“Eres hindú, ¿verdad? ¿Te gustan las películas de baile?” I was asked by one of my Latino friends.
‘You are Hindu, right? So you like movies with song and dance?’
I always take pain explaining to my foreign friends that not all Indians are Hindu. And while Indian cinema is famous for song and dance, it deserves to be much more than that.
They say cinema is the mirror of society. But in my opinion, cinema should not be just a mirror, but a prism. It should refract societal issues, reveal hidden facets, amplify injustices, and challenge our comfort with narratives.
But we have a long way to go. As someone who spends an unhealthy amount of time watching films, I have been concerned about Dalit depiction in Indian cinema.
Dalit representation when it comes to mainstream celluloid is scant, and even the little we see is often lost in establishing a popular narrative. I would characterise the portrayal of Dalit suffering as Dalit porn – it does not do justice to Dalit experiences.
Either it is the heroism of the main character with a superficial understanding of caste politics (as we have seen in Suriya’s Jai Bhim) or a depiction of caste-based poverty and helplessness. Even the recent Marathi film, Satyashodhak, based on Mahatma Phule carefully shows oppressor caste characters as bad apples rather than being critical of the dominant Brahmanical system which denies basic human rights to a large section of people. And there’s the perpetuation of the ‘white saviour complex’ in Bollywood movies like Article 15, where an upper caste cop saves Dalits but doesn’t even talk of dismantling existing caste structures by conveniently and unironically saying that “he doesn’t believe in caste.” This is the exact reason we need more Dalit voices in Indian cinema to craft an alternate depiction of Bahujans.
Let’s take the examples of Mani Ratnam’s Naayagan and Pa. Ranjith’s Kaala. The two have a striking similarity – both are set in Dharavi and are about the rise of the vigilante gangster. What sets them apart is that Kamal’s character in Naayagan belongs to the relatively well-off Nayakkar caste. He shields the Bahujan slum dwellers and rises up to become their saviour. The oppressor caste’s gaze and its messiah complex is not lost here. On the other hand, Rajanikanth in Kaala holds his meetings in front of the Buddha Vihar. He is an anti-hero who is relatable on all fronts to those around him. Both movies have an interesting choice of colours as well – Kamal wears white when he rises to the top, while in Kaala the protagonist wears black, which is a searing commentary on the all-white Brahminesque clothing. This is not a critique of either films, but just an observation on how caste narratives are illustrated from the filmmaker’s outlook.
A still from Kaala.
The parallel cinema movement of the 70s and 80s which was critical in giving voice to marginalised narratives has now been wiped out by tentpole blockbusters and mid-scale movies offering escapism, continuing to perpetuate dominant narratives. This creates a skewed lens where the same-ness of it all overlooks the lived experiences and challenges faced by many. So yes, while there have been progressive and sometimes, LGBTQ-themed, films in the mainstream, ask yourself what the surname of the characters in those films were.
Representation of caste in mainstream films suffers from a lack of attention. It is merely a collection of what filmmakers think we do, what they think we eat or how we dress. All of this is presented, many times, without research or involvement of a Dalit-Bahujan-Adivasi person in the decision-making process.
From Namdev Dhasal to Sheetal Sathe to The Casteless Collective, Dalit artistes have always used performing arts in their protests, stories, folk tales and assertion. So it is rather worrying to see why we can’t get a DBA actress to portray a person from a marginalised caste in the series, Made in Heaven. I would argue that even the Buddhist marriage sequence in it comes from an inauthentic point – thanks to the sheer Bali-fication and exoticisation of it.
Not just that, even a skilled filmmaker like Jabbar Patel’s films have shown the oppressed class, but even those roles were played by the actors from the oppressor caste. Cinema should be social commentary, it must critique power structures, question cultural norms, and hold a mirror to the darkest corners of our collective conscience.
Here, it is pertinent to mention that India is home to many languages and dialects. But as we are growing closer, we are losing touch with our dialects. A dialect or vocabulary is a gateway into a community’s distinct culture. Each lost language carries a universe of stories, emotions, and perspectives. Cinema, with its powerful reach, can bridge that gap.
As someone who has worked in the film industry for years, I know that traditional Punjabi-Sindhi families have a grip over Bollywood while the Telugu film industry is ruled by the dominant Kapu-Kamma castes. This caste based hegemony is what is churning out template products for the celluloid.
I mean, when was the last time you saw an assertive, white-collar Dalit character in a mainstream Bollywood romance?
Don’t force fit it, either.
What we need is a subversion of stereotypical portrayals and reimagining the perspectives on the experiences of marginalised groups. Today, Indian films have also become a propaganda tool. But we should not forget the power of cinema. The lens of the filmmaker acts as a magnifying glass, and it should focus on societal anxieties, hopes, and unspoken desires, offering catharsis and sparking critical introspection. Cinema is a conversation starter, a bridge between cultures, and a platform for marginalised voices. It’s about time mainstream Indian cinema reflects the complexities of society, prompting empathy, understanding, and ultimately, progress.
Vaibhav Wankhede is a writer who works in creative marketing.
