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Indian Express
a day ago
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
‘Dhadak 2' and ‘Saiyyara': Two romances, miles apart
Early on in Shazia Iqbal's Dhadak 2, on being asked what is most important in a marriage, a character replies, 'caste'. What about love, the heroine Vidhi Bhardwaj (Tripti Dimri) asks. The upfront mention of love and caste together tells us that the film is invested in the transgressive potential of the star-crossed-lovers trope of popular melodrama. It is interested both in the fantasy of love and in the reality of caste. Though a remake of Mari Selvaraj's Tamil film Pariyerum Perumal (2018), this makes it reminiscent of Nagraj Manjule's Sairat (2016) too. In doing so, the film names what author Aarti Wani called the 'seldom named' in the romantic fantasy of Bombay cinema — where caste had an 'absent presence' but was never named explicitly. Even when lovers rebelled against families, the conflict was rarely contextualised as a caste-based one. In contrast, Dhadak 2's protagonists belong to different castes. Vidhi comes from a Brahmin family of lawyers; Neelesh Ahiwar's (Siddhant Chaturvedi) Dalit family traditionally worked with leather, and he now has a dhol group called Bhim Baja Dhol Boys. The opening gives us two contrasting scenes. One is a realist situation of violence against the idea of intermingling between castes. This is seamlessly followed by the possibility of the fantasy of romance. Yet even in the latter, the film intermingles fantasy and reality. Vidhi and Neelesh lock eyes with each other at a wedding. Neelesh and his friends are very aware that Vidhi is looking at him and that this is an atypical situation. When Vidhi finally approaches Neelesh and asks for his number, it is because she sees him as a dholwala who can play the instrument at her sister's upcoming wedding. The boundaries that this scene plays around with about how caste dictates who we fall in love with are fascinating. Eventually, because this is a fantasy of romance, Neelesh does end up at her sister's wedding. But there has been a change of roles — he is now a guest invited by Vidhi. 'Love will find a way' plays at the wedding. And yet, he is reluctant to dance and claim space, aware of his caste location. It is a brief dream sequence that enables him to let go. He even ends up playing the dhol, but this time the dynamics have changed. The possibility of Vidhi and Neelesh interacting like this is entirely due to his admission, through a caste-based quota, to the law university where they are both students. For the romantic genre, this is a moment of great transgressive possibility and not of caste anxiety. It is precisely this that irks Vidhi's family, and the reality of caste intervenes as Neelesh is brutally reminded of his so-called place in society. What follows is a long and stark sequence, making use of melodrama to express Neelesh's inner turmoil, but also considering what it says about the deeply casteist nature of upper-caste families. Vidhi's father, who is her 'hero' and has brought her up without gender bias, is threatened. He is an educated, second-generation lawyer who tells Neelesh that they do not become equal just by studying together. What he finds difficult, as Neelesh reminds him later, is to accept even his humanity. The contrast with the redemptive arc reserved for Bollywood fathers of the great love stories of Hindi cinema is obvious. The film's critique of the complicity of the education system includes a Rohith Vemula tribute from whom Neelesh learns the value of solidarity and resistance. A classroom scene, where student introductions rely on surnames ('titles') could be a regular scene in any other film. But viewed from the perspective of Neelesh's terror about his caste identity being revealed, the implication of the focus on surnames becomes visible. This classroom 'introduction' becomes a performance of caste privilege. The sequence reminded me of an introductory exercise in my first year in Delhi University, where a fellow student 'accidentally' mentioned that her mother is a well-connected journalist, and our teacher said 'not bad' in admiration. What was being admired? Two weeks before the release of Dhadak 2, the massive box-office success of Saiyyara, also a romance, hinted at the return of the love story to Bollywood after an onslaught of films celebrating masculine anger and violence. But while Saiyyara is a somewhat traditional film, where masculine self-pity disguises itself as a romance, Dhadak 2 dares to challenge its audience by making visible the violence at the heart of a caste-based society. Its female protagonist questions codes of honour and sacrifice. And its male protagonist makes a choice not to resort to the finality of