Caste on Screen: A Study of Dalit
Representations in Contemporary Indian Films
Maitri Verma,
PhD Research Scholar,
Department of English,
Banaras Hindu University,
Uttar Pradesh, India.
Abstract:
Films have always had a profound influence on society, just
as society in turn, shapes the stories films choose to narrate. To approach
cinema as a representational space is thus a challenge not only for filmmakers,
who negotiate narrative and form, but also for audiences, who receive and
interpret these images. The greater burden, however, falls upon scholars who
attempt to critically engage with film texts, reading them through lenses
rooted in the lived realities of social life. While Indian cinema has been
widely examined for its socio-political dimensions, the specific and nuanced
portrayal of Dalit characters continues to remain a striking absence. Dalits
have historically been either absent, stereotyped, or silenced in Indian
cinema. This paper argues that a bunch of 21st-century films, with all their
limitations, mark a shift toward more visible and detailed representations of
Dalit life, which complicate dominant cinematic narratives and open space for
social critiques. The films chosen for analysis are Aarakshan (2011), Article
15 (2019), Fandry (2013, 14), Court (2014), and Geeli Puchhi (2021). The study
examines how filmmakers portray Dalit experiences and the social realities they
navigate, through the Dalit voices heard in these films. These film-texts
portray multiple approaches, from direct engagement with caste-based violence
and systemic discrimination, to subtle experiences of marginalization in urban
settings.
Keywords: Dalit cinema, Contemporary
Indian cinema, Dalit representation, Social films, Caste and cinema
Dialectics of Representation: Indian
Cinema and Caste
Studies
have highlighted how filmmakers like Shyam Benegal, Satyajit Ray, Deepa Mehta,
and Anubhav Sinha employ social realism to foreground socio-political issues
and marginalized communities in Indian cinema (Kushwah 6). Gehlawat (2024)
examines how contemporary Bollywood films reflect and respond to
socio-political shifts in India, particularly the rise of Hindutva,
highlighting the influence of politics on film narratives and representations.
While scholars have extensively analyzed the socio-political dimensions of
Indian cinema, the precise and nuanced depiction of Dalit communities has
remained a conspicuous omission. As Dhananjay Rai argues in his work Contested Representation, this absence
is not coincidental but a systemic failure of the society as a whole, wherein
cinema forms just one form of cultural production. Rai identifies three key
challenges to the Dalit discourse in Indian cinema. First, the absence of
significant studies in this area; second, the neglect of Dalit-specific angles
in cinematic discourse which often creates a misleading homogeneity; and third,
the lack of holistic analysis, leaving interpretations of Hindi cinema
incomplete and detached from the Dalit experience. This paper aims to address
this gap in existing film discourses. In contemporary India, authentic Dalit
representation in cinema has become vital for social commentary and change,
challenging dominant narratives and highlighting ongoing caste discrimination.
This study provides a preliminary overview of 21st-century films depicting
Dalit experiences, focusing on two key questions: how Dalits are portrayed in
Indian films, and what these portrayals reveal about identity, representation,
resistance, and aspiration of Dalits in contemporary society.
In order to truly understand
cinematic shifts around portrayal of Dalit characters in films, it is necessary
to move beyond a simple measure of realism
in cinematic depictions. Therefore, this article also foregrounds some
ground paradoxes – 1) How does an art form like cinema, which is inherently
shaped by dramatic conventions, aesthetic choices, and commercial interests,
depict a social reality as complex and painful as caste?; 2) The representation
of a tragedy on screen, for instance, is not a neutral act; it is mediated by
the filmmaker's choices on tone, genre, aesthetic, and commercial purposes; 3)
Films with social commentaries, particularly within a commercial industry like
Bollywood, are often subject to market forces and the pressures of
profitability, which can influence their narrative choices, messaging, and
overall political stance. Thus, how far can films be selected as a space to
understand societal representations?; and, lastly, how these aesthetic and
commercial pressures are either subverted or reproduced in those films that
claim to represent the Dalit experience.
The representation of caste is not
simply a matter of depicting an accurate reality; it is also about the choices
filmmakers make in genre, narrative, and characterization. This study
undertakes a critical analysis of five key film texts from the 21st century to
understand the evolving cinematic interpretations of Dalit life and the
reception of these portrayals. The films chosen represent distinct approaches
to the focus of this study. Prakash Jha’s Aarakshan
(2011) directly engages with the contested issue of caste-based reservation and
quota-system in educational institutions. Anubhav Sinha’s Article 15 (2019) follows an honest police officer’s investigation
into a heinous crime, serving as a mainstream uncovering of entrenched
caste-based violence. The Marathi film Fandry
(2013), directed by Nagraj Manjule, offers a visceral narrative of a Dalit
boy’s struggle against everyday caste discrimination and untouchability.
