Dr. Sambaiah Gundimeda is an Associate Professor in the School of Interwoven Arts & Sciences at Krea University. He is passionate about the idea of Justice and contributes to scholarly discussions on caste and the Constitution.
Cinema, a medium that captures the joys and struggles of individuals, couples, families, and communities, also serves as a reflection of social dynamics, conflicts, power structures, and aspirations within a society or region. It is an integral part of the public discourse. In India, where caste is a fundamental aspect of society, its influence extends to all spheres, including cinema. The presence of caste in Indian cinema is evident on two fronts. Firstly, the predominant figures in the industry - producers, directors, actors, actresses, writers, and technical personnel - often hail from caste Hindu backgrounds. As a result, films primarily portray the lives, experiences, cultural norms, economic pursuits, and political ambitions of this particular segment of society.
As films predominantly showcase the stories, aspirations, conflicts, challenges, and triumphs of caste Hindus, the audience from this demographic easily resonates with such narratives and finds themselves relating to the characters. Characters in these films often proudly display their caste Hindu identities, including surnames like Sharma, Thakur, Reddy, and Chowdary, without any hint of remorse. This portrayal and celebration have a positive impact on the psyche of caste Hindus. However, the same cannot be said for India's marginalized communities, particularly Dalits and others on the social periphery. Since film narratives typically stem from the imagination of the caste Hindu perspective, the social status of marginalized communities remains unaltered even within fictional realms. Despite the imaginative nature of cinema, Dalit characters continue to face a lack of respect and significance, mirroring their real-world marginalization within the hierarchical social structure.
Certainly, there are caste Hindu individuals who abhor the injustices of the caste system and genuinely empathize with the struggles of marginalized communities. Such concerns find expression in various films that grapple with caste issues through the portrayal of Dalit characters. However, the depiction of Dalit characters often perpetuates problematic stereotypes. These stereotypes are based on physical appearance, attire, and perceived traits associated with Dalits. In the caste Hindu imagination, Dalit males are often depicted as dark-complexioned, with unkempt beards and hairstyles, and portrayed as morally deficient and irresponsible individuals. Similarly, Dalit female characters are also often portrayed as dark-complexioned. These stereotypes dominate the portrayal of Dalit characters in mainstream cinema. Films such as "Sujata" (1959), "Souten" (1983), and "Lagaan" (2001) depict Dalit characters as dark-skinned, untidy, submissive, and lacking in confidence. "Sri Raja Rajeshwari Vilas Coffee Club" (1976), a Telugu film, similarly depicts Dalit characters with these stereotypes. Interestingly, although the characters in the film are not explicitly identified as Dalits, they are portrayed as Christians, who are often equated with Dalits in Telugu culture. The protagonist, Mathews, a BA graduate, faces discrimination in his job search despite his qualifications. In an attempt to secure employment, he changes his name to Mattaiah. Strangely, the protagonist is portrayed as fair-skinned whether as Mathew or Mattaiah. However, towards the end of the film, upon revealing his true identity, Mathews suddenly appears as a dark-skinned person. This abrupt change raises questions about the director's intentions and choices in the portrayal of the character's identity and transformation. What is interesting about such carefully crafted portrayals of Dalit characters is how they are often juxtaposed with fairer, more confident caste Hindu characters within the same frame.
It is important to acknowledge the considerable challenge caste Hindus face in imagining Dalits outside of deeply ingrained social stereotypes. This challenge is evident in common remarks like, "but you don't look like a Dalit." But what exactly do caste Hindus imply when they suggest that individuals from Dalit backgrounds don't fit their preconceived notion of what a Dalit looks like? The underlying assumption is clear: that the Dalit identity is fundamentally different from that of the caste Hindu, based on the erroneous belief that Dalits belong to a distinct racial group. However, what true racial distinctions can one make between caste Hindus, Dalits, and other communities in our society? Aren't we all essentially part of the same stock of people, segregated solely by caste? If caste Hindus' prejudice against Dalits stems from assumptions about their skin colour, such assumptions hold no factual basis. No particular caste is inherently associated with a specific skin colour. Indeed, skin tones ranging from fair to dark are present across all castes. Despite this reality, the misconception that Dalits are inherently dark-skinned people persists as a deliberate psychological tactic employed by caste Hindus to further stigmatize the Dalit community.
