The Central Board of Film Certification regulates only the public exhibition of films in India. A film banned from public screening can still be viewed privately. And having watched just one banned film—“Santosh”—this reviewer would recommend that in New India’s Acche Din, time is better spent watching banned films than National Award winners.
“The Kerala Story,” a controversial film that initially claimed 32,000 women from Kerala were forced to convert to Islam, won two National Awards this year. The Supreme Court compelled the filmmakers to introduce a disclaimer stating it was fiction—there were no mass conversions to Islam in Kerala, and no evidence of such conversions could be found. Despite being clearly false propaganda, the film still managed to bag national awards.
“Santosh,” on the other hand, makes no claims of representing reality. It is fiction that rang so true the Censor Board proposed prolific cuts—so long and deep that director Sandhya Suri could not incorporate them without making a huge compromise with the film.
“Santosh” tells the story of a young widow. Her husband, a police constable, is killed in mob violence, and she is offered his job on compassionate grounds. She begins her career in the police with empathy, urging a Dalit man to accompany her to the station after he complains that the local police refused to register a case about his missing daughter, who had been gone for two days.
The girl is later found murdered; the autopsy confirms rape. The film chronicles the police “investigation” of the crime.
Santosh discovers that the murdered girl had been receiving messages from a Muslim boy—innocent messages about how good she looked in a particular dress, and his aspiration to become a professional singer.
Just finding those messages seems enough to identify the perpetrator. The young Saleem is traced, brutally tortured, and beaten by police personnel, including Santosh. He protests his innocence, but guilt is assumed. It was never her intention to kill Saleem, but Santosh beats him so severely that he dies. The bare bones of the story cannot fully capture how banal violence becomes; Santosh slips into it despite being a woman of strength and character. It is the role she is expected to play in her police uniform. Torture in Indian police stations is routine, as some reports have shown. The depiction of torture in the film is indeed revolting.
Santosh is made of strong mettle—she realizes she is guilty, that the young boy was neither a rapist nor a murderer, and that he was framed. Her boss tells her: “In India, untouchability is of two kinds—there are those one would not want to touch, and those that simply cannot be touched.” Santosh realizes that the higher-caste family of the village pradhan was involved in the rape and murder, and the Muslim youth was sacrificed so the case could be closed.
It is no wonder “Santosh” is banned from public screening in India. Such fiction is dangerous—it cuts too close to the bone. Public screenings of such films could create more discerning audiences; and who wants discernment in Acche Din?
Acting, cinematography, script—this film was ripe for awards across a range of categories. Once Acche Din end, the film must be screened in India to provoke public discussion of issues that concern us all: perceptions of caste, relations between communities, misogyny, and even same-sex attraction.
For now, we in India can draw some comfort from the fact that the effort is not entirely wasted—the filmmakers are winning awards internationally.
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*Freelance journalist
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