For almost a century, Indian cinema has grappled with the question of caste. From Achhut Kanya (1936) and Achhut (1940) to Sujata (1959), and later films such as Ankur (1974), Nishant (1975), Manthan (1976), Paar (1984) and Damul (1985), Lagaan (2001), Swades (2004), Aarakshan (2011), Chauranga (2014), Manjhi: The Mountain Man (2015), Court (2014), Mukkabaaz (2018), Dhadak (2018) and Article 15 (2019), Bheed (2023), Vedaa (2024) caste has periodically entered the cinematic frame. These films were important for making caste visible, but the language through which it was represented remained remarkably consistent. The marginalised were often presented as victims of an unjust social order, while the narrative itself was frequently shaped by a reformist, “upper caste” gaze. In this tradition, caste was often approached as a question of social reform, poverty or individual prejudice rather than as a structural system of graded inequality. The solution, consequently, was frequently located in the conscience of the privileged. The “saviour” figure became an important narrative device: An “upper caste” protagonist recognises injustice and attempts to correct it. Even when such films generated empathy, they rarely questioned who had the authority to represent the oppressed in the first place. But something has been changing. The growing influence of the Ambedkarite movement, increasing political consciousness among Dalit-Bahujan communities, and the emergence of filmmakers from marginalised backgrounds have begun to alter not merely the stories Indian cinema tells, but the cinematic grammar through which those stories are told. Tamil cinema has been particularly important in this transformation. Filmmakers such as Pa. Ranjith, Mari Selvaraj and Vetrimaaran have challenged the familiar image of the Dalit protagonist as someone defined primarily by suffering. In Madras (2014), Kabali (2016), Kaala (2018) and Thangalaan (2024), Ranjith places Dalit identity, history, culture and resistance at the centre of the frame. Mari Selvaraj’s Pariyerum Perumal (2018) and Karnan (2021), and Vetrimaaran’s Asuran (2019), similarly refuse to reduce caste to an issue of individual cruelty. Their protagonists resist, organise, remember and fight. The marginalised are no longer simply waiting to be liberated; they are subjects who possess their own political agency. This shift is also visible in Marathi cinema. Nagraj Manjule’s Fandry (2013) and Sairat (2016) brought caste to the centre of popular storytelling without softening its violence. His Jhund (2022) subsequently carried aspects of this sensibility into mainstream Hindi cinema. Films such as Neeraj Ghaywan’s Masaan (2015) and Geeli Pucchi (2021), Vinod Kamble’s Kastoori (2019) and Ashish Avinash Bende’s Aatmapamphlet (2023) have further expanded the vocabulary through which caste, dignity, aspiration and identity can be represented. Hindi cinema, too, appears to be entering a different moment. Phule (2025), Dhadak 2 (2025) and, most recently, Ghaywan’s Homebound (2025) suggest that caste is increasingly difficult to keep at the margins of mainstream cinematic imagination. The significance of Homebound travelling all the way to become India’s Oscar entry lies not only in its international recognition, but also in what it says about the visibility of stories that were once considered too specific, too uncomfortable or too political for the centre of popular cinema. It is in this changing landscape that Shailesh Narwade’s Jayanti 2 has been released. The film is significant not simply because it talks about caste, reservation and discrimination, but because of how it talks about them. Set within an educational environment, it shifts the conversation from the familiar representation of caste violence to the everyday workings of caste within institutions: Who is considered meritorious, who is called a “quota” student, who gets access to resources, and who is expected to prove that they deserve to be there. Its protagonist, Payal Markam, does not remain a silent victim. After being humiliated, she confronts those who demean her. The film consequently refuses the familiar cinematic pattern in which a marginalised character must suffer for two hours before reclaiming agency in the final act. Payal’s resistance is part of her character from the beginning. The politics of Jayanti 2 is explicitly Ambedkarite. It questions the supposed opposition between merit and reservation, examines EWS reservation and debates around representation and the sub-categorisation of SCs and STs. It also brings SC, ST and OBC identities into a conversation about collective justice. Its idea of “justice with intention” is particularly important: Institutions alone cannot produce equality unless there is a genuine willingness to make them work for those for whom they were created. Narwade’s commitment to this politics is itself significant. Jayanti 2 reportedly remained caught in the CBFC process for months before receiving certification after 22 cuts. Yet the film’s political voice remains remarkably clear. Perhaps this is the larger transformation taking place in Indian cinema. The question is no longer simply whether marginalised communities are being represented. It is who is representing them, from what position, and with what understanding of justice. The journey from Achhut Kanya to Jayanti 2 is therefore not simply a journey towards more films about caste. It is a movement from sympathy to assertion, from victimhood to agency, and from representation by others to the possibility of speaking in one’s own voice. And that may be the most important change of all: Indian cinema is slowly learning not merely to look at the marginalised, but to look at society through their eyes. Bunkar is a researcher specialising in caste and cinema