As expected, in depictions crafted by caste Hindus, Dalit characters are portrayed as compliant and submissive, exemplified by characters like Sujata in 'Sujata,' Gopal in 'Souten,' and Kachra in 'Lagaan.' These characters conform to the caste system, accepting their lowly position in the hierarchy without resistance, enduring discrimination and humiliation silently. The choice of name for the Dalit character in Lagaan, 'Kachara', meaning 'garbage,' further reinforces their perceived inferiority. What is particularly troubling about these portrayals is the depiction of self-loathing among Dalit characters, as seen in the struggles of Sujata and Gopal, who contemplate suicide. However, the films fail to delve into the social context behind this self-hatred or address the systemic injustices that contribute to it. Instead, Dalit characters are portrayed as solely responsible for their lowly position and self-loathing, absolving caste Hindus of any accountability. This narrative conveniently shifts blame onto the victims themselves, framing victimhood as self-inflicted. It serves as a deceptive strategy by caste Hindus to evade responsibility for the caste-based atrocities they perpetuate. In stark contrast, caste Hindu characters are never depicted as self-loathing due to their caste identity; rather, they proudly embrace and flaunt their caste affiliations or surnames, reinforcing caste pride and superiority.
After years of depicting romantic escapades in the Swiss Alps, lively dance sequences in Trafalgar Square, and adrenaline-pumping action scenes in New York, Indian cinema appears to be rousing from its slumber and confronting the realities of caste. The 2019 Bollywood film "Article 15" garnered significant attention for its incisive exploration of caste discrimination in India. However, it elicited mixed reactions from both caste Hindus and Dalits. While the former voiced protests both before and after its release, the latter engaged in debates over whether the movie perpetuates a "Brahmin saviour complex" akin to the "white saviour syndrome" prevalent in Hollywood. This complex portrayal depicts Dalits as perennial victims, lacking agency, and perpetually reliant on a caste Hindu figure akin to Moses to liberate them from the bondage imposed by caste Hindus. While I empathize with the concerns of Dalits and other marginalized communities, I personally see no issue with a protagonist from a caste Hindu background assuming the role of a saviour. As the film's producer and director, Anubhav Sinha, astutely observed, "It is the privileged who should challenge privilege, because the privileged have created this system."? Furthermore, given the interdependence of castes within the hierarchical social structure, true liberation for any caste can only be achieved when all castes unite in the struggle for equality. In essence, the democratization of our social hierarchy and the eventual eradication of caste can only occur through collective effort and solidarity among all castes.
In contrast to the prevalent trend in mainstream Indian cinema, which often marginalizes and stereotypes the Dalit community, Nagraj Manjule's 'Jhund' boldly embraces Dalit identity and offers a compelling portrayal of Dalit culture. Manjule, who earlier given us two impactful movies, 'Fandry' and 'Sairat' that questioned the rigid caste divisions and social mores, continued that tradition in Jhund. The film serves as a poignant commentary on the pervasive oppression faced by the Dalit community. Centred around the character of retired sports coach Vijay Borade, Jhund chronicles his dedicated efforts to train underprivileged youth in football, offering them an alternative to the cycle of drugs and crime that plagues Nagpur's impoverished neighbourhood. Beyond the football field, Jhund is a powerful Ambedkarite commentary on social oppression, exclusion, access and the very question of merit' in our society. The film portrays the barriers erected by caste Hindu society, symbolized by a pink-and-white wall that separates the privileged from the marginalized. Through the struggle of the underprivileged to access the playground beyond this wall, Manjule addresses the division between two Indias: one affluent and educated, the other deprived of opportunities. While one side enjoys the freedom to play, laugh, and experience both victory and defeat, the other is systematically denied access to such experiences.
In Indian cinema, regardless of region or language, there has been a consistent tendency to showcase the cultural and religious symbols of the caste Hindus, often accompanied by vibrant songs and dances. However, until now, no Indian film has dared to depict its protagonist singing and dancing before the statue of Babasaheb Ambedkar, an iconic cultural figure and source of pride for Dalits. It's profoundly moving to witness the youth in Manjule's 'Jhund' dancing uninhibitedly to DJ music in front of Ambedkar's photo. These images of Babasaheb, scattered throughout public spaces, represent Dalit resistance against caste-based oppression and violence. They embody the hope and dignity of marginalized communities, serving as a powerful call to uphold the values of liberty, equality, and fraternity in our own lives and in society. Public celebrations of Ambedkar symbolize, for Dalits, a reclaiming of dignity and agency, and Manjule's film adeptly captures the significance of this symbolism through its portrayal of DJ culture.
