This Republic Day, the Rang De Basanti, starring Aamir Khan, completed 20 years since its release. I first watched it in a single-screen theatre in my city—at a time when multiplexes were only just beginning to appear and our town was still waiting for one. It remains my favourite film, and I often revisit it on OTT platforms or television around Independence Day or Republic Day, when the air is thick with rehearsed patriotism.
A few days ago, I noticed it streaming again on Jio Hotstar. Released in 2006, it is a film I have watched many times over the years. Yet, like all powerful cinema, returning to it at different stages of life offers a different experience. Twenty years ago, I found it deeply inspiring. In 2026, watching it again felt suffocating.
At its core, the film follows a group of Delhi University friends who challenge the might of the central government after one of their own, a flight lieutenant, is killed in a MiG aircraft crash allegedly caused by faulty spares. Director Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra interweaves India’s freedom struggle with contemporary politics, forcing viewers to confront a haunting question: what really separates a terrorist from a revolutionary? The film spoke directly to the simmering frustration of India’s youth at the time and offered at least a direction, if not a solution. “Koi bhi desh perfect nahi hota. Ussey perfect banana padta hai” was not merely a line of dialogue; it became a generational mantra.
Its enduring power lies in its characters, each representing a strand of Indian youth. DJ, loud and fearless, masks deep insecurity about his place in the real world: “Asli zindagi mein apne jaise logon ko koi nahi puchta.” Sukhi is the loyal follower, without a will of his own, yet steadfast in friendship. Karan Singhania, the privileged heir, burns through his father’s wealth while craving validation: “Baap ka paisa hai, padey padey sadd jaata hai.” Aslam Khan embodies the Indian Muslim youth—patriotic yet perpetually asked to prove it, caught between conservative expectations and genuine camaraderie. Sonia Chaudhary is modern, ambitious and brave, negotiating patriarchy without surrendering her agency. Lakshman Pandey begins as a misguided nationalist who equates religion with patriotism, only to realise he has been manipulated by politics. Sue, the outsider, struggles to comprehend India’s contradictions but falls deeply in love with its people; her remark, “Tum logon ko ladne ka sirf bahana chahiye,” still stings with uncomfortable accuracy.
The film portrayed systemic corruption, communal polarisation, the commerce of religion and the ruthless instinct of those in power to cling to office. Even its symbolism was sharp. The right-wing Home Minister in the story is named D. N. Godse—an allusion too deliberate to miss.
When I watched the film in 2006, I walked out of the theatre energised. Candlelight protests inspired by the so-called “RDB effect” filled public spaces and dominated headlines. In 2026, I struggle to hold back tears while watching the same scenes. Two decades later, it is painful to admit that much of what angered us then persists, while public outrage seems to dissipate faster. Candlelight vigils today barely register with the media.
The archetypes, too, appear to have hardened. The idealistic DJ seems replaced by organised vigilante groups. Lakshman’s confused nationalism finds echoes in street-level aggression carried out in the name of patriotism. Many Karans have retreated into comfort or left the country. Aslams often speak more cautiously, conscious of how quickly suspicion can be manufactured. Sukhis still follow, though the moral clarity that once guided them feels rarer. Sonia’s battles—over autonomy, work, expression—continue, now amplified and distorted by online abuse.
There was irony even in 2006. The Ministry of Defence initially raised objections to the film. A special screening was reportedly arranged for then Defence Minister Pranab Mukherjee, who cleared it, remarking that his duty was to defend the country, not censor films. It is difficult not to wonder how such a moment would unfold today.
“Koi bhi desh perfect nahi hota” now feels like a fading echo. In today’s climate, one wonders whether a film like Rang De Basanti would be greenlit with the same ease, or embraced by major stars without hesitation. The question is less about censorship and more about atmosphere—the invisible boundaries that shape what stories get told and how.
And yet, to reduce the present entirely to despair would be unfair. Now and then, sparks of courage and solidarity appear in unexpected places—ordinary citizens who step forward to protect strangers, to speak up, to refuse hatred. They may not command prime-time attention, but they keep alive the possibility that the film once stirred in us.
This is not a movie review. Rang De Basanti remains a timeless work of cinema, as powerful today as it was in 2006. What has changed is not the film, but the country watching it—and perhaps the viewer within me. Twenty years ago, it ignited hope and the conviction that questioning power was an act of patriotism. Today, it leaves a tightening in the throat, a reminder of ideals tested and dreams deferred. That is not nostalgia speaking; it is reckoning—a reflection on what we once believed we could become, and the distance we still have to travel.
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*Freelance content writer & editor based in Nagpur; co-founder, TruthScape
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