violence, even though the film plays around with the audience's expectations of the same in its ending moments. Instead, it gives us an almost metaphorical sequence where the target of violence is the casteist mindset itself, personified by the henchman Shankar. In the final moments of Saiyyara, as the hero was singing on stage, phone cameras came out in full force in the cinema theatre. This was a moment of awe on screen, and everyone wanted to consume it through their phones. In contrast, in Dhadak 2's shattering finale, no one at the South Delhi multiplex where I saw the film seemed to want to do this. Here, the shock and awe of the popular form was embedded in a politics that made a powerful argument against caste. You couldn't admire the form without also acknowledging its politics. A phone camera would not be able to contain it. The writer is a film scholar and critic based in Delhi
Indian Express
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
The real horror in Dhadak 2 isn't the killer, it's us
When you read my byline — Jyothi Jha — you might immediately assume I'm Hindu. My last name goes a step further: I am a Brahmin, more specifically, a Maithil Brahmin. Coincidentally, that's the same identity as Triptii Dimri's character in Dhadak 2. If you go deeper, you'll discover we both even belong to the Bharadwaj gotra — a shared ancestral lineage that binds people as siblings without any blood relation. That's how layered, intricate, and deeply entrenched caste classification is in our society. While Dhadak 2 centers its narrative around caste-based discrimination against those from marginalised communities, it also holds up a mirror for those of us born into privilege. It reminds us — or perhaps forces us to finally see — how unaware, protected, and detached we have been from these realities. One of the most powerful scenes features Shekhar (Priyank Tiwari) — a senior student from the same community as the protagonist, Neelesh Ahirwar (played by Siddhant Chaturvedi). During a college debate on reservations, Shekhar addresses his upper-caste peers: 'Tumhare dada school gaye the? (Did your grandfather go to school?)' 'Haan (Yes).' 'Aur tumhare papa? (And your dad?)' 'Haan (Yes, he too).' 'Aur tum toh padh hi rahe ho (And you too are in college).' 'Toh? (Yeah, so?)' 'Toh main apne parivaar ka pehla hoon jisne college dekha hai. Isliye fellowship zaroori hai. (So the point is I am the first person from my family to be admitted in a college and this is why we need fellowship.)' This moment isn't just a rebuttal. It's a reality check. One that explains the logic — and more importantly, the necessity — behind reservations in education and employment. For many from the 'general' category, the existence of quotas feels like an infringement on merit. But for someone like Neelesh, even reaching a college seat is an act of generational resistance. ALSO READ | Dhadak 2 movie review: After Saiyaara, the passion in Triptii Dimri and Siddhant Chaturvedi's feels performative Casteism in Dhadak 2 doesn't stop at academic inequality — it turns violent. When Vidisha Bharadwaj aka Vidhi (Triptii Dimri) invites her boyfriend Neelesh to her sister's wedding, her cousin — Ronnie (Saad Bilgrami), who's also their law college classmate — is enraged. He not only physically assaults Neelesh, he urinates on him. A deliberate, humiliating act meant to 'show him his place.' And what is Neelesh's crime? That he dared to love someone from an 'upper caste'. But does the blame only rest with Ronnie? Or is he merely a vessel of the entitlement and prejudice fed to him since childhood? This film forced me to look back at my own childhood. Every summer, my family would visit our hometown in Bihar. There, the women who came to help at home would remove their slippers about 50 metres away, on the road. Concerned, the younger me would say, 'Aunty, someone will steal your chappals, you'll get hurt!' They would smile gently and walk barefoot into the house. One day, one of them was hungry. She plucked a leaf from our garden, and my grandmother — who adored her — placed some puffed rice on it. The woman sat outside and quietly ate. I was fascinated. I copied her: I plucked a leaf, sat next to her, and ate puffed rice. Everyone laughed. At the time, as a child, I thought 'aunty' is a little dim. Years later, I understood how caste was responsible. The domestic help wasn't allowed to wear shoes inside or eat with us. Not because she didn't have a place in our home, but because centuries of conditioninh dictated that 'lower caste' meant 'lower worth.' She was taught to remove shoes before entering an 'upper caste' house and we hid behind an ancient practice. After all those years, safe in my bubble of privilige like Vidisha, I too once believed caste discrimination was a thing of the