Censorship or narrative control? What the CBFC’s objections to films like Santosh and Phule say about India’s relationship with honest storytelling!
As India was still grappling with the controversy surrounding Santosh - a film praised globally and selected as UK’s official entry to the Oscars, yet barred from release at home due to objections from the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) - another storm has begun brewing. The CBFC has now reportedly demanded a series of amendments to Phule, a biopic on anti-caste feminist reformers Jyotiba and Savitribai Phule, directed by Anand Mahadevan.
According to reports, the CBFC has asked the filmmakers to replace the word “caste” with “varna,” remove historical terms like “Mang,” “Mahar,” and “Peshwai,” modify scenes such as one depicting a man carrying a broom to one where boys throw cow dung at Savitribai, and soften the phrase “3,000 saal purani gulami” to “kai saal purani". They've been asked to remove scenes of Savitribai's harassment, Jyotiba's confrontation to Manusmriti, and more.
Only after these revisions was the film granted a ‘U’ certificate. While these may seem like minor tweaks, they carry profound implications. Replacing “caste” with “varna” is not a semantic shift—it is a political one. It dilutes the Phules' legacy, which was rooted in their lifelong fight against caste-based oppression. To sidestep that reality is not just historical revisionism—it’s erasure.
Let’s be clear: the delay in Phule’s release isn’t due to the CBFC. Protests from Brahmin groups who claim the film maligns their community have added fuel to the fire. But if a historical film about India’s earliest social reformers causes such discomfort, what does that say about our readiness to confront our past?
Refusing to name caste-based atrocities doesn’t make them disappear—it simply pushes them into the shadows. Sanitizing terms, softening language, and removing references to Manusmriti or systemic oppression won’t erase the lived trauma of generations. An inhuman violent structure that denied people access to water, temples, education, and even the right to exist with dignity is not undone by deleting a few words from a script.
Also Read: Jallianwala Bagh Massacre: History, cinema, and a legacy of loss in Rang De Basanti and Sardar Udham
More urgently, in a country where caste-based violence still makes headlines, where inter-caste marriages end in brutal killings and Dalit manual scavengers still exist, who exactly are these edits protecting? This censorship isn’t an isolated incident by CBFC. Santosh, directed by British-Indian filmmaker Sandhya Suri, tells the story of a widowed Dalit woman who joins the police force and investigates the rape and murder of another Dalit girl. The film explores caste-based violence, misogyny, and institutional Islamophobia—issues deeply rooted in Indian society. It was met with critical acclaim abroad: premiering at Cannes, nominated for a BAFTA, and earning lead actress Shahana Goswami a Best Actress award at the Asian Film Awards. And yet, back home, it remains unseen.
Suri has described that the CBFC reportedly demanded cuts so extensive that the integrity of the film would be compromised. Though the full list of objections hasn’t been made public, she elaborated that the required changes were “pages long,” targeting the very themes that make the film impactful. With no formal appeals process outside the courts—a lengthy and expensive route—the film’s future in India is uncertain. So, what message are we sending when films that challenge oppressive structures are celebrated abroad but silenced at home? That we are unwilling to take accountability? That we prefer narratives that comfort the privileged rather than confront hard truths?
The issue is not just about censorship—it’s about who gets to shape the narrative. The CBFC, comprised largely of upper-caste members, has a history of disproportionately scrutinizing films that address caste, religion, and systemic inequality, while letting hyper-nationalist or sensationalist films sail through without resistance.
Films like Chhaava, The Kashmir Files, The Kerala Story, Sabarmati Report, or hyper-masculine fantasies like Singham and Sooryavanshi are celebrated—despite their polarizing politics. Meanwhile, a film about a Dalit woman police officer fighting institutional bias, or one about India’s earliest champions of social justice, is seen as “too controversial.” Why?
It’s worth noting that many of these themes have been addressed with nuance in regional cinema without facing similar resistance. The problem, it seems, emerges when such narratives enter the Hindi mainstream—when they threaten to reach the largest audience, and perhaps challenge the most power. This signals a deeper crisis in Hindi cinema: the erasure of stories that matter. When a select few gatekeepers decide what the public is “ready” to see, the result is a sterilized, one-sided cultural landscape. And that is not just a creative loss—it’s a democratic one.
Art isn’t supposed to comfort—it’s meant to provoke, question and reflect. When we censor or suppress stories that unsettle us, we don’t protect our culture; we impoverish it. The fight over films like Santosh and Phule isn’t about certification—it’s about control. About who gets to define history, identity, and truth. And perhaps the most chilling part? The moment resistance is no longer visible, when stories are no longer told, there is nothing left to push back against. Silence becomes the new normal. That’s not just censorship—it’s cultural amnesia. In the end, this debate isn’t just about cinema. It’s about what we’re willing to see, what we choose to ignore, and who pays the price for our collective denial!
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