Chaitanya Tamhane’s Court (2014) uses
a detached, observational style to expose the absurdity and systemic bias of
India's legal system, highlighting its dehumanizing impact on a folk singer
from an oppressed community. Finally, Neeraj Ghaywan's film segment Geeli Puchhi (2021) from the cinematic
anthology Ajeeb Daastaans explores
the subtle and insidious nature of caste discrimination in a modern, urban
workplace through the lens of a complicated friendship. By examining these
diverse cinematic approaches, in the sequence of the progress of Dalit
characterization in the mentioned films, this paper will explore how emerging
Indian cinema is both creating and challenging the social language used to
represent the Dalit community.
Analysis of Film-texts: Cas(t)e
Studies
Aarakshan
The film Aarakshan (2011) serves as a focal point
for examining how caste and reservation policies are depicted in contemporary
Hindi cinema. The movie sparked significant public debate and controversy,
reflecting the deep-rooted tensions and evolving narratives around caste-based
affirmative action in India. Shanker
(2023) observes that recent Dalit representations in films such as Aarakshan and Masaan move beyond narratives of victimhood, portraying Dalit
characters with agency, aspirations, and resilience. She argues that such films
attempt to humanize Dalit experiences, unlike earlier cinematic attempts
exemplified by the Bachchan era, foregrounding issues of education, social
mobility, and individual growth, while simultaneously serving as broad social
commentaries on caste-based discriminations. Studies have confirmed how strongly the film’s release
ignited protests and controversy, especially among opponents of reservation
policies across the country. The film’s framing of education as the primary
tool for Dalit upliftment not only resonates with Ambedkar’s vision, but also
highlights what Bourdieu calls the uneven distribution of cultural and
institutional capital, where degrees and credentials alone cannot aid to erase
hierarchical oppression. Similar tension regarding SC/ST reservations is
underscored by Yashica Dutt’s 2019 memoir Coming
Out as Dalit, where she shows how even second/third-generation Dalits who
are educated and professionally successful must still pass or hide their caste to avoid stigma (akin to the phenomenon of
racial passing in white-dominated
worlds). The case of IAS officer Tina Dabi, also noted by Dutt, illustrates the
paradox that despite topping one of the most competitive central exams, her
Dalit identity became the center of public discourse, revealing that structural
prejudice persists beyond individual merit. Situating Aarakshan into discourses around reservation for Scheduled Castes
in India, leads one to a bigger question, i.e., whether education and
reservation alone can undo entrenched caste privilege without deeper social
transformation?
While
Aarakshan makes a rare mainstream
engagement with reservation policies, its flimsy representation of Dalits also
reproduces some familiar power dynamics. The film gives us an upper-caste hero,
Dr. Prabhakar Anand (played by Amitabh Bachchan, who also played similar savior-hero roles in films like Zanjeer). Dr. Ananad’s saviour complex shifts focus from Dalit agency to upper-caste moral
excellence. At the same time, the movie frames caste struggle largely in
educational and economic spaces. Caste does not appear only as spatial or
ritual exclusion in the film (as in older literature centering Dalits like Mulk
Raj Anand’s Untouchable) but as
competition for jobs, college seats, and upward mobility, thereby portraying a
significant shift in Dalit representation. The policy of reservation becomes
the fulcrum around which moral integrity, institutional corruption, and
individual success revolve. The resolution suggests that Dalit liberation is
achievable via individual merit and access to quality education, ideas closely
aligned with Ambedkarite thought, and as Nelson Mandela also emphasized
education as “the most powerful weapon” that can change the world. The film's
support for affirmative action in higher education brought long-standing
debates about caste-based quotas back
into the national spotlight, catalyzing the ongoing tension between advocates
and critics of affirmative policies.
Article 15
Film Article 15 (2019), portrays an urban-educated police
officer who arrives in a rural village and investigates the disappearance of
two Dalit girls, quickly discovering that the crime and its subsequent cover-up
are rooted in brutal, entrenched caste-based discrimination perpetrated by the
dominant class and shielded by corrupt local law enforcement. Interestingly,
the film’s title itself is a commentary on the Indian Constitution’s “Article
15” that strictly prohibits any form of caste discrimination on grounds of
religion, race, caste, sex or place of birth (Article 15, Law and Policy
Research Trust). The film’s title is a reminder of the huge gap existing
between constitutional reforms (in theory) and their real life explorations (in
practice).