past or something that only happened in villages. Until, during my internship at a top media house, I admired a video producer's work and asked for her number. Out of habit, I asked for her surname. She immediately replied, 'Why? You want to know my caste?' ALSO READ | Dhadak 2: Shazia Iqbal destroys ancient Bollywood Dharma in the best Karan Johar production since Jigra I was stunned, and perhaps a little hurt because I never thought like that; my identity ensured I didn't have to. I still can't identify caste by surname. But in that moment, I saw her guarded response and her pain, which made a basic question feel like an attack. In the film, when Vidisha hears Neelesh's story, she says, 'Mujhe lagta tha yeh sab saalo pehle hota tha (I thought this was a thing of the past).' To which Neelesh replies: 'Jinke saath nahi hota, unko aisa hi lagta hai Vidhi (The ones who don't go through it, think the same).' It hit me like a slap. How casually we flaunt our names. How blind we are to what that name might mean for someone else. Something, very beautifully shown by director Shazia Iqbal, when Neelesh hesitates to introduce himself by his second name in a class full of upper caste students. He says, 'Neelesh BA LLB', becoming a target of ragging. The film doesn't stop at caste. It exposes bias against art, gender, and freedom, something we also saw in Karan Johar's last directorial Rocky Aur Rani Ki Prem Kahani. Neelesh's father (Vipin Sharma) is a cross-dressing folk dancer, for which he is ridiculed as a 'nachaniya (a demeaning word for a dancer).' After he gets ragged at college for his profession and caste, he tells a mad Neelesh: 'Mujhe dance karna tha, main lada. Tu kyun lad raha hai? (I liked to dance, I fought for it. What is your fight for?)' The implication: you don't have to suffer like I did. But Neelesh is fighting not just for art — he's fighting to exist with dignity. The film subtly also shows the gender discrimination within the same family, which is very common to find in Indian homes–irrespective of the caste or status. Sometimes unknowingly, when they say, 'Ladkiya itne zor se nahi bolti (Girls don't talk so loud)' or 'Toh kya hogaya woh ladka hai (So what? He is a boy!)' Acts of misogyny, carefully wrapped as advice by elders that you are not supposed to question, only follow. Vidisha and Ronnie are both educated, from the same family. But while Ronnie is protected, Vidisha is policed. Her questions are judged and her choices are monitored. Ronnie, spurred by toxic masculinity, is ready to kill Neelesh. His justification? 'Ghar ki izzat (Family's honour).' While his father encourages him, Vidisha's father, while clearly uncomfortable, also gives in. His only advice to Neelesh: 'Beta, Vidisha se door raho. Warna yeh tumhe maar denge (Son, please stay away from Vidisha. If not, they will kill you).' A silent surrender. From a man who knows this is wrong, but has no voice in his own family (despite being the head of the family) — just because he's father to a daughter. In other families, the reasons differ. The film also has another character Shankar (Saurabh Sachdeva), a self-appointed gatekeeper of caste 'purity.' He kills two inter-caste couples — first, a lower-caste boy who loves an upper-caste girl. Then, the upper-caste girl who refuses to leave her partner. His next target is Neelesh. When paid for the work, he gets offended. 'Mai criminal nahi hu, yeh toh punya ka kaam hai (I am not a criminal. This is work of charity).' Neelesh survives and fights back, because it's a Dharma film — and this time, the hero doesn't die. Watching Shankar reminded me of every relative and family elder who believes it's their job to police love, control women, and define 'izzat'. They are the ones who say, 'Ladki ko itni chhoot mat do. (Do not give so much freedom to girls)'. They are the ones who measure a family's honour by a daughter's silence. They are the ones who shame a father for educating his girl — and then blame him when she dares to live freely. The most haunting moment of the film is not a murder. It's a scream. Triptii Dimri, who exceptionally lives the character screams when her uncle brings a pistol to shoot Neelesh after he escapes Shankar's clutches. That scream was not of fear, but frustration. It doesn't belong to Vidisha alone — it is the voice of every girl told to obey, every boy told to 'be a man,' every queer child mocked for how they express themselves, every lower-caste student made to feel they don't belong, every artist shamed, and every parent silenced. It is the scream of a society that's had enough. Enough judgment. Enough shame. Enough violence. Jyothi Jha works as a Copy Editor at the Indian Express. She brings in more than 5 years of experience where she has covered Entertainment majorly for TV9, NDTV and Republic Media. Apart from Entertainment, she has been an anchor, copy editor and managed production team under the Politics and Daily News segment. She's passionate about Journalism and it has always been her first choice, she believes in what George Orwell had once said, " Journalism is printing what someone else does not want you to do, rest everything is public relations". ... Read More
