towards inclusivity: Dalit women’s representation in contemporary Telugu cinescapes

Abstract

Cinema acts as a cultural product, a medium of expression and a source of popular entertainment; usually it appears to conscientiously genuflect to upper-caste dictums. Since its inception, Telugu cinema, or Tollywood, the third-largest film industry in India, has produced various caste-based films like Gudavalli Ramabrahmam’s Malapilla (1938), Kasinadhuni Vishwanath’s Kalam Marindhi (1972) and K. Balachander’s Rudraveena (1988), amongst others. In the discourse surrounding caste, the ‘Dalit woman question’ and its representation is either consciously ignored or erased, and thus, it stands enfolded in upper-caste reformist politics. This article analyses the representation of Dalit women in select Telugu films produced at significant sociopolitical junctures of contemporary times. These films mark a significant departure from the stereotypical representation of Dalit women as submissive and portray them as women with voices. Within the larger framework of feminist activism and human rights discourse, we see Dalit women protagonists in these films with an agentic space of their own. In the Indian context, where equality and no discrimination are constitutional rights, the films under discussion, Srikanth Addala’s Narappa (2021) and Sekhar Kammula’s Love Story (2021), are an appropriate intervention to showcase the inclusivity of Dalit women in the larger scheme of Indian feminism. This study employs critical textual and frame analysis to read selected Telugu films as cultural texts with Dalit feminist consciousness embedded within them.

Keywords

caste Dalit women representation Telugu cinema stereotypes Dalit feminist consciousness

Introduction

The stratification of caste in Indian society had its origin in the Chaturvarnya (four-tier) division as Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas and Shudras, categorised primarily on the basis of one’s occupational status or guna (worth) (Ambedkar and Vasant, 1990, pp. 58–59). Panchamas, or Ati-Shudras, generally referred to as Dalits,¹ exist outside the caste hierarchy and are considered ‘polluting’ by caste Hindus. Identified as ‘Scheduled Caste’ (SC) by The Constitution (Scheduled Caste) Order, 1950 (1950), they constitute 16.6 per cent of India’s population, according to the 2011 census. In the unified state of Andhra Pradesh (prior to its division in 2014 into Andhra Pradesh and Telangana), Dalits made up 16.41 per cent of the total population (Teja, 2020).

Dalits are compelled to perform the most menial and degrading jobs, including skinning carcasses, manual scavenging and garbage collection. Rajni Kothari (1994, p. 1589) explains that Dalits are still in profound turmoil in the twenty-first century, with constant humiliation and increasing erosion of their identity and sense of belonging to civil society, the nation and the state. They are repeatedly subject to crimes of monstrous proportions committed by upper-caste men (landlords). Consequently, women in these Dalit communities are subordinated in terms of their power relations to men (Sujatha, 2014). They face severe exploitation both within and outside their personal spaces, as evinced by recent findings from National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) statistics. There has been a sharp rise in the rate of atrocities against Dalit women² from 5,713 (14.81 per cent) in 2015 to 7,510 (17.38 per cent) in 2019. Between 2015 and 2019, there were 206,639 recorded crimes against SCs, with 32,889 of these incidents directly involving SC women (Government of India, 2020). It is further alarming as the statistics record only 10 per cent of actual crimes, whereas 90 per cent of cases go unreported to police for fear of social ostracism (Teltumbde, 2017, p. 62). The everyday discrimination against Dalit women and their inhumane and indecent treatment has never been a definite concern in mainstream literature (Guru, 1995, p. 2548; Gupta, 2007, pp. 28–30; Gohel, 2023, p. 7). Instead, they are constructed as mute sufferers of caste inequalities and oppression, intensifying their social exclusion.

This stereotypical representation of Dalit women has also manoeuvred into popular Telugu³ cinematic narratives. Telugu cinema, or Tollywood (a portmanteau of ‘Telugu’ and ‘Hollywood’), is the third largest film industry in India (Bora, 2021) and is dedicated to the production of motion pictures in the Telugu language. It assumes a distinct position under the broader ‘regional cinema’ classification, distinguished from Hindi cinema, in accordance with models of nation formation with language as a marker of distinction (Radhakrishnan, 2021). It demonstrates notable significance in terms of both quantitative (production budget, distribution) and qualitative parameters (cultural impact, narrative depth, originality, innovation); this is evident when juxtaposed with Hindi cinema. Moreover, Selvaraj Velayutham and Vijay Devadas (2022) contend that an intricate and symbiotic relationship has existed between cinema and politics in South Asia since the inception of the film industry. Within this complex tapestry, the Telugu states of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana form a unique ‘trisection’, where the forces of caste, cinema and politics converge, perpetually influencing and being influenced by one another.