Ayan Ranjan (played by Ayushmann
Khurrana), a Superintendent of Police who happens to come from an upper-caste
urban background, sees caste oppression in the village as shocking and
surprising, a framing that risks making the everyday reality of caste seem
exceptional. In reality, discrimination often exists silently, under the
surface, shaping lives in subtle but persistent ways. Yet, by presenting the
story through this lens, the film reaches upper-caste audiences effectively,
educating them about systemic oppression and the role each individual plays in
sustaining it. As Galtung notes in his Peace Studies frameworks, that although
Indian religious traditions emphasize inner peace (shanti) and goodwill (sadbhavana),
on ground, caste hierarchies seem to disrupt such ideals, revealing the gap
between ethical philosophy and social reality (22–25), a humorous irony also
reflected in films like Article 15.
Foucault’s power frameworks also explain the film’s depictions of institutional
bias and social hierarchies, while leaving room for more nuanced Dalit
portrayals in future cinematic work. Academic discussions have also underscored the film’s strengths in
raising awareness of social issues, while also critiquing its narrative
strategies and alignment with state power. Althusserian frameworks also
corroborate the significance of both ideological and repressive state
apparatuses of the state that need intervention to understand and improve its
deep rooted caste-problem.
Fandry
In Fandry (2013,
2014), directed by Nagraj Manjule, the film follows Jabya, a young Dalit boy in
rural Maharashtra, who struggles not only against everyday caste discrimination
but also with the pain of unrequited love for Shalu, an upper-caste girl. The
central issue is how caste structures dictate personal relationships. Love,
desire, and marriage are all constrained by rigid social hierarchies. As Yogesh
Maitreya observes, “caste is the warden of love” (Maitreya, Water in a Broken Pot, 72), a reality
poignantly reflected in Jabya’s experiences. Fandry powerfully depicts caste humiliation through language and
symbolism. Jabya and his family are demeaned as darkie, scum, and dirty pig, illustrating how caste
violence is embedded in everyday speech. Jabya’s refusal to remove a piglet,
contrasted with his father’s compliance, hints at how education enables
resistance to hereditary labour expectations. A pivotal scene involves the
removal of a piglet from a pit, which Jabya refuses to do. This denial, an act
his father Kachrya cannot himself perform, illustrates how education empowers
the younger generation to resist caste-based labour expectations. Jabya’s
refusal marks a significant departure from the inherited submission that binds
his father, who, due to illiteracy and dependence, remains unable to challenge
caste hierarchies. The reaction of Patil, a high-caste villager to Jabya’s
dismissal, underscores such dynamic –
Patil: Your son is getting too big for his boots. He talked
back to me. He isn’t like you.
Kachrya: Disgraceful! (Fandry, subtitles)
The
phrase “too big for his boots” encapsulates upper-caste anxiety over Dalit
assertion. Patil’s words imply that equality is intolerable when it threatens
caste hierarchies. His anxious reaction implies that Dalits must know their place and remain submissive.
The title of the film seems inspired by the politics of the
pig, which is both despised by upper castes and consumed by not only Dalits but
also many upper caste Hindus. Hence, fandry
becomes a culinary metaphor for the hypocrisy of purity-pollution narratives
within untouchability discourses. Yogesh Maitreya informs that “Fandry, meaning ‘pig’ in the dialect
spoken by Kaikadi (untouchable)
community, is the central symbol of stigma of untouchability in Fandry” (rti_admin). Interestingly, in
Jabya’s father Kachrya’s plea, “I don’t want to be an outcast!” (Fandry), Manjule's film also reveals the
irony of internalized fear to become
an outcast while already existing as
an outcast.
However, films like Fandry,
which bring real Dalit characters to the screen, work as pioneering role models
for Dalit youths, not only by showing them how to survive humiliation but also
illustrating how to resist it. Yogesh Maitreya, reflecting on the power of such
films that rightfully depict Dalit lives, writes –
Yes,
Jabya tells us how to live now. That’s how history is
being made and the shackles of slavery are being broken down. That is how
people from the hamlets, like my grandfather, fought against the casteist
forces, acting as rebels and created new life for themselves. That’s how my
father toiled hard to make us study. Yes,
that’s how we learn to give a tight slap to the established system of caste…Yes,
we got our new hero in JABYA. (rti_admin)
The
final image of Jabya throwing a stone at the screen symbolically captures the
psychological impulse of the long-oppressed Dalit community to resist, thereby
reflecting the idea that sustained oppression inevitably provokes a
confrontation with injustice.
