Phule Movie Review: Pratik Gandhi And Patralekhaa Lead A Radical Retelling Of India's Caste Resistance

News18

25-04-2025

Phule is a powerful and poetic film that chronicles the radical journey of Jyotirao and Savitribai Phule—two visionaries who defied caste, patriarchy, and social orthodoxy.
In a nation that has long silenced the stories of those who dared to challenge the caste hegemony, Phule arrives like a long-overdue monsoon—drenched in truth, rich in emotion, and crackling with revolutionary fire. Directed with profound sensitivity by Ananth Mahadevan and brought to life by Pratik Gandhi and Patralekhaa in career-defining performances, Phule is not merely a period drama; it is a poetic manifesto of equality, education and courage.
The film opens in the grim shadow of 1897's bubonic plague in Pune, as an aging Savitribai Phule (played by Patralekhaa) tends to the dying and the dispossessed with unwavering compassion. But this present is soon interrupted by a flicker of memory, transporting us to 1848—the year that would ignite a storm. What unfolds is a searing 16-year flashback into the life of a young Jyotirao(played by Pratik Gandhi) and Savitribai, charting their radical journey from defiance to immortality.
The flashback pulls us into a time where caste hierarchies weren't just invisible lines drawn by society—they were iron shackles, sanctioned by religion and enforced by centuries of silence. It was an era when Brahminical orthodoxy ruled the social fabric with an iron fist, and patriarchy cast a long, unforgiving shadow over the dreams of women. In this bleak landscape, Phule unfurls like a rebellion in bloom, transporting us into the brave and tumultuous journey of Jyotirao Phule and Savitribai Phule—two souls who chose resistance over resignation.
The film gently weaves in glimpses of their early years, showing how, despite their child marriage, Jyotirao—wise beyond his years—chose not to merely be a husband, but a partner in purpose. He taught Savitri to read, to write, and most importantly, to question—a radical act that would become the cornerstone of their shared revolution.
Soon, we see the duo conducting clandestine classes for young girls—an underground movement disguised as a school, supported quietly by a few liberal allies from upper castes who hadn't yet let tradition harden their humanity. The scenes of them gently coaxing wary mothers, who equate education with sin and lower castes with impurity, are both tender and tragic. It is here that the film shines—not by preaching, but by holding a mirror to a society that feared the idea of a girl with a book.
But change, as history reminds us, does not come unchallenged. As the whispers of their secret school reach the ears of the village elite, the wrath is swift and brutal. Brahmin mobs descend upon the school like a storm of righteous fury—blackening slates, shattering benches, and thrashing Jyotirao in front of the very children he sought to empower. Back home, the battle continues. Govindrao Phule, Jyotirao's father, though himself from a marginalized caste, has internalized the very orthodoxy his son seeks to dismantle. He scoffs at their cause, ridicules Savitri's childlessness, and lashes out in patriarchal disbelief: 'Angrezi school mein padhaya iska ye matlab nahi ki tum apna dharm aur sanskriti bhool jao."
To this, Jyotirao offers a reply that simmers with quiet rage: 'Jo gyaan arijit karega woh brahmin keh layega. Maine kia par kya brahmin kehlaya? Dharm aur satya ke marg pe hoon. Maine woh gyaan seekha hai jo humse chhupaya gaya hai."
A panchayat is soon summoned—less a council and more a court of condemnation. The Brahmins thunder threats, accuse them of contaminating young minds with Western thought, and remind Jyotirao of his 'place": the son of a gardener who dared to plant seeds of rebellion in a garden meant only for the privileged. The air is thick with warnings and humiliation, but Jyotirao and Savitri, with heads held high, walk away—not defeated, but defiant.
With no roof above and no support from their bloodline, the couple leaves their ancestral home. Jyotirao's brother threatens legal action to strip him of his inheritance, to which Jyotirao responds not with meekness, but resolve: he'll take the matter to court instead of the Panchayat.
What follows is a cinematic pilgrimage through Maharashtra's dusty heartland, until they arrive at the doorstep of Usman Sheikh and his sister Fatima. Here, a new chapter begins—not just for the Phules, but for Indian history. Usman, a kindred spirit, opens his home and his heart to the cause. Together, they form an unlikely quartet—Hindu, Muslim, man, woman—united by one dream: education without barriers.
The narrative expands to showcase seminal milestones in their legacy. Savitribai and Fatima Sheikh—trained under the guidance of American missionary Cynthia Farrar—emerge as India's first female teachers. They establish the Bhidewada school, a radical cradle of learning that grows into a network of 25 institutions with support from British officer Ribbs Jones. But this is no simple victory lap. Every new school opens under threat. Every new girl enrolled is a battle won.
The film continues to unravel their many revolutions—the shelter for widows, the fight against child marriage, the mission to reclaim dignity for rape survivors like Kashibai, and finally, the birth of the Satyashodhak Samaj—a social reform movement that sought not just to educate but to liberate.
From the outset, Phule pulls no punches in depicting the violent injustices of the caste system. 'Logo ko Jaagrit karna hai"—Jyotirao's mantra pulses through the film like a drumbeat, urging awakening in a society that punishes knowledge with cruelty and love with exile. The film's early scenes are suffused with quiet horror: a girl child being denied education because teaching daughters is 'paap," a friend's wedding where Jyotirao is thrown out for daring to break caste lines, and the cruel reminder that 'untouchability" isn't just a term—it's a daily sentence.