In the former undivided Andhra Pradesh, select Shudra communities (notably Reddys, Kammas and Kapus)⁴ accumulated wealth and influence through substantial land ownership, notably driven by agricultural surplus resulting from the green revolution in the coastal region (Srinivas, 2010). These agricultural castes leveraged this backdrop to invest in the emerging film industry, catalysing the rise of stars such as Nandamuri Taraka Rama Rao and Chiranjeevi. These actors not only represented their respective Kamma (NTR) and Kapu (Chiranjeevi) communities but also, as articulated by Rohitha Naraharisetty and Divya Kandukuri (2023), cultivated subcultures stemming from their cinematic and political endeavours by the early 1990s. These subcultures evolved into fan organisations with dual roles as caste-based associations,⁵ expanding into vibrant fandoms. This meant that the dominant state political discourse intertwined with Tollywood’s internal workings and its ties to prevailing caste politics (Naraharisetty, 2021). The unopposed authority of the seemingly fragmented Kamma-Kapu cine families underscores their common stake in retaining control over the industry and its gateway into politics, restricting access to outsiders. Today, the Reddy-Kamma-Kapu triumvirate’s dominance still persists in the Telugu states.

This reality is discernible in caste-themed films helmed by dominant caste directors. In Telugu cinema, Gudavalli Ramabrahmam’s Malapilla (1938) initiated a Gandhian approach to addressing caste (Margaret, 2013)⁶ and introduced the first Dalit female character. The Gandhian framework for tackling untouchability persisted after independence in films like K. Balachander’s Rudraveena (1988) and Kasinadhuni Vishwanath’s works such as Kalam Marindhi (1972), Shankarabharanam (1980), Swayamkrushi (1987) and Aapadbandhavudu (1992). Telugu cinema has predominantly explored the problem of caste through an upper-caste conventional gaze. Protagonists are often either from higher castes striving to liberate Dalits from caste oppression or Dalit men weighed down by caste burdens. Chiranjeevi, a Kapu actor, depicted the experiences and aspirations of the masses (Dalit-Bahujans) in films like Swayamkrushi (1987) and Aapadbandhavudu (1992). In contrast, Daggubati Venkatesh, a Kamma actor, often portrayed roles advocating upper-caste reform of behaviour in order to uplift and accommodate Dalits. Both these actors explored caste-related themes in their cinematic work but refrained from endorsing or inciting violence against marginalised castes (Naraharisetty, 2021), as seen in the horrific massacres in Karamchedu and Tsunduru.⁷

Within the matrix of caste politics and Tollywood’s internal dynamics, Dalit women’s depiction follows two distinct trajectories: they either become participants in a Gandhian ‘liberal’ revival led by male protagonists (Yenda, 2022),⁸ or they remain marginalised within the broader framework of Dalit assertion (Mahesh, 2022). Thereby, the prevalent narratives often maintained a passive stance towards caste and its intersection with gender (Nisha, 2020). When upper-caste directors like K. Vishwanath and Dasari handle caste themes, characters like Sarada in Kalam Marindi (1972) and Tulasi in Shankarabharanam (1980) assimilate into the ‘Savarna model’ aimed at upliftment.⁹ Conversely, characters like Sitamma in Balipeetam (1975) and Ganga in Swayamkrushi (1987) do not engage in the usual acts of Dalit resistance such as protests and defiance against caste discrimination pursued by Dalit male protagonists. The relocation of the Telugu film industry base from Chennai to Hyderabad, and the consequent establishment of the National Federation for Dalit Women (NFDW) in 1990 failed to eradicate the ‘Savarna’ gaze¹⁰ behind and within cinematic narratives, which ‘romanticises and normalises’ caste (Nisha, 2020, p. 10). However, in recent times, the ‘new norm’ films in Tollywood have attempted to deliver alternative narratives around caste, renegading from normalcy. These films attempt to break away from the ‘mainstream cinematographic hegemony’ (Yengde, 2018) by distorting stereotypes and showcasing resistance through acts of subversion, deconstruction and recreation.

This article examines the representation of Dalit women with ‘Dalit feminist consciousness’ in two Telugu films, Narappa (2021, directed by Srikanth Addala) and Love Story (2021, directed by Sekhar Kammula), to study the paradigm shift from stereotypical and conformist positionality in contemporary times. Dalit feminist consciousness refers to an awareness and perspective that integrates elements of both Dalit activism and feminist ideology. It creates scope for self-assertion(s) and involves challenging traditional patriarchal and casteist structures while advocating for the rights and empowerment of Dalit women. These films stand as significant signposts in Telugu cinema, in terms of both their directors and their choice of actors, as they challenge and overturn traditional stereotypes of Dalit women on screen. While Dalit-centric films often exhibit characteristics like modest budgets, novice actors and directors from outside established backgrounds (Wani, 2018, p. 216), Narappa and Love Story deviate from this pattern. Directors Srikanth Addala and Sekhar Kammula, known for their previous work in different genres, delve into caste-related themes for the first time. Srikanth Addala, renowned for romantic family dramas like Kothabangarulokam (2008) and Brahmotsavam (2016), undertakes a remaking of Vetrimaaran’s Asuran (2019) as Narappa, starring Venkatesh, a prominent Telugu actor from the Naidu family. Narappa marks a departure, as recent Tamil films addressing caste, such as Kabali (2016), Kaala (2018) and Sarpatta Parambarai (2021), have typically been dubbed into Telugu. In contrast, Sekhar Kammula, known for depicting real-life love and relationship stories in films like Godavari (2006) and Happy Days (2007), explores caste-related topics through Love Story, with established actor Akkineni Naga Chaitanya portraying a Dalit Christian character. The Dalit female protagonists in these selected films, Sundaramma and Manemma, are performed by Priyamani and Easwari Rao, both of whom have a three-decade-long filmography in Telugu cinema and are acclaimed for their performances in rural narratives and themes.