Jhund also prompts us to question the conventional notions of nation, nationalism, and national identity that are often imposed upon us. What truly constitutes a nation? For Hindu nationalists, a nation is primarily defined by factors such as geography, culture, language, and commonalities in language, race, territory, culture, or religion. However, as Ambedkar powerfully argued that a nation is not simply a country in the physical sense or a group unified by common cultural or religious factors. Rather, nationality is a subjective psychological feeling—a collective sentiment of oneness that fosters a sense of kinship among those who share it? Most of us recognize that national identity is a socially constructed and ongoing process that involves defining who is considered a 'friend' and who is considered an 'enemy!' One indication of incomplete nationhood is when a country marginalizes its own people. For example, a few years ago during US President Donald Trump's visit to India, a half-kilometre brick wall was erected in Ahmedabad to conceal the view of a slum area inhabited by over 2,000 people, predominantly belonging to the Muslim community. This act of blocking the view is just one of many ways in which caste Hindu public engage in the practice of 'othering,' marginalizing certain groups within their own country. This is what Jhund sought to represent through the wall that divides the affluent and the disadvantaged.
Over the past decade, South Indian film industries, particularly Tamil Nadu's Kollywood, have produced a significant number of films that delve into themes of caste, social hierarchy, economic oppression, and caste-based violence. Movies such as Kabali, Periyerum Perumal, Kaala, Asuran, Karnan, Sarapatta Parambarai, Jai Bheem, Blue Star and others serve as powerful exposes of social hierarchy and caste atrocities. What is most significant about these films is that unlike earlier portrayals, the Dalit characters in these films are depicted as assertive, resilient individuals who fearlessly confront and combat caste-based injustices perpetrated by caste Hindus, both physically and psychologically.
Vetri Maaran's Asuran deserves a special recognition. Adapted from the Tamil novel Vekkai by Poomani, the film depicts the life of villager Sivasaamy and his family. Following a dispute with a socially, economically, and politically influential caste Hindu family, a series of events unfolds, compelling Sivasaamy, a poor farmer to fight for his family's survival. Initially, the conflict appears to be a straightforward dispute between a wealthy and impoverished family, with the former attempting to seize a small piece of land owned by the latter. Caste is not explicitly mentioned until later in the film. However, Asuran skilfully demonstrates how the caste divide has evolved into a class divide, despite the same individuals remaining involved.
Maaran strategically incorporates enough caste markers to reveal that the underlying issues are far more complex than a mere dispute over land between the affluent and the impoverished.
For instance, when Sivasaamy's elder son struck the primary antagonist with his slippers, it was an act laden with significance. In many cultures, especially in our caste culture, hitting someone with footwear is seen as the ultimate form of humiliation. The retaliation for such an act can take various forms, including returning the humiliation in public or even shaving the offender's head. However, in this case, Sivasaamy's son didn't just strike any ordinary person; he struck someone deeply entrenched in caste pride. The antagonist's sense of superiority was shattered when slippers from a lower caste made contact with his head. Failure to retaliate would result in him being ostracised by his own caste. However, hitting back at Sivasaamy's son with slippers would hardly suffice as punishment, as such course of action is often employed by higher castes against lower castes, particularly Dalits. Thus, the punishment must be so severe that lower castes wouldn't dare to imagine harming higher castes. The sight of Sivasaamy's son's naked, decapitated body abandoned in the fields for vultures to consume is nauseatingly barbaric - a stark portrayal of the dark depths of human cruelty. Through this cruel murder Maaran effectively exposes the brutality inherent in the caste Hindu mentality.
Another potent form of violence wielded by caste Hindu society against Dalits is humiliation, a theme vividly portrayed in Maaran's Asuran. The protagonist's niece endures brutal beatings and degradation at the hands of caste Hindu men simply for wearing chappals in a market area.
The caste Hindus, who impose strict control over the dietary habits, clothing choices, and job opportunities of lower castes, are outraged by the audacity of a Dalit woman daring to wear chappals in public area. They view such action as a direct challenge to their caste superiority.
Forcing her to remove the chappals, the caste Hindu men subject the helpless and innocent young girl to their brute force. Adding insult to injury, they compelled her to carry her chappals on her head and parade around the market, further emphasizing their dominance and her
subordinate status.