Indian Express
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
Dhadak 2: Shazia Iqbal destroys ancient Bollywood Dharma in the best Karan Johar production since Jigra
Something that Quentin Tarantino said recently rings true for director Shazia Iqbal's Dhadak 2. In an interview, he explained why he admires the controversial blockbuster film Joker, despite the divisive reactions that it opened to. Tarantino said that the movie pulled off 'subversion on a massive level', when it got audiences across the globe to root for a madman to shoot a celebrity in the face on live TV. These were all civilised people, Tarantino said. And yet, for around 10 minutes, they were hungry for blood. It's an unusual comparison to make, but Dhadak 2 has more in common with a billion-dollar-grossing Hollywood movie than you'd imagine. In an alternate universe, Siddhant Chaturvedi's character in the film, a Dalit man named Neelesh, could have very easily turned into a vengeful anarchist. In the film's climactic showdown, after escaping from the clutches of a malevolent Anton Chigurh-type assassin played by Saurabh Sachdeva, Neelesh turns his attention to the film's main antagonist, a Brahmin guy called Ronny who's been harassing him for months. He grabs a hold of Ronny, drags him onto the street, and pummels him into the ground. Like Sunny Deol, he uproots a metallic gate, and prepares to bash Ronny's face in with it. In that moment, there is nothing more that you, as a member of the audience, can desire more than for Ronny to be murdered in the most brutal manner imaginable. Also read – Jigra: Vasan Bala weaponises Alia Bhatt in one of the best Hindi films of the year; Karan Johar better have his back This is 'subversion on a massive level' – to get seemingly civilised people to briefly think like wild animals. Comedians do this all the time. Joker did it as well. Directed by Todd Phillips, the movie pointed fingers at polite society for turning a blind eye to the mentally ill. Their ignorance, the movie suggested, is what compels folks like Arthur Fleck to take matters into their own hands. In Dhadak 2, Neelesh experiences many of the same indignities that were directed at Arthur in Joker. He is humiliated in public, kicked while he's down, even urinated on. Dhadak 2 could've been the origin story of a mass-murdering criminal; had Neelesh transformed into a lunatic killer, you'd 100% understand why. But Dhadak 2 isn't a comic book movie. It is, however, one of the most daring examples of what can be achieved in mainstream Hindi filmmaking. There are elements of exploitation cinema — Tarantino's favourite genre — in Dhadak 2 as well. But the tone isn't nearly as gnarly as it could've been; for a real glimpse at how far things can be pushed past the boundaries of good taste, you needn't look further than Mari Selvaraj's Vaazhai, an autobiographical drama that he released last year. Incidentally, Dhadak 2 is a remake of Selvaraj's debut film, Pariyerum Perumal. It follows a lower-caste man's tentative romance with a girl from an upper-caste family. In Dhadak 2 — the film has had the misfortune of being retroactively rebranded as a 'spiritual sequel', much like the recent Kesari: Chapter 2 — Neelesh understands that he could get murdered for even speaking to someone like Viddhi, let alone for developing feelings for her. Read more – Stolen: The rare Hindi movie that isn't afraid to insult its own audience, and you know what, we deserve it Chaturvedi plays him with a timidity that is more self-imposed than it is ingrained. He is driven only by one objective: to gain an education for the benefit of the same people to whom it has been denied. Neelesh also delivers a version of the line that made Chaturvedi go viral some years ago, when he told the presumably more privileged Ananya Panday that his dreams end where her struggles begin. In Dhadak 2, Neelesh gains admission into a law college through the SC/ST quota, something that the ingrates in his class never let him forget. They don't understand that for him to even have the opportunity to be seated in the same room as them is essentially a miracle. Instead of celebrating him for swimming against the tide his entire life and challenging an oppressive system by merely existing, they ostracise him. The harassment only becomes worse when he starts dating Viddhi, played by a never-better Triptii Dimri. She happens to be related to Ronny, who