The years 2018 to 2021 in Telugu cinema witnessed the emergence of the ‘Dalit phenomenon’, attempting to demystify dominant ideologies that perpetuate discriminatory treatment, dehumanisation and exclusion in order to uphold their hegemony. Starting in 2018, a series of Telugu films, including C/o Kancherapalem (2018), Dorasaani (2019), Palasa (2020), Colour Photo (2020) and Uppena (2021), tackled caste from various orientations. C/o Kancherapalem and Colour Photo examined caste and colour discrimination, while Dorasaani and Uppena explored honour dynamics in upper-caste households, often obstructing inter-caste relationships. Palasa depicted caste practices and documented Dalit resistance in an Andhra Pradesh village. A common thread in these films is the focus on Dalit men as agents of reform and resistance, often sidelining Dalit women, who are reduced to mere photographs adorning their homes. For instance, in Sridevi Soda Center (2021), the Dalit mother’s portrait serves a symbolic purpose, primarily as an object of worship in Sudheer Babu’s house.

However, films like Narappa and Love Story negotiate the Dalit space by disassociating from the insensitive representation of caste violence as well as age-old patronising and sympathetic depictions of Dalits, especially women. These two films produce contexts to investigate the representation of Dalit women with agency, voice and adequate screen space. This transformation within the century-old film industry cannot be perceived as an abrupt change from a single factor; instead, it is a gradual evolution influenced by anti-caste movements, Dalit organisations and regional film industries like Tamil cinema. The Dalit movement in Andhra Pradesh, as Yagati Chinna Rao (2015) outlines, traces back to 1906 when Bhagya Reddy Varma established an organisation called Jagan Mitra Mandali in Hyderabad to promote Dalit social awareness, later known as the Adi-Andhra movement. The Karamchedu, Tsunduru and Vempenta massacres ignited Dalit activism, marking shifts in Dalit consciousness, and led to the formation of Dalit groups like the Kula Nirmulana Porta Samithi (KNPS) and the United Front of Dalits and Minorities (DAFODOM), fostering community connections. These developments influenced the Dalit discourse in Telugu literature and cinema, disrupting upper-caste dominance. Lower-caste (non-Dalit) directors like N. Shankar and Karuna Kumar introduced a more realistic portrayal of Dalits, moving away from conventional Gandhian reform-based empowerment. Furthermore, the Telugu film industry, initially based in Madras, appears to have drawn inspiration from Tamil cinema (Shinde, 2021) in producing Dalit-character-led anti-caste cinema.

The principal objective of this article, as previously articulated, is to establish Dalit women characters in Narappa and Love Story within the larger context of Dalit feminist consciousness, advocating for equal rights. From raising crucial concerns about Dalit women’s subjectivities to depicting self-confident and resilient characters (Lalitha and Pankaj, 2022) who spoke up for their community, these films work in contrast to earlier depictions of caste. The alternative discourse that these films generate is a suitable intervention to demonstrate the inclusivity of Dalit women in the larger scheme of Indian feminism. The article will employ critical textual analysis to read selected films as cultural texts and it uses ‘frame analysis’ (Goffman, 1974, p. 345; Jameson, 1976, pp. 129–131) to further probe the underlying connections between representation and power structures. The article also considers various paratexts (posters, publicity materials, film reviews) and government reports to validate its analysis.

Reading Dalit women characters

Sundaramma

Narappa, directed by Srikanth Addala and released in July 2021, is a remake of Asuran, a 2019 Tamil-language film written and directed by Vetrimaaran, which in turn is an adaptation of Poomani’s Tamil novel Vekkai (Heat) (1982). The film examines brutal caste discrimination and exploitation. It is set in the village of Ramasagaram in Anantapuramu district and revolves around Narappa (Venkatesh) and his family’s struggle to protect a small patch of farming land from an obdurate landlord, Pandusami, who seeks to seize the lands of the lower castes. The audience reception of the film Narappa may suggest a connection between the film’s plot and the Karamchedu massacre (Teja, 2021a); however, it is crucial to emphasise that there is no substantial evidence confirming this association. The film opens with Narappa and his son Sinabba (Rakhi) attempting to cross a river carrying homemade bombs. In their very first exchange, Sundaramma (Priyamani), Narappa’s wife, is introduced as the ‘conscious woman’, that is, a woman who is aware, perceptive and thoughtful. Her younger son Sinabba’s retributory act of violence, involving killing the landlord Pandusami, forces the entire family to flee. On that night of terror and apprehension, Sundaramma gives Sinabba a bag full of homemade bombs for self-protection, along with a packet of food. Sundaramma’s first frame of reference, which depicts her in hiding, deconstructs the dominant representation of a Dalit woman as ‘submissive’; her eyes demonstrate fearlessness, and her words exude confidence. In a scene when her daughter Bujamma pleads her uncle Basavaiah (Rajeev Kanakala) not to leave them alone, Sundaramma takes a decisive step forward, placing her hand reassuringly on her daughter’s shoulder and stating, ‘Please go ahead, brother. I will take care’,¹¹ symbolised by her unwavering grasp on a stick.