Court
Courtroom films are a popular genre that
blends dramatic storytelling with legal-ethical dilemmas, often reflecting
broader societal issues. These films range from fictional dramas to
documentaries and biopics, exploring the tension between law, justice, and
truth. In Court (2014), directed by Chaitanya Tamhane, we see portrayal of
the slow, bureaucratic trial of Narayan Kamble, an aging Dalit folk singer
accused of abetting a young woman’s suicide. The central issue is the systemic
invisibility and dehumanization of marginalized communities within India’s
legal and institutional structures. Unlike more melodramatic portrayals of
Dalit suffering, Court uses a
realistic, observational style to expose the absurdity and biases of state
institutions, emphasizing how oppression can operate subtly yet pervasively.
In Court, Kamble’s trial exposes how India’s legal system becomes a
site for the silent operation of caste hierarchies in front of the blindfolded Kanoon that itself is justice. The film
can be read as a meditation on social currency that individuals from
marginalized communities often lack. While the Constitution promises equality
before the law, Kamble’s lack of social power ensures that the law is wielded
against him rather than for him. Foucault uses two terms namely, nomos which means law or custom, and nomisma which means currency. He writes
that “The principle of altering the nomisma is also that of changing the
custom, breaking with it, breaking up the rules, habits, conventions, and laws”
(Foucault 242). Social currency cannot be changed without changing the law and
customs of society, if we rephrase what Foucault implies while talking of the
‘Cynic character’ in society. Kamble’s art and defiance challenge the very social currency that the courtroom sadly
ends up preserving. His trial becomes less about legal guilt and more about
disciplining and punishing a person who dares to rupture caste-bound (socially
qualified) norms. In Court, Narayan
Kamble lives the Cynic’s ale-the bios,
i.e., a life of openness with nothing to hide. In Foucault’s conceptualization,
oppressed people have to sometimes live a Cynic’s life: “the life in
ale-theia…a life without concealment, which holds nothing back, a life which
was capable of having nothing to be ashamed of” (243). Yet the court, as
depicted in the film, cloaked in custom and procedure, conceals its own biases
and punishes a man-without-institutional-power for embodying his very truth.
Geeli
Puchhi
Geeli Puchhi (2021), a film segment from the
anthology Ajeeb Daastaans (2021)
directed by Neeraj Ghaywan, explores caste discrimination in a modern urban
workplace through the evolving friendship between Priya Sharma, a Brahmin
woman, and Bharti Mandal, her Dalit colleague. The central issue is how caste
operates subtly in contemporary, ostensibly liberal spaces, through
microaggressions, covert exclusion, and social hierarchies that go unnoticed
but shape everyday interactions. Unlike rural-focused depictions in Article 15 and Fandry, Geeli Puchhi
shows that caste prejudice persists even in urban, modern contexts, challenging
assumptions that urbanization and progress have lowered caste discrimination.
The film segment emphasizes how Dalit agency navigates hidden hierarchies,
revealing the quiet persistence of caste in shaping relationships,
opportunities, and personal dignity. Let us try and understand this brief
conversation between the two women characters in the film –
Bharti:
So is that how you got the job?...
Priya:
…the manager asked me what my hobbies were. I told him I do palm-reading.
That’s it. You learn that much in a Brahmin house. I looked at his palm…and I
got a call the next day.
Bharti:
They didn’t ask you if you can work on Excel and Tally?
Priya:
No. Sir said that Mr. Alok will teach me everything. Everyone’s so helpful
here.
(Geeli Pucchi, Subtitles)
In
this brief yet telling exchange from the film, Priya’s remark, “You learn that
much in a Brahmin house” encapsulates how caste often masquerades as something
innocent, inevitable, and cultural, while silently functioning as a credential
in itself. What is framed as a hobby
(palm reading, astrology etc) becomes a social capital that signals upper-caste
identity and ensures access, even in a corporate space ostensibly governed by
merit. The manager’s reassurance that “Mr. Alok will teach [her] everything”
reflects what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu calls habitus – the unearned ease and presumed potential attached to
privileged caste loci. Priya’s caste background is read as an assurance of
trainability and intellect, while Bharti, a Dalit woman who has repeatedly
demonstrated competence, is continually confronted with the discourse of
‘merit’ as a barrier to promotions. This very dynamic, which Sumeet Samos
incisively critiques in his protest rap when he raps, “We build your houses, we
till your lands…don’t teach us merit, you good-for-nothing clans” (Caste 101), exposes the hypocrisy of a
system that equates caste privilege with potential and Dalit labour with
deficiency. In such modern workplace economies, caste does not disappear, but
rather quietly hides itself under the garb of qualification.
