In the days leading up to this interaction, I have watched and rewatched numerous interviews they’ve given, but today, Dhulipala, in particular, is the exact antithesis of her internet persona. She isn’t, as she is often projected online, high-brow or stoic or inscrutable, or for that matter, as strait-laced as her on-screen characters. She is nothing like her brooding alter ego, Sita, in her Hollywood debut Monkey Man (2024), as deep and tumultuous as her character Kaveri in her sunburst of scene-stealers in The Night Manager (2023), or as badass as Tara in Made in Heaven (2019). Instead, she’s fun, gregarious and eloquent, dressed in a loose black tee, her face aglow sans makeup. Though she’s had a full day of work and no dinner in her belly, she rolls with the punches with her biryani by her bedside. How come? She smiles, tossing her luxurious mane to one side. “I’m more comfortable in myself today,” she says half-joking. “But truthfully, I think it has more to do with the characters I’ve played. Many embodied grief or some shade of grey. I think people see me through the lens of those characters.” She also chalks it up to a spot of social awkwardness. “Sometimes, it just feels easier and safer to stay reserved.” Akkineni puts it simply: “Many times in pictures I ask her, why aren’t you smiling? Smile. And she’s like, ‘In my mind, I’m smiling. But the outside world doesn’t see it.’”
What’s also imperceptible to the outside world is Dhulipala’s effortless ability to adapt. “In Mumbai, she’s the quintessential city girl—cool, hip, forward-thinking—but back home in Vizag, she’s deeply rooted in her culture,” Akkineni says. Still, he believes she’s more than the sum of her parts. “Her Telugu, man,” he lilts when asked what he admires about her, admitting it took a moment to register the first time he heard her speak the language. “My family speaks Telugu too, but I studied in Chennai, picked up Tamil outside and spoke English at home—so my Telugu is nowhere near hers. I keep joking that she should teach me, pass on all that intelligence,” he chuckles.
For Dhulipala, this linguistic bond is deeply intimate. “In Mumbai, I got so used to speaking other languages that I’d forgotten what it felt like to speak Telugu with someone beyond my parents and relatives. Talking to him in a language I associate with home was special.” They converse exclusively in Telugu—switching to English only when the conversation outpaces Akkineni’s vocabulary. “Then she’ll switch back and it just melts me,” he laughs, patting his own head in mock self-reproach. Dhulipala summarises it succinctly: “When I’m really happy or sad, it’s Telugu in my head. I think in Telugu.” I beam when they both tell me they’ve never actually told each other these things before. “We need to speak to you more often,” Akkineni jests. I make a note in my calendar.