The most common trope in Telugu films involves the male protagonist’s introduction, featuring an intense fight scene and a punchline, serving the ‘preferred’ elevation. The film demystifies the established introduction narrative and reorientates the dominant portrayal through Sundaramma’s assertive stance, which fuels the conflict. In a scene where she is seen working in her three-acre plot of land, upper-caste men exploit the common well for their water needs. She single-handedly confronts the group of nine upper-caste men, ‘Rey, what are you up to, huh? This is just a draw-well. If you pump water using a motor, will there be any water left for our fields?’. The camera takes a long/wide shot that further elevates Sundaramma amidst the group of men. She gives a stern look and confidently advances: ‘If you do not turn off the motor, I will dump it in the well’. Unperturbed by her warning, when the men return to their work, she quickly seizes the scythe from Sinabba and puts an upper-caste man into a headlock. In reality, Dalits often face severe limitations in accessing clean water, encountering numerous obstacles (Dutta, Sinha and Parashar, 2018, p. 63). Several reports highlight the vulnerability of Dalit women who draw water from wells and hand pumps, facing assault and violence (PTI, 2013). Sundaramma subverts this ‘vulnerable’ Dalit woman image on the screen, which, further aided by the ‘solo shot’ sequence (usually reserved for male protagonists), provides an alternative reading of Dalit subjectivities. Her proactive stance at the well serves as a foundation for contesting upper-caste dominance and demonstrates the potential to depart from ‘mainstream cinematographic hegemony’ (Yengde, 2018).

Clothing, a symbol of social status and authority, signifies identity and can also be a tool of subjugation. It is a significant marker of ‘caste’. Sundaramma challenges the conventional portrayal of Dalit women as dark-skinned, dishevelled and dressed in old, murky clothing (Singh, 2011). The poster for the movie Narappa, unveiled on Priyamani’s birthday, symbolically presents Sundaramma in her clean, bright and new clothes, defying the divisive caste prejudice. She rejects the prevalent notion of ‘intlo puli-veedhilo pili’ (lion at home, cat outside), adopting a non-conformist stance. While Narappa may be the film’s central character, Sundaramma serves as its narrative backbone. Her actions do not just critique the existing predicament but also transcend into a counter-narrative that seeks to make ‘the invisible visible’ on the cinematic graph (Abraham and Barak, 2022, p. 12). When their eldest son, Munikanna (Karthik Ratnam), removes the electric fence dividing their land from the upper-caste land, Narappa accuses Munikanna of aggression. However, Sundaramma takes a proactive stance, questioning, ‘If this fence was removed earlier, would Gundamma’s daughter succumb to a snakebite en route to the hospital?’, underscoring the problematic implications inherent in the construction of such barriers. Her representation as a lower-caste, able-bodied individual subverts the ‘caste Hindu imagination’ where Dalit protagonists gleefully accept their social positioning and seldom oppose ‘the inhuman discrimination depicted on screen’ (Chauhan, 2019, pp. 332–333).

The film vividly depicts Dalit women’s exploitation in a scene featuring Kannamma (Ammu Abhirami), who is Narappa’s cousin. She wears slippers to her tailoring classes, an act deemed inappropriate for Dalits. An upper-caste man confronts her, saying, ‘You strut around the village wearing chappals [slippers] and, you expect us to watch?’. Kannamma faces escalating violence as the man subjects her to three brutal slaps, pulls her hair and pushes her to the ground with his leg. She is further humiliated by being made to carry the slippers on her head while walking. This scene serves as a stark representation of the systemic violence faced by Dalits. It is important to note that solely emphasising the suffering and humiliation of oppressed communities can be problematic (Leonard and Edachira, 2022, p. 92). Through Sundaramma’s character, the narrative offers a contrasting perspective, highlighting their resilience in the face of oppression. In addition to her multifaceted characterisation vis-à-vis other Dalit women within the film’s narrative fabric, Sundaramma also challenges Narappa’s submission to upper-caste men, questioning his complacency, ‘How could you fall at everyone’s feet just because they asked you to? Aren’t you ashamed?’, in a focus shot. In his later years, after a confrontational past, Narappa begins to acquiesce to the demands of upper-caste figures. Sundaramma becomes the catalyst, rekindling his determination and self-confidence.

Sundaramma’s resistance, whether in word or act, strikes at the very root of hegemonic representations. In the scene when their son Munikanna is lynched, decapitated and thrown in a field as flesh for dogs, Sundaramma does not believe it until her brother proclaims, ‘My nephew is dead, whether you accept it or not, that is the truth’. She proclaims: ‘If that is true, why are you still standing here? Isn’t the man who killed my son roaming free? Let his ceremony be held. And then perform these rituals here’. Unable to witness the agony of his mother, Sinabba murders the landlord Pandusami in a single stroke in the village centre. Sundaramma further declares, ‘If either of you has done this task, I would be pleased. I would have killed all our goats and thrown a party. My son’s life is ruined’. Her stance over her son’s future instigates Narappa’s action to protect Sinabba and is validated in the film’s denouement, emphasising the role of education. Sundaramma is represented as ‘agentic’ in her ability to act, decide and exert influence (N. Rao, 2015, p. 415). Her agency, as Shailaja Paik (2019, p. 98) emphasises, often manifesting as a subtle exertion of influence, needs to be perceived within the context of Dalit women’s subjectivity, situated amidst a dichotomous tension (between family dynamics and the broader societal framework) that is at times fragmentary and incoherent.