threatens to (honour) kill her on several occasions. It's a familiar set-up, but one that has historically been sugarcoated in cinema by class-conflict, socioeconomic differences, and sometimes, plain geographical distance. All of these issues are code for caste. In India, every injustice can be traced back to a single source; it's the disgusting 'nala' that we're all drinking from. Income inequality, hunger, lack of education, denial of fundamental rights… Everything. Read more –Bheed: Anubhav Sinha's movie is a messy, confrontational, and deeply angry response to blasé Bollywood We live in a country where a man can be killed for growing a style of moustache that the upper castes have claimed as their own. India is perhaps one of the few nations in the world where literal laws have to be enforced in order to prevent people from killing their own children. To do the dirty work for them, the cowards hire midwives for the nominal sum of Rs 50. These midwives murder female babies for a living not because they enjoy it, but because they've been subjugated and oppressed for their entire lives; it's a family trade; their daughters will follow in their footsteps. They aren't allowed to do anything else. What sort of society allows this? These uncomfortable truths are rarely, if ever, spoken about inside our homes, let alone in our cinema. The Malayali filmmakers are leading the charge on this front as well, while Bollywood self-combusts at the very idea of discomfort. But, in recent years, there has been a growing wave of Hindi directors who've dared to expose us for who we are. Iqbal is the youngest to join their ranks, and she probably had other barriers to overcome. She's a minority twice over. You can sense her growing pains in the Dhadak 2's odd comic interludes, a needless song-and-dance number, and one-note soundtrack. Collectively, all of it feels like a giant Ormax Media note more than anything else. But her movie has more integrity than the entire filmographies of her colleagues put together. Her voice is bebaak. Dhadak 2 is the best film of its kind since Nagraj Manjule's Jhund, and one that producer Karan Johar should hang forever and ever on his mantelpiece. Post Credits Scene is a column in which we dissect new releases every week, with particular focus on context, craft, and characters. Because there's always something to fixate about once the dust has settled. Rohan Naahar is an assistant editor at Indian Express online. He covers pop-culture across formats and mediums. He is a 'Rotten Tomatoes-approved' critic and a member of the Film Critics Guild of India. He previously worked with the Hindustan Times, where he wrote hundreds of film and television reviews, produced videos, and interviewed the biggest names in Indian and international cinema. At the Express, he writes a column titled Post Credits Scene, and has hosted a podcast called Movie Police. You can find him on X at @RohanNaahar, and write to him at He is also on LinkedIn and Instagram. ... Read More
Indian Express
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
Dhadak 2: What happens when a Tamil film about caste discrimination gets the Bollywood treatment
Some love stories are meant to deal with resistance — resistance to the idea that love should exist freely, resistance to people loving across differences, resistance from a society that never understands. The recently released Dhadak 2 is one such story. Adapted from Mari Selvaraj's 2018 Tamil film Pariyerum Perumal (2018), Dhadak 2 (directed by Shazia Iqbal) is a well-done remake. It does lose some things in translation, but manages to retain the essence of the original. If one watches Iqbal's Bebaak (2018), one can easily anticipate how she might adapt Pariyerum Perumal. She brings in a gaze that wasn't present in the original, a gaze that gives more agency to the women characters and brings more sensitivity to the narrative. Dhadak 2, which Iqbal calls the spiritual sequel to Shashank Khaitan's Dhadak (2018), is one of the best works to come out of Bollywood this year. It is a story rooted in caste prejudice, yet it goes beyond that. Vidhi Bharadwaj (played by Tripti Dimri) falls in love with a Dalit man named Neelesh Ahirwar (played by Siddhant Chaturvedi), and the story revolves around their relationship and how caste, privilege, and prejudice come in the way. But the striking thing is that the story isn't just about them getting together; it's also about what Neelesh has to endure because he's a Dalit man — the kind of struggle that upper-caste people rarely understand because, as Vidhi herself says in the film, 'Mujhe lagta tha yeh saalon pehle hota tha, gaon mein.' (I thought this was a practice that used to happen years ago, in villages). To her, caste prejudice is a thing of the past. But as Neelesh rightly