The Dalit body on screen: Stereotypes, sacrifice, and subjugation in Hindi films

By Dr. Prem Singh* 

Despite centuries of reformist efforts, from Gandhi and Ambedkar to contemporary activists, the caste system remains deeply embedded in the Indian psyche. One of the primary reasons for this persistence is the religious sanction provided by Brahminical scriptures, which have shaped not only social structures but also cultural and artistic expressions.

This long history of acceptance has nurtured a mindset that affects not just upper-caste Hindus but often leads to self-doubt among Dalits themselves. The oppression, therefore, is not merely material but deeply cultural. Consequently, Dalits have faced systematic exclusion from social spaces, property rights, and access to knowledge. Their identity, from a dominant perspective, is inseparably linked to their bodies, which are traditionally viewed as impure and untouchable.

This prejudice has been so pervasive that meaningful Dalit participation in the Indian film industry has been notably absent, making cinema a powerful mirror of, and participant in, this cultural violence. In Indian cinema, the Dalit body has historically been presented in stark, stereotypical contrast to that of upper-caste Hindus. Male Dalits are frequently depicted as physically untidy, emotionally weak, intellectually hollow, and abhorrent due to their low birth.

In a disturbing double standard, the young Dalit woman’s body is often represented as sexually attractive and desirable, positioning her as an object to be used and subjugated by the upper castes. While this pattern is common across most Indian-language films, the treatment of the Dalit body is not static; it has evolved according to socio-political developments and varies significantly based on whether the film is set in a rural or urban location.

Franz Osten’s landmark film “Achhut Kanya” (1936) offers an early nuanced portrayal. Set in a village, it tells the tragic love story between Kasturi, a Dalit girl, and Pratap, a Brahmin boy. The film introduces stereotypical markers: Dalit males like Kasturi’s father Dukhiya are dark-skinned, lean yet healthy, and humble but not grovelling. However, Kasturi herself defies certain norms—she is fair, confident, argumentative, and unafraid.

The film notably avoids themes of sexual exploitation; instead, it focuses on deep-rooted social segregation. Kasturi’s ultimate sacrifice—giving her life to save Pratap and her husband—elevates her to a martyr, building a memorial that proclaims she was “born untouchable but a goddess by deed.” This early work reflects the idealism of the freedom movement, influenced by Gandhi and Ambedkar, focusing more on tragic romance and moral purity than on gritty realities.

Bimal Roy’s “Sujata” (1959) deepens this exploration by shifting the setting to an urban, middle-class environment. The film follows an untouchable girl adopted into a Brahmin family. Roy masterfully demonstrates that untouchability is a cultural construct, not a divine mandate. The adult Sujata becomes painfully conscious of her own body as a curse. When Adhir, the upper-caste man she loves, touches her, she recoils in terror—not only for herself but for the impurity she might bring upon him.

Her body becomes a source of imposed guilt and degradation. Unlike the rural setting, her urban foster home provides some social security, yet the psychological tyranny remains. Roy contrasts Sujata’s quiet, introverted existence with the joyful life of her foster sister, Rama, showing how discrimination warps the self. In a powerful conclusion, Sujata donates blood to save her foster mother, proving the biological fallacy of caste purity. The film transcends reformist simplicity by showing that even the progressive Upendranath must gradually overcome his inner conditioning, while his wife never fully does.

In the contemporary phase, Ashutosh Gowariker’s “Lagaan” (2001) introduces Kachra, an untouchable whose talent for leg-spin bowling becomes crucial for the village cricket team. However, his portrayal is deeply stereotypical: dark-skinned, untidy, submissive, and seemingly incapable of pleasure or contemplation. He is depicted as brute flesh suitable only for labour.

Crucially, Kachra is “used” by the upper-caste villagers to achieve victory. He is noticed only when his talent proves useful, and while his teammates embrace him enthusiastically as wickets fall, he is conspicuously absent from the final victory celebration. The film raises an uncomfortable question: did the camaraderie reflect genuine change of heart or merely the smell of success?

Gowariker’s “Swadesh” (2004) similarly fails to offer meaningful representation. Dalit characters like Birsa are shown as dark, dirty, and mentally incapable, reinforcing old stereotypes. The film’s neo-liberal, America-centric development model leaves no room to address the truth that even with economic empowerment, the Dalit body often remains untouchable to the twice-born society. Another Dalit character, Mela Ram, runs a roadside eatery and dreams of opening one on an American freeway—his confidence comes only from embracing the film’s prescribed entrepreneurial solution.

Perhaps the most brutal contemporary depiction appears in Rajkumar Santoshi’s “Lajja” (2001). Here, Ramdulari, a Dalit midwife, is initially portrayed as bold, assertive, and confident. Her role as a dai—present at every birth in the village—gives her a sense of power. But this confidence shatters when her educated son falls in love with an upper-caste feudal lord’s daughter.

Ramdulari is reduced to a helpless, doubly jeopardized body: a woman and a Dalit. As punishment for her son’s defiance, she is gang-raped and burned alive. This horrific sequence exposes the intersection of caste and gender, showing that no amount of personal confidence can protect a Dalit woman from the collective, violent assertion of upper-caste patriarchy.

Beyond these films, other notable works have engaged with the issue. Shyam Benegal’s “Ankur” (1974) and “Manthan” (1976), Govind Nihalani’s “Aakrosh” (1980), Satyajit Ray’s “Sadgati” (1981), and Prakash Jha’s “Damul” (1985) all make serious attempts to expose the socio-economic and sexual exploitation of Dalits, particularly Dalit women. These art films interlink sexuality and gender with caste in ways that popular cinema often avoids.

Yet, the divide between popular and art cinema has only widened since the mid-1970s. The great filmmaker-artists of the 1940s to 1960s—Satyajit Ray, Ritwik Ghatak, Bimal Roy, V. Shantaram, and Guru Dutt—produced works that balanced entertainment with aesthetic depth. In contrast, most contemporary mainstream directors are showmen with an eye on the ticket window.

Ultimately, popular Hindi cinema has largely failed to move beyond melodramatic and instrumental representations of the Dalit body. Whether as a tragic martyr in “Achhut Kanya”, a psychologically tormented adoptee in “Sujata”, a useful tool for victory in “Lagaan”, or a victim of gang-rape in “Lajja”, the Dalit body has rarely been allowed the dignity of ordinary, unmarked existence. Cinema, as a powerful cultural force, has thus often reinforced the very prejudices it might have challenged.

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*Dept. of Hindi, University of Delhi; Former Fellow, Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla. This is the abridged version of the author's original article