The film Narappa had a direct OTT (over-the-top) release on Amazon Prime Video, for which Priyamani earned a nomination for the South Indian International Movie Awards 2022 in ‘the Best Actress in a Leading Role’ category. The criteria for assessing ‘audience acceptance’ in a traditional theatrical release and a release on over-the-top platforms differ, with box office numbers not being a factor in the latter. Narappa received favourable responses, with an IMDb rating of 7.8. The Film Companion, a platform dedicated to film criticism, appreciated Priyamani for carrying an ‘effective’ performance as Sundaramma (Ranjan, 2021). India Today, one of the leading Indian dailies’ film reviews, admired Priyamani’s role: ‘As a feisty mother, she does not mince her words or hesitate before putting misogynistic men in their place’ (Janani, 2021). The News Minute review celebrated ‘the fiery Sundaramma’ (Rajendran, 2021). The ‘inclusive’ reception of Dalit women by mainstream media demonstrates its acceptance of the paradigm shift in Telugu cinema whereby there is an increased visibility of Dalit women on screen.

In earlier Telugu films like Malapilla (1938) and Rudraveena (1988), the frequent use of derogatory terms—such as ‘yachakuralu/bichagathe’ (beggar) and ‘kulamthakkuva’ (low caste) to refer to Dalit women—stresses the negotiation of ‘Dalit subjectivity’ in line with conventional ideology. Torture of the Dalit body, as Premila Swamy (2022, p. 6) argues, is a mechanism of control and subjugation; additionally, the verbal abuse and humiliation of Dalit women serves to maintain hegemonic power structures. However, the film Narappa succeeds in distorting the dominant narrative by refraining from using insulting or demeaning language when referring to Dalits. Furthermore, Sekhar Kammula’s Love Story (2021) goes a step further in subverting the stereotypical representation of Dalit women through the character Manemma (Easwari Rao).

Manemma

The film Love Story (2021) is a narrative of an inter-caste relationship between Revanth (Naga Chaitanya), a Dalit Christian, and Mounika (Sai Pallavi), an upper-caste woman, who meet in the city while pursuing their dreams. It depicts Manemma, a Dalit woman, as the protagonist Revanth’s mother. The first frame presents Manemma in a squatting posture, awaiting her son Revanth. She is not represented as passive and subservient. Instead, she is an assertive protagonist with a pleasant appearance. Her emphatic narrative positionality subverts the prevalent depiction of Dalit women in supporting roles as ‘comical/pitiable’ figures who aid in mere narrative progression.

Manemma disrupts the power structure of caste and blurs its ‘complex demarcation’ (Kannabiran and Kannabiran, 1991, p. 2131) through her occupation and land ownership. Firstly, the shift is negotiated in her occupation as an Anganwadi teacher, who provides pre-school education to children aged between 3 and 6 years old. Contrary to traditional portrayals that limit women to domestic caregiving, there is a growing exploration of their involvement in professional work outside the home (Kamble, 2023, p. 4). The chapter ‘Dalit women in Indian society’ in Gender, Caste and Class in India (2006) by Neelima Yadav argues that education is the only way that poor Dalit women in rural areas can escape the vicious circle of poverty, abuse and oppression. Education for Dalits aids in socioeconomic mobility, civic inclusion, political engagement and vocational opportunity. Manemma’s educational status encourages upper-caste women to step into a Dalitawada (a settlement inhabited by Dalits, typically located on the outskirts of a village) for medicines, otherwise an improbable act. Secondly, land ownership in Indian villages is tied to castes, and most of the problems that Dalits face stem from their ‘landlessness’ (Yengde, 2018). The agricultural census of 2015–2016 reported that Dalits own only about 9 per cent of total agricultural land (Department of Agriculture & Farmers’ Welfare, 2020), and Manemma is one of them. When Revanth insists on selling their half-acre of land, Manemma rejects the idea, saying, ‘I will die, but I will never agree on this. It is our strength’. Historically, the Dalits in Telangana have been able to secure land—albeit in meagre proportions—on a few occasions, like Bahadur Yung’s campaign of mass conversion of Dalits to Islam in the early 1940s, which resulted in the distribution of some jagir¹² and state lands to Dalits. In addition, the Telangana Armed Rebellion (1946–1952) and the state land reforms and Bhoodan movements of 1951–1952 attempted land distribution, yet it was not so effective across marginalised communities. As a single mother, Manemma’s ability to own such land out of historical deprivation is a revolution in itself.