points out, 'Jinke saath nahi hota, unko aisa hi lagta hai' (Those who aren't subject to this discrimination are the ones who think it doesn't exist). For those who face it, caste discrimination isn't history; it's as present and real as life itself. Neelesh, a student at the National University of Law, is hesitant to utter his surname in class, even as everyone around him does. They're all upper-caste Hindus, completely comfortable and confident in their identities that have brought them privileges, not the centuries-old baggage of prejudice. Neelesh's lived trauma and past experiences, on the other hand, have taught him that revealing his caste doesn't just invite prejudice, it also changes the way people look at him. It leads him to use BA LLB as his surname, as if trying to reclaim space in an institution that might otherwise cast him as an outsider. Neelesh gets his courage from his mother. Unlike in Selvaraj's story, where the protagonist's grandfather played that role, Iqbal's version gives agency to the mother. That shift makes the narrative more layered and interesting, reorienting the centre of strength from a male figure to a woman who becomes the source of resilience. Her dialogues are written so impeccably that they echo the resistance that Dalits have long voiced against prejudice. Speaking about her people's condition, she says, 'Girte girte itna gir gaye ki uthna bhool gaye,' (We kept falling so much that we forgot how to rise), a line that captures the weight of historical exhaustion. And when it comes down to 'maarun ya maroon' (Do I kill, or do I die?), she urges Neelesh to fight. This isn't just maternal instinct; it's political. She shapes Neelesh's political and community consciousness. The film also gives agency to the female lead, which wasn't the case in Selvaraj's story. Here, the female protagonist Vidhi is more socially aware and acknowledges the privilege she holds as an upper-caste woman. But some of her dialogues, particularly the ones challenging patriarchy and using terms like 'toxic masculinity' feel like lazy writing, as if the writer just decided to sprinkle them in without bothering with nuance or context. Similarly, the film is unable to entirely avoid mainstream Bollywood tropes, and the sprinkle of Bollywoodisation is hard to ignore. The extravagant introduction scene, where Neelesh sees Vidhi for the first time while his gang plays dhol at a wedding, never gets revisited and feels rather forced. In these moments, the film is simply a 'Dharmafication' of Pariyerum Perumal, where much is lost in translation. The Tamil original is imbued with the essence of Dalit life: A sense of community, shots of people outside the protagonist's family, which grounds the film in its Dalit roots. But that raw, documentary-like feel is missing in Iqbal's story, probably because it is set in an urban environment or because Iqbal gave more importance to Bollywoodisation than to authentic representation of the community. However, we cannot overlook how smartly Iqbal uses certain Bollywood tropes without letting them affect her storytelling. For instance, in the wedding song, while everyone is shown dancing, Neelesh still hesitates, never really feeling comfortable dancing freely in that space. In most Bollywood films, the male lead would've jumped in to join the heroine center-stage. But here, in a crowd full of upper-caste people dancing on the floor, it's easy to sense that Neelesh is the odd one out, the outsider. And that speaks volumes about how Iqbal approached the story. Similarly, the story of Shekhar (played by Priyank Tiwari) is one of the most powerful additions Iqbal makes to Selvaraj's story. Spoiler alert: What happens to Shekhar unmistakably echoes the institutional cruelty that led to Rohith Vemula's death. By including this subplot, Iqbal draws on political memory, broadening the film's scope and showing how institutions participate in caste oppression. The suspension and eventual discontinuation of Shekhar's fellowship, his protest on campus, and the prolonged uncertainty about his fate — all of it reminded me of Vemula and others whose critical voices institutions have tried to silence. Iqbal leaves the audience with a lot to take from this subplot, and it stands out as one of the film's strongest aspects, something that was not there in Selvaraj's original. In the cinema hall where I watched Dhadak 2, also present were two men, presumably upper-caste, who kept talking about how caste oppression doesn't exist and that the film was misleading. Their discomfort could be heard in their voices. That's exactly why this remake matters: To make the comfortable uncomfortable and to bring Selvaraj's story to a wider audience by making it more accessible. The writer is a researcher on an ICSSR research project at Bodoland University
