But beneath that is a man who cannot bear the idea of his wife shining brighter than his own fragile ego.
Fake well-wishers often come wrapped in care. They call at just the right moment. They’ll even pray for you. But deep inside, they’re hoping you don’t outgrow the version of yourself that made them feel superior. Your glow threatens their narrative, so they pretend to polish it while actually dimming it.

Type 06: The one who always takes the moral high ground


This one floats above us all. Never wrong. Never loud. Just disappointed. They don’t argue, they “express concern.” They don’t fight, they “hold principles.” And they always, always manage to position themselves as the one who is “doing the right thing,” even when they’re being cold, manipulative, or downright cruel.
They won’t stab you in the back. No, they’ll stab you in the heart and hand you a lecture about why you needed to be stabbed. This person thrives in judgment. They offer unsolicited advice dressed as wisdom and make you feel like your choices are somehow less pure, less noble. Other people often believe them, because righteousness wears good lighting.

A pitch-perfect example is Prabhakaran from Sandesham, played by Sreenivasan. Steeped in ideology, constantly quoting political theory, and yet completely blind to the wreckage he causes within his own home. He belittles, patronises, and dismisses anyone who doesn’t align with his worldview. His morality isn’t about doing good, it’s about feeling superior. And through it all, he paints himself as the martyr, the misunderstood revolutionary.

Type 07: The emotional leech


This one doesn’t drain your money or your time, they drain your energy. They arrive heavy, stay heavier, and leave you exhausted. Every interaction feels like a counselling session you didn’t sign up for. They need to “talk,” but they don’t really want solutions, they just want to unload. Again. And again. And again.
You could be having a decent day, and then they call. Suddenly, you’re knee-deep in their existential crisis, relationship drama, or workplace trauma, and you’re expected to listen, soothe, and somehow fix it, without ever asking for anything in return. Because if you express a need, they vanish. They only show up with their suitcase, never help you carry yours.

Type 08: The Hyper-Performer (everything is for show)


This one is never off-duty. They don’t just speak, they announce. Every emotion is performed, every situation made into a stage. You’ll find them at the centre of the room, narrating events like they’re on stage at a drama competition no one else signed up for.
They don’t do sincerity. They do spectacle. Even when they cry, it’s curated. Even when they’re helpful, it’s headline-worthy. You never really know who they are, because even they have forgotten where the performance ends and the person begins.

Pillaichan from Meesa Madhavan, played by Jagathy Sreekumar in peak form. Pillaichan is the kind of person who wraps himself in fake authority, overacts simple interactions, and constantly positions himself as more important than he actually is. He lectures, postures, name-drops, and often lands in messes of his own making, all while keeping up appearances. He’s not just trying to live, he’s trying to matter. Loudly.
Hyper-performers like Pillaichan aren’t evil. They’re just exhausting. Their identity depends on how others see them. If you stop watching, they stop existing. Which is why they make sure the spotlight never leaves.

Type 10: The Boundary Crosser


They think love means access. Friendship means full disclosure. Family means entitlement. They don’t ask, they assume. You say “I’m not comfortable talking about that,” and they reply with “Ayyo, I was just asking out of concern!” Suddenly, your no becomes an insult. Your privacy becomes their problem.
They believe their closeness gives them rights, over your choices, your time, even your body. They ask intrusive questions, comment on things they have no business discussing, and treat your personal space like public property. If you push back, you’re the one being “difficult.” If you assert a boundary, you’re “too modern,” “too proud,” or “not like before.”
They don’t want intimacy. They want unfiltered access.

Type 11: The Polished Opportunist


They don’t take. They network. They don’t disappear, they’re just “super busy.” But trust this: they only resurface when the conditions suit them. They always know when to call—just before you’re doing well enough to help, or when they’re in trouble. And the first line? “Hey, I was just thinking of you!”
They wrap self-interest in charm. Their tone is warm, their timing immaculate, their intentions foggy. You’re never sure if they really care, but you go along because they never cross the line outright.
The polished opportunist is rarely toxic in the traditional sense. They’ll never yell, guilt, or demand. They just extract. Gently. Skillfully. And leave you wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Until the next time they say, “Hey! Long time! What are you working on these days?”
They don’t want connection. They want leverage.

Type 12: The Insecure Critic (who masks their envy as “feedback”)


They’ll never say they’re jealous. That’s too crude for their self-image. Instead, they’ll say:
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…”
“It’s nice, but maybe tone it down a bit?”
“You’re doing well now, but let’s see where it goes.”
Every compliment is a little bruised. Every suggestion comes with an invisible dent.
These are the people who can’t let you have a full win. Something must be improved. Every achievement you share gets diluted: “Oh, I’ve seen someone do that too,” or “Is that really what you want to focus on long-term?
They don’t want to guide you. They want to keep you small enough to feel secure beside you.

Some of them smile. Some of them sulk.
But all of them leave you with one final thought:
“Enthina njan ee call attend cheythu?”
But it’s okay.
Toxic people und. Block button und. Peace und.