The cinematic narrative begins with a series of monochromatic clips exposing the cruelty of caste discrimination, as reflected in the everyday experiences of Revanth and Manemma. She is the moral centre of the film (Varma, 2021) and is also instrumental in instilling the workings of caste into her son’s psyche. In the scene where Revanth attempts to enter a salon, the upper-caste men mockingly proclaim that this is not the place for Dalits like him. When her young son asks the reason, Manemma introduces the notion of ‘difference’ emerging out of one’s caste status. When the upper-caste men forcibly seize her land documents owing to her delay in loan repayment, Revanth says, ‘I wish my dad were still alive, amma’. Manemma’s response—‘I am still there, right? We will definitely reclaim our land someday, and we should work for it’—challenges convention. Her outright response and the consequent hard work to reclaim the land defies the stereotype of victimhood. When her son informs her that at his school Narasimham sir (the headmaster) gave him a rupee for dancing well, she grimly asks, ‘How did he give? Did he place it in your hands? Or did he drop it?’. She imparts that one must work for money and earn it as a right, not as charity or alms. In a heartfelt exchange with her son Revanth, she asserts that ‘only our hard work can put us ahead of them’, emphasising the need to overcome societal divides. As the scene shifts to a vivid palette, symbolising the contemporary context, the narrative subtly introduces Revanth as an aspiring Zumba trainer in the city of Hyderabad. This transition highlights Manemma’s instrumental role in shaping her son’s ethos and aspirations. To underscore caste dynamics, Manemma brings Revanth to the residence of the upper-caste Devyani, who is Mounika’s mother. The camera captures both Manemma and Devyani in a single frame, using close-up shots to highlight the well-dressed appearance of the Dalit woman. Filmmakers often use close-up shots to connect the audience with the focal character, emphasising specific details that may be overlooked in wider shots (Prakash, 2022, p. 214). Despite their dignified attire, the upper-caste individuals remain unresponsive and indifferent. Devyani inquires, ‘Is he your son?’. Before Manemma can finish—‘Yes, he runs a dance centre in the city, earning …’—Devyani abruptly departs. Shortly after, Mounika’s father arrives, settling on the couch without acknowledging their presence: ‘Did not you get a deal on your land yet? My brother told you, right? His words are my words’. Without further inquiry, he dismisses them, assuming their intentions. Dalit women are always represented as the ‘Other’ of the caste Hindu women in the cinematic scape.¹³ Caste Hindu women are high-caste, able-bodied individuals and are all that these Dalit women are not. Manemma’s representation as an able-bodied individual transgresses this ‘normality’ and generates an alternative treatise altogether. While Devyani is compelled to conform to patriarchal norms, Manemma’s actions deconstruct the labelling. The film presents the deeply entrenched misogynistic binary that historically characterises Dalit and upper-caste women’s interactions. Within this framework, there exists a compelling contrast in how Devyani and Manemma respond to threats to their land rights. Devyani, despite her brother encroaching on her land, chooses a more passive acceptance of her situation, while Manemma resists any land usurpation. Notably, dominant-caste women, steeped in patriarchal ideology, rely on the economic, social and political status of their male counterparts (Aloysius, Mangubhai and Lee, 2020).

In families where widows and single mothers have adult sons, women cede the primary decision-making role to their sons, and the sons control the mothers’ lives (Rowshan and Khan, 2017, p. 41). However, Manemma disrupts what Margaret M. Russell (1991, p. 244) describes as the ‘dominant gaze’ through her actions that reinforce her identity and recognition. She partakes in her son’s business decisions, including inaugurating his new fitness centre and hiring a trainer. In contrast, when Narasimham, Mounika’s uncle, convenes all three upper-caste women—his mother, wife and sister—to inquire about Mounika’s departure to Hyderabad, they stand while he remains seated. However, none of them can influence his opinion or control his anger. In fact, Mounika’s mother Devyani ends up shouting at Mounika, illustrating how upper-caste women often conform to the men in their family. Throughout the film, Mounika avoids Narasimham due to her traumatic past experience of child molestation; Devyani refrains from supporting her daughter until the revelation of the abuse surfaces later on.

In Manemma’s final act of defiance, when Revanth and Mounika attempt to escape from Narasimham, Revanth brings Mounika home without footwear; Manemma gives her slippers and supports them until the denouement. Footwear is a vital gesture of deference to impose humiliation-subordination on Dalits (Sooryamoorthy, 2018), who in turn are not allowed to wear footwear but must carry it in their hands. The narrative through Manemma offers a counter-discourse to the manifestation of hegemonic power in varied forms.

The film earned three nominations from the Filmfare Awards South and was a musical success. The Hindu film review lauded Love Story for addressing pertinent issues with sensitivity and appreciated the characterisation of Easwari Rao as Manemma for ‘reiterating the importance of earning and living with dignity’ (Dundoo, 2021). Firstpost’s review applauded Manemma’s representation, saying, ‘Most films write mothers who are from lower strata as docile and easily-pleased beings. Here, the mother serves as the moral focal point of the film’ (Varma, 2021). Charan Teja (2021b) of The News Minute declared that the film ‘is an inevitable piece of art at a time when Dalits, particularly Dalit Christians, face hostility and abuse from all sides for desiring a dignified existence’. This significant departure of Sundaramma and Manemma from stereotypical representations necessitates further probing in order to demonstrate the inclusivity of Dalit women in the larger schema of Indian feminism.

