A month ago we highlighted a piece from the BBC on how Indian cinema increasingly reflects the rapid ascendancy of Indian women (see here). Now, Anisha Reddy of The Print has written a piece based on a lecture given by Apeksha Singegol in the Atta Galatta bookstore in Bengaluru on 25 January. Ms Singegol is doing her PhD at Christ University in Bangalore on “Dalit representation in South Indian cinema, especially their portrayed in Tamil, Malayalam, and other South Indian films since the 1950s”. Given the focus of our bestselling book ‘Behold the Leviathan: The Unusual Rise of Modern India’ on women, south India and the rise of new elites, we found Ms Reddy’s reportage of Ms Singegol’s lecture to be super interesting.
Mr Reddy writes about Ms Singegol’s lecture: “Dalit representation in South Indian cinema is undergoing a radical shift. In Pa Ranjith’s 2022 film Natchathiram Nagargiradhu, Renee, a Dalit woman with striking blue hair and a septum ring, pointedly asks her partner, Iniyan—a staunch Brahmin—“Will you eat beef?” But the scene’s framing almost makes it look as though the question is directed at the audience. This moment is part of a growing movement where filmmakers challenge the Brahminical gaze in South Indian films….
“A new wave of Dalit cinema has emerged over the past decade. It helps us experience the ‘new Dalit’ who, in reality, is the old Dalit that went unacknowledged by cinema,” said Singegol…
Directors like Pa Ranjith, Mari Selvaraj, and Gopi Naynar are challenging the Savarna gaze—the upper-caste lens that has dominated film narratives. Rejecting stereotypes of Dalits as downtrodden or disabled, their films, such as Kaala (2018) and Thangalaan (2023), recenter Dalit agency and dignity.”
At Marcellus, we find this fusion of women’s rights and Dalit rights particularly interesting: “…Pa Ranjith’s Thangalaan (2024) focuses on Dalits who lost their lives while mining gold for the British in Karnataka’s Kolar Gold Fields. For Singegol, the film’s message is clear: The gold we wear is stained with the blood of Dalits.
The film, she noted, focuses on reclaiming the Dalit identity, much like Natchathiram Nagargiradhu, where Renee, an assertive Ambedkarite, breaks up with her boyfriend Iniyan after he hurls a casteist slur during an argument.
“Today’s Dalits are outspoken, educated, empowered, and aware of their rights,” Singegol said. And it’s their stories that Dalit filmmakers are telling.”
It is interesting to note that these are not government funded art house movies. This is commercial cinema made with profits & audiences in mind. The fact the movies made by Dalit filmmakers are succeeding in the box office has therefore multiple layers of meaning regarding who is rising and who is falling in modern India. Ms Reddy contrasts modern Dalit cinema with traditional south Indian films:
“As a Kannadiga, one of the first Kannada films Singegol watched was Vasantasena (1941), one of only two pre-1947 Kannada films preserved today. Vasantasena’s Brahmanical narrative became a template for other Kannada movies released at the time, Singegol said.
Directed by Ramayyar Shirur, the film follows a wealthy courtesan who falls for Charudatta, a Brahmin portrayed as noble who loses all his wealth to charity and makes sacrifices for others.
“I was very upset when I watched this movie. Brahminical perspectives came to heavily dominate Kannada films and the templates were the same. The hero, saviour and noble, was always a Brahmin,” Singegol said. Such caste identification wascovert—especially in the form of names, professions, and personality traits given to the main characters.
Charudatta’s poverty in Vasantasena was due to his own charitable nature. Similarly, in B Dorairaj and SK Bhagavan’s Kasturi Nivasa (1971), matchbox factory owner Ravi Varma (played by Rajkumar) helps his employee Chandru financially and also sends him abroad for training. “Chandru speaks in a dialect of Kannada that is heard in Hassan where the majority of Vokkaligas reside. So the movie was trying to show that Ravi was a noble who helped a Vokkaliga under him even though he was going through his own difficulties,” Singegol pointed out.
Even films tackling taboo topics like prostitution, incest, and adultery retained caste hierarchies. Puttanna Kanagal’s Gejje Pooje (1969)is one of the first movies in South India to talk about the Devadasi system—the practice of dedicating girls to Hindu temples, often leading to exploitation.
“But even in this movie, the woman forced into the Devadasi system is a Brahmin, which ignores the lived realities of Dalit women,” said Singegol…
“Dalits were only allowed to enter temples after they showed kindness to the upper castes in their village. They had to be kind to their oppressors—only then could they emerge victorious.”
Real-life caste violence, such as the Karamchedu and Tsunduru massacres of Dalits in Andhra Pradesh, found no representation in films of the time. In 1985, a large group of Kammas (a dominant caste), armed with deadly weapons, killed six Madiga men and raped at least three women in Karamchedu. In August 1991, a mob of upper-caste men lynched eight Dalit men in Tsunduru.”
But south Indian cinema is now changing and as you would expect given the explosiveness of gender and caste in Indian society, where cinema leads, politics can’t be far behind: “Tamil Nadu has been at the forefront of Dalit representation in cinema. Tamil films hint at anti-caste elements due to the state’s Dravidian movement. However, with the turn of the millennium, a new wave of filmmakers from the heartlands has emerged, amplifying the voices of the oppressed.
“Films are named after Dalit characters, shot in places relevant to the community, and are more relatable to a middle-class audience,” Singegol said.
One such movie directed by Pa Ranjith is named after the Dalit protagonist—Kaala, played by Rajinikanth, who fights for land rights in the Dharavi slums of Mumbai. The hero is a Dalit. He is the one who protects his people and resolves disputes. Kabali (2016) takes its title from the historical surname used by Dalit fishermen. Even the book that Rajinikanth reads in the opening shot of Kabali is important in the discourse about caste—My Father Baliah by YB Satyanarayana, a biography of the writer’s experience as a Dalit in Telangana.
“As he is himself a Dalit, most of Pa Ranjith’s films have given back the agency to the community that was long theirs,” she added.
Similarly, in Mari Selvaraj’s Maamannan (2023, Tamil), the Dalit hero is not portrayed as docile or powerless but is an MLA who fights for social change. The movie even addresses the caste-based discrimination within Dravidian politics.
In the worlds of these directors, it’s not just about the human characters, Singegol pointed out.
“Animals like pigs and donkeys are considered dirty and hence equated to Dalits in historical texts. But Dalit filmmakers have used these animals as power icons in their films,” she said. In Maamannan, one of the protagonists played by Udhayanidhi Stalin rears pigs. In one of the scenes, he paints a piglet with wings, signifying the transformation of the creature often associated with filth into a symbol of freedom.”
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