Indian Express
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
Dhadak 2: a ‘Dalit Shah Rukh Khan' and the dream of casteless imagination
Written by Aishwarya Prakash and Srimanjori Guha In Neelesh, the male protagonist from Dhadak 2, we, as women of the '90s, saw a glimpse of the Shah Rukh Khan we once adored. When Vidhi, the female protagonist of the film, invites him to a family wedding, he styles himself not after today's hypermasculine hero, but Khan from a late '90s movie. At the wedding, he shyly watches the dolled-up Vidhi from a distance, dances with her, albeit in a dream sequence. Dhadak 2 is almost a cheesy rom-com until it isn't. As the film was interrupted by the 'inconvenient' question of caste, we, two Savarna women, sitting in the dark theatre, were made to confront a deeply uncomfortable question: What happens to a Dalit Shah Rukh Khan? Neelesh, a young boy from the Dalit Ahirwaar community, always seeks 'normalcy': A quiet life, a polytechnic course, time with his dhol group, and his beloved dog Birju. But caste refuses to let him be. When Birju is killed by upper-caste men and police brutality follows, Neelesh is compelled to study law. From the moment he enters college, the surnames, seating arrangements, and the dominance of English quickly reveal the social hierarchy. Neelesh tries to survive hiding behind a 'casteless' identity, calling himself 'BA LLB' and avoiding mention of his surname and his father's occupation. In contrast stands Shekhar, an Ambedkarite student leader who is everything Neelesh is afraid to become. While Neelesh initially clings to an apolitical identity, he is allowed this luxury as long as Shekhar's politics shield him. The company of Shekhar and his two Savarna friends make Neelesh's college life bearable. However, as the movie progresses and Neelesh is confronted with unspeakable violence, we see his non-confrontational, tender self slowly disappearing. Yet, Neelesh continues to hold on to his tenderness and finally hits back when his life is at stake. So, who is allowed to remain soft in this society? Not a Neelesh or a Shekhar. Shekhar walks through the world cloaked in Ambedkarite blue, known for his fire and fearlessness. However, a quiet softness lingers, in pink bougainvillaea flowers tucked between the pages of his books — easily overlooked, pressed flat and preserved. Neither the film nor Neelesh is allowed the luxuries of first love. The reality of caste lingers from the very beginning and eventually tears apart the rosy aesthetics of a Dharma film. At the other end of this equation stands Vidhi — a Savarna girl, raised by a 'progressive father'. She was 'allowed' to pursue a law degree. While she is an exception, the film sharply portrays the condition of women in upper caste households. Women are considered as embodying the 'honour' of these families, but are rarely treated with honour within their own homes. While Vidhi continues to critique gender roles, she is often dismissed by her family as merely childish. Vidhi openly acknowledges her privilege as an upper-caste woman and tries to use it in various forms, from helping Neelesh in improving his English to questioning the professor and signing petitions. In many ways, she is far more rebellious than Neelesh can ever afford to be. And yet, initially, she fails to see caste as the structural problem. Like many privileged young women, Vidhi too longs for a 'casteless' lover. A companion who will rise above all differences, simply for love. But in Indian society, 'Ahirwar' Neelesh can only aspire to be such a companion, never allowed to become one. Instead, he shoulders the burden of opening Vidhi's eyes to her caste blindness while also delivering a jarring wake-up call to the film's largely Savarna audience Raj met Simran on the Euro Rail (Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge). Rahul met Anjali in a swanky Mumbai college (Kuch Kuch Hota Hai). But for Neelesh to meet Vidhi, a government law college with provisions of 'quota' had to exist. In a time when public institutions are being steadily dismantled in the name of 'merit' and privatisation, Dhadak 2 quietly reminds us of what's at stake. These spaces are not just avenues of social mobility for the marginalised. They also offer a rare chance to the privileged to step beyond their inherited worlds and return with something more lasting than a degree: A transformed perspective. Neelesh and Vidhi's bond, shaped by various axes of marginalisation, can be shaky and fragile. But perhaps, this is the only hope for an anti-caste, non-patriarchal world. A world where a Dalit Shah Rukh Khan too gets to love, and a Simran doesn't need Babuji's permission before she can board the train. The writers are research scholars at Centre for Development Studies