Discussion

Jean-Luc Comolli and Paul Narboni (1971) state that every film is rooted in some ideology: it may define an ideology, attack an ideology, go against an accepted ideology or be overtly ideological or claim to be so. Narappa and Love Story choose to go against the grain with the bold and assertive representation of Dalit women protagonists Sundaramma and Manemma. Their names also function as a means of resistance:¹⁴ when translated, Sundaramma and Manemma convey the meanings ‘beautiful’ and ‘jewel’, respectively. In Narappa, Sundaramma dispels the ‘vulnerable’ Dalit image through her proactive positioning. And Manemma in Love Story goes a step further in blurring the complex demarcated lines of power. They can be grouped within the idea of Dalit feminist consciousness, where they are no longer ‘embedded’ in the accepted ideology that Dalit women are subservient and ought to remain subservient. They enter the vital stage of ‘synthesis’, which, as Nancy E. Downing and Kristin L. Roush (1985) argue, enables them to route their energies and also respond appropriately to experiences of gender and caste-based oppression and discrimination.

The construction of exclusionary politics with regard to Dalit women on screen and in society has been a preferred norm among higher caste filmmakers. This portrayal of Dalit women as voiceless subjects in Telugu cinema ‘reduces, essentialises, naturalises, and fixes the “differences”’ (Hall, 1997, p. 258). In the process of subversion, the contemporary films Narappa and Love Story depict Dalit women fighting for their rights and voicing injustice. The Constitution of India, 1950 (1950, Article 15, Clause 2b) protects citizens from discrimination based on religion, race, caste, sex, place of birth, etc., in the use of public facilities funded by the state or dedicated to the general public. However, the initial and primary conflict in Narappa stems from Sundaramma’s deviance towards the ‘unjust’ use of the well. Consequently, the constitution also provides her with ‘autonomy and self-control’ and enables her to exercise the right to freedom of speech and expression (ibid., Article 19, Clause 1a). In contrast, Manemma’s representation as a teacher, living a life of dignity and meaning (ibid., Article 21), situates her with possessing a ‘feminist consciousness’. She is not portrayed as struggling for autonomy in life situations; instead, she is perceived as having control over her life in traditional and ambiguous settings (Green, 1979, p. 359). In the scene when her son Revanth reveals his relationship with the daughter of an upper-caste landlord and proclaims that ‘Mounika’s parents are good’, Manemma speaks with a definite objective: ‘I will take you to their house; I will wear an expensive saree, and their first glance would be towards our feet’, which is a subtle indication of the entrenched upper-caste gaze, checking if Dalits have adhered to the customary practice of leaving their footwear outside before entering upper-caste houses. In an industry that is essentially hero-centric (Shaw, 2011, p. 55), where the accommodation of upper-caste female leads is ‘only required for glamour quotient’, the engagement of Dalit women with ‘agency’ is a commendable transition.

In the Indian context, where equality and non-discrimination are constitutionally protected (see Constitution of India, 1950 [1950], Articles 14 and 17), Dalit women are still subject to various forms of vulnerability. As Kalpana Kannabiran and Vasanth Kannabiran (1991, p. 2131) assert, ‘the social relations of caste are based on the exercise of power through the use of force’. This power can be direct or complex, stifling any discussion beyond its established boundaries. While Sundaramma opposes direct physical violence, Manemma challenges the complex power dynamics, blurring the lines of authority. Maya Pramod (2020, p. 112), sharing her experiences as a Dalit woman, explains, ‘We would set aside the unfaded clothes they gave us and treasure them’. The practice of upper castes giving their old, worn-out clothes to lower castes has become normalised. During Revanth and Manemma’s visit to Mounika’s house, Devyani offers clothes to Revanth, saying, ‘These are worn only once; they will suit you well’. Manemma gives Revanth a stern look and drags him out: Revanth’s financial inclusivity arising out of his Zumba centre does not change such upper-caste treatment.

Indian films, especially Telugu films on marginalised groups, through characters like Sundaramma and Manemma, are breaking away from cinematographic hegemony so as to provide ‘a voice to the voiceless sections of the society’ (Rani, 2016). This divergence from conventional caste representations, as elucidated by Dickens Leonard and Manju Edachira (2022), disrupts ‘the caste unconscious’ through denunciation (of caste images) and innovation (of anti-caste aesthetics). Sundaramma and Manemma, constructed by non-Dalit filmmakers,¹⁵ challenge prevailing ideologies, hitherto primarily under the control of upper-caste or Dalit men. These alternative narratives, presented as Dalit feminist assertions, create a space for the potential emergence of Dalit artists in an otherwise upper-caste-dominated Telugu film landscape. The introduction of ‘Dalit cinema’, defined by Suraj Yengde (2018, p. 503) as ‘a celluloid movement of visual creative art, made by Dalit film-makers, relating to Dalit subjectivities’ in the Telugu film industry, has the potential to reshape the dynamics of ‘cinema production and consumption’ (Herrero, 2021, p. 41).

In their efforts to relabel the hegemonic portrayal of Dalit women, Narappa and Love Story also foreground the unique Dalit feminist consciousness positioned at the intersections of caste and gender. Ethel Klein (1984), proposing three prerequisites to feminist consciousness, explains that first, members must acknowledge their membership in the group; second, they must reject the rationale for the situation of the group; and finally, they must recognise the need for group solutions for gender-based discrimination. Pearl Green (1979) further argues that feminist consciousness is complex and diverse. Sundaramma and Manemma’s consciousnesses evolve beyond the walls of oppressive confinement, which does not develop all at once but rather in stages, growing out of a dialectical relationship between the changing person and her experience.