The beauty of Phule lies in how it reframes revolution—not as loud spectacle, but as deeply human choices made in moments of quiet conviction. When Savitribai is threatened by an upper-caste man for daring to teach, she does not retreat. She responds with a tight slap across his face—not just figuratively, but literally. She digs a well in her own backyard after women are thrashed for collecting water from public wells. She does not wait for justice; she creates it.
Their journey through Maharashtra's hinterlands is marked by breathtaking cinematography—sun-drenched fields, shadowy alleyways, and schoolrooms filled with hope and dust. There's poetry in the realism here, and Mahadevan ensures that the visuals match the emotional heft of the story.
Phule excels in its portrayal of education as both weapon and shield. Whether it's Mukta Salve writing the first recorded essay on caste discrimination by a Dalit woman, or young girls asking for libraries, the film transforms the classroom into a battlefield of ideas.
The dialogues here are written with fire: 'Gravity kaun sa bal hai? Neeche girane waala!" Jyotirao mocks Brahminical monopoly on religion and resources. Even the oppressors are given layered treatment—when barbers are convinced to stop shaving widows' heads, or when assassins are won over with empathy, the film doesn't preach; it heals.
One of the most poignant arcs is that of Kashibai, a widow and rape survivor whom Savitri rescues. Her shelter becomes a sanctuary for society's discarded women, and from that despair, Savitri builds a revolution. 'We'll teach their children, so they never need saving again," she declares.
Thematically, Phule draws powerful parallels between India's caste system and global struggles for equality. A striking scene references the French Revolution, with Jyotirao invoking Thomas Paine's 'Rights Of Man' to articulate his vision of a society where 'everyone is equal, with no Pradhan." This universalist streak is reinforced by references to Abraham Lincoln's abolition of slavery and comparisons to George Washington and Martin Luther King, positioning the Phules' struggle as part of a global fight for human dignity. The film's critique of Brahminical hegemony is unflinching, yet it avoids caricature by humanising even its antagonists, such as Jyotirao's father, Govindrao, whose opposition stems from patriarchal duty rather than malice.
The film's production design deserves special praise. The authenticity of 19th-century Pune, the costumes, the dialects, and even the tension between Western and traditional education systems are all rendered with meticulous detail. The dialogues are earthy and powerful—never didactic, but always thought-provoking.
Mahadevan's directorial vision is complemented by the film's breathtaking cinematography, which captures the rugged beauty of the Maharashtrian hinterlands and the claustrophobic oppression of Pune's caste-ridden society. The journey through the hinterlands, as Jyotirao and Savitribai seek refuge with their friend Usman Sheikh, is a visual poem, with sweeping shots of rolling hills juxtaposed against the couple's precarious existence. The destruction of their underground school by Brahmin enforcers is filmed with visceral intensity, the camera lingering on the shattered slates and trembling children to underscore the stakes of their mission.
Pratik Gandhi's portrayal of Jyotirao Phule is nothing short of revelatory. Known for his versatility, Gandhi imbues Jyotirao with a quiet intensity that erupts into fiery resolve when confronting injustice. His eyes convey a kaleidoscope of emotions—pain at the plight of lower-caste people, determination to spark a revolution in a country at the crossroads of a freedom struggle, and unwavering love for Savitribai. His portrayal of the different phases of Jyotirao Phule's life is phenomenal.
Patralekhaa, as Savitribai, is the film's beating heart. Her performance is a masterclass in restraint and strength, portraying a woman who defies societal norms with grace and grit. She fully inhabits the role of Savitribai, capturing her strong, feminist, and reformative spirit. The chemistry between Gandhi and Patralekhaa is electric, their shared glances and tender moments depict a partnership rooted in mutual respect and shared ideals.
Alexx O'Nell's Ribbs Jones, the British collector, adds a layer of complexity to the narrative. Far from a stereotypical colonial figure, Jones is portrayed as a man grappling with the contradictions of British rule—sympathetic to the Phules' mission yet bound by imperial constraints. O'Nell's understated performance ensures that Jones is neither villain nor saviour, but a catalyst who amplifies the Phules' agency. Other actors—like Darsheel Safary as Yashwant Phule, Vinay Pathak as Govindrao Phule, Joy Sengupta as Vinayak Sengupta, and Sushil Pandey as Babaji Rao Phule, among others—have all played their parts well.
Phule is more than a film; it is a testament to the power of courage, compassion, and collective action. By centering the Phules' Satyashodak Samaj and their redefinition of 'Dalit" as a term of pride rather than shame, the film challenges contemporary India to confront its caste and gender inequities. In an era where historical narratives are often co-opted for divisive ends, Phule stands as a beacon of truth and unity. It reminds us that 'Logon ko dharm aur jaati mein ladana bohot aasan hai" (it's easy to make people fight over religion and caste), but true progress lies in keeping 'kranti ki jyot jalaaye rakhna" (the flame of revolution alive), something that remains deeply relevant in today's times.
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