There is another set of dialogue delivery between the two
women, but this time with a twist inspired by silent revenge. The context is
that despite trying to lay bare her truth entailing her caste, in front of
Priya, Bharti only receives silent altered responses from Priya. Yogesh
Maitreya talks at length on how caste is a silent negotiation in elite spaces,
reflective of this scene where Mondal reveals to her friend and colleague about
her real caste. But, rather than reacting aggressively to her pain and
disappointment and feeling the untold but clear rejection from the upper caste
woman after the revelation, Mondal leads to a twisted turn of events in the film.
She somehow convinces Priya to try having a baby with the husband she cannot be
in love with. Priya trusts Bharati and seeks her suggestions on how to conceive
–
Priya:
Wao. You know so much. How did you learn?
Bharti:
The same way you learnt palm-reading.
And
finally, with her expert advice as she had planned, Bharti makes Priya quit her
job for child bearing and postpartum responsibilities. It must be noted that
Bharti, who is able to finish the same task in twenty minutes that Priya
usually takes two hours to complete, must endure a path fraught with contempt,
with her only form of resistance being manipulation. Let us consider another
set of dialogues from the film.
Bharti:
So I can’t get the data operator job?
Factory
Manager: It’s time for my morning prayer. We’ll talk about this later. Now get
out…
(sometime
later, at lunch)
Bharti:
How long does it take to learn Excel and Tally? Three days? Four Days? A week
at most?
Aged
male colleague: Even if you learn all that, you won’t get the job.
Bharti:
What do you mean? Why can’t I get the job?...I have a degree, too, you know.
Aged
male colleague: Because you’re Bharti Mandal. Do you have a privileged-caste
surname like Banerjee or Sharma? We are Dalits. Did you forget that for a
moment?
(Ajeeb Daastans, subtitles)
Bharti
is compelled to manipulate Priya precisely because the nomos (to use Foucault's term) is constructed to secure upper-caste
women while marginalizing lower-caste women. Priya is granted sympathy and
protection because the established nomos
of Brahmanical patriarchy reserves these for women who fulfill the role of the
secluded, pure subject. Conversely, Bharti is subjected to suspicion and
scrutiny because the same nomos views
her as a subject available for socio-sexual exploitation, only reducing her
skills and labor into impurity and unreliability. Given these discriminatory
circumstances, Bharti has no recourse but to play smarter to survive in a cruel
world.
Conclusion
Across
these five films, contemporary Indian cinema presents an evolving, though
uneven, representation of Dalit experiences. In Aarakshan, Dalits like Deepak Kumar navigate structural barriers to
education, highlighting both the promise and limitations of affirmative action
while showing how upper-caste authority shapes opportunity and aspiration. Article 15 shifts the lens to systemic
violence, exposing institutional complicity and upper-caste audiences’
discovery of caste atrocities, though at the cost of detailed Dalit
characterisation. Fandry brings the
focus to everyday oppression and the emotional and aspirational costs of caste,
showing how even personal desires, such as love, are circumscribed by social
hierarchies; Jabya’s final act of defiance symbolizes the psychological and
social impulse to resist long-term subjugation. While Court is a demonstration of the life of a resisting Dalit man
juxtaposed to the country’s legal failure to provide him with any resolution, Geeli Pucchi brings a fresh and raw
perspective on how caste functions silently in everyday life of Dalits in urban
workspaces and relationships. Together, these films reveal a significant
progression in the portrayal of Dalit characters, although their representation
is still largely mediated through institutional and upper-caste perspectives.
The key finding is that cinema is beginning to grapple with
caste both as a structural and interpersonal force, highlighting the complexity
of Dalit life while also reflecting the persistent challenges of authentic and
nuanced portrayal. The analytical engagement across the five discussed films
employed a critical, intersectional framework to map the mechanisms of power
and resistance concerning caste and gender in contemporary Indian society. The
central finding establishes that institutional structures are still
fundamentally governed by a logic of Brahmanical patriarchy and graded
inequality, compelling subaltern subjects to adopt strategic forms of
counter-conduct to attain justice.
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