Avishai Margali, an Israeli scholar, posited that to humiliate someone is to strip them of their humanity, treating them as less than human. This dehumanization often stems from stigmatization, where a physical characteristic or choice is seen as evidence of a defect in their humanity. This characteristic could be a physical anomaly, an article of clothing, or even a dietary preference. In the case of Sivasaamy's niece, her decision to wear chappals became the focal point of humiliation. The caste Hindus, by forcing her to remove her chappals and then placing them on her head while parading her in the market area, not only dehumanized her but also inflicted a deep wound on her sense of self. Humiliation inherently assumes the humanity of the victim, making such acts even more egregious.
A central question arises: how should those who have been humiliated respond? Should they passively accept the demeaning treatment and forfeit their humanity? Or should they take action to reclaim their dignity? If the latter option is chosen, what avenues are available?
Historically, three main responses to humiliation have emerged: revenge, retribution, and forgiveness. However, seeking revenge often perpetuates a cycle of humiliation. In the case of the Dalit girl who was forced to remove her chappals in public, retaliating against the caste Hindus by humiliating them in a similar manner —by compelling them to remove their chappals in public-may seem like a form of justice. Yet, while this tit-for-tat approach may momentarily shame the caste Hindus, it fails to offer a lasting solution. In reality, such retaliatory actions could escalate into more violent conflicts, as the powerful and organized caste Hindus may respond with even greater force against the Dalits. If both sides engage in retaliation, both caste Hindus and Dalits become victims of senseless violence. Therefore, revenge is not a viable solution-neither temporary nor permanent. For similar reasons, resorting to retribution as a response to humiliation proves to be an ineffective approach. We see young Sivasaamy seeking to retaliate against the violence inflicted upon his family by the antagonist's henchmen. He takes the drastic step of killing the antagonist and his associates. However, this act does not bring his family back. Instead, it results in Sivasaamy being uprooted from his village and separated from the community he once called home.
Certainly, while Sivasaamy may have been displaced from his village and community, we must not overlook the profound symbolic significance embedded in his act of retribution. We have become accustomed to witnessing the victimization of Dalits at the hands of caste Hindus, both on and off-screen. In fact, incidents of humiliation and violence against Dalits have become so normalized that they often fail to elicit a response from us. We knew that the caste Hindu imagined Dalit characters like Sujatha and Kachara would passively accept the humiliation inflicted upon them by the caste Hindus as their inevitable fate. However, Maaran's portrayal of Sivasaamy disrupts this narrative. Unlike Bimal Roy's Sujataa or Lagan's Kachara, Maaran's Sivasaamy, along with Mari Selvaraj's Karnan, refuses to cower in the face of violence. There's a palpable shift in attitude among Dalit protagonists in our contemporary times a resolute determination to fight back against oppression, regardless of the consequences. The mantra seems to be 'Come what may...we will fight back.'
Another crucial aspect to highlight is Sivasaamy's insistence on his niece wearing chappals in the very same market where she was previously forced to remove them. Her act of wearing chappals in a public space mirrors Ambedkar's defiance of caste Hindu dictates by drinking water from the public pond in Mahad. Both actions assert their right to occupy and utilize public spaces without discrimination. Indeed, through their defiance, both Ambedkar and Sivasaamy's niece not only restore their own lost dignity but also reclaim the humanity that has been denied to Dalits for so long.
While I do not condone violence as a means to an end, it's essential to recognize the fundamental distinction between the caste Hindus' utilization of violence and that of the Dalits. The former employ violence to maintain their dominance, whereas the latter resort to it as a means of self-defence against the brutalities inflicted upon them. Moreover, Dalits understand the vicious cycle of violence and aspire for liberation from the shackles of caste, both physically and mentally, echoing Ambedkar's call for the 'reclamation of human personality. They also seek solidarity with all members of society. Sivasaamy, a naive Dalit villager, exemplifies this understanding. He encourages his son not to harbour anger against their oppressors but instead advocates forgiveness and the pursuit of education for emancipation. In essence, these Dalit oriented films portray the sky with a hue of blue—a symbol of hope and liberation.
In conclusion, caste permeates every facet of our society, including cinema. While caste Hindus often use cinema to reinforce their dominance, lower castes increasingly use it as a platform to challenge casteism. It is high time for Indian cinema to abandon its escapist tendencies and confront realities head-on. We eagerly anticipate the representation of Dalit heroes and heroines on screen, and I sincerely hope that our society embraces their presence.
* Some of the ideas in this essay were presented at the International Conference on "New Media and Its Public in India," hosted by SRM University, Andhra Pradesh on 18-19 April, 2024. The author extends gratitude to Dr Asijit Datta and Dr Sapna Mishra for extending the invitation to participate in the Conference as a special guest.
Photo credits: feminism in India
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