Positioned within diverse levels of consciousness and distinct sociopolitical-cultural milieus, both characters confront varied manifestations of patriarchal and structural violence (Arya and Rathore, 2019) and display individual and discernible reactions to situations. These circumstances endow them with intricate social identities and subjectivities, granting them substantial agency. In doing this, the films resist diluting their women characters into feminine-cinematic typologies and thereby produce, as N. Sukumar and Shailaja Menon (2018, p. 2) argue, ‘a new grammar of cinematic aesthetics’. Sundaramma asserts her rights and serves as an ‘influencing’ figure, whereas Manemma’s self-assured demeanour carries added significance, supported by her financial autonomy as a single working mother. This validity of an event is not solely contingent on caste and class identity but also on one’s gender positioning (Guru, 1995) and agential capacities that emerge through intricate, discontinuous negotiations in one’s everyday lives. Generally, Dalits, at the margins of the economy, work as agricultural labourers on lands owned by upper castes (Govinda, 2009, p. 44). The films transgress this conventionality of land possession by associating Sundaramma and Manemma with the ownership of land. Moreover, their workspaces (field and school) emerge as sites of their agency.

Conclusion

The article presents and discusses the rise of ‘new norm’ films based on the issue of caste in Telugu cinema, highlighting their significant departure from the typified representation of Dalit women as ‘diffident, dark-skinned and under-confident’ in mainstream cinematic narratives (Chauhan, 2019, p. 328). Invoking Dalit feminist consciousness, Sundaramma and Manemma subvert the ‘exclusionary’ status of Dalit women within and outside of the cinematic sphere and thus gain inclusivity. The films have enabled Dalit women to voice their victimisation, to speak, to be heard, to act in defiance of authority, to confront systems of oppression, to gain social mobility (Spivak, 1994 [1988]) and to fight for their constitutional rights. Amidst all their suffering and humiliation, these Dalit women are said to have succeeded in establishing their fundamental rights, their visibility and, most importantly, their identity: a Dalit identity that resists losing its fight against exploitation. While the garnering of global attention in recent times has proved the potentiality of Telugu cinema, the cinematic representation of Dalit women challenging upper-caste dominance requires immediate attention. Alternatively, the Savarna patriarchal lens behind these films cannot be taken into abeyance. In a broader picture, Marathi and Tamil cinema has witnessed the emergence of Dalit filmmakers like Nagraj Manujule, Mari Selvaraj and Pa Ranjith, who have attempted to produce the Dalit experience through performative resistance. Though the Telugu film industry is yet to witness the rise of Dalit filmmakers for a discursive and paradigmatic treatment of caste, these films provide a potential way forward for Dalit filmmaking by initiating a dialogue concerning the apt representation of Dalit women, where they are not part of the salvation process but instead are claiming agency on their own terms.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank the editorial board, specifically Dr Jennifer Ung Loh, and the anonymous reviewers for their observations, comments and recommendations that immensely enriched the article.

1

Etymologically, the Hindi word ‘Dalit’ is derived from the Sanskrit root dal, meaning ‘divided, split, broken or scattered’. Lower caste activists adopted this term as a common identity for all marginalised people, encapsulating both the enduring caste oppression and historical resistance. ‘Dalit’ evolved into a self-chosen term with the organisation of ‘Dalit Panthers’, evoking the militancy of American ‘black panthers’ (Zelliot, 2008).

2

These atrocities are outlined under the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989 (1989). Primarily known as the SC/ST Act, it was enacted by the Indian parliament to prevent atrocities against people belonging to Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes. The act also states the provision of special courts to deal with such offences and provide further relief and rehabilitation for the victims. See also The Protection of Civil Rights Act, 1955 ().

3

Telugu, a Dravidian language primarily spoken in the Indian states of Telangana and Andhra Pradesh, is among India’s twenty-two scheduled languages and one of its six designated classical languages. Following the Andhra Pradesh Reorganisation Act, 2014 (2014) , the state of Andhra Pradesh was bifurcated into Telangana and Andhra Pradesh, but the film industry continued to serve both regions. In its discussions concerning language and the Telugu film industry, this article does not favour either state (Andhra Pradesh or Telangana).

4

Reddys, Kamma and Kapus are prominent castes in Andhra Pradesh, holding significant influence within the state. While traditionally categorised as ‘Shudras’ (the fourth and lowest) under the varna system, their socioeconomic status in the region has positioned these communities as dominant castes, often classified under the ‘OC’ (Open Category; see Richi, 2019).

5

These are groups formed by people sharing the same caste identity, such as Kapus, Kammas and Chowdarys. These associations, like the Kapu Naidu Sangam and Kamma Mahajana Sangam, are dedicated to providing educational, cultural and social support to their community members. While the prominent display of their respective heroes, like NTR and Chiranjeevi, may not be as conspicuous in their office centres today, subtle signs exist on their online pages. For instance, their websites feature iconic movie characters portrayed by these heroes, offer downloadable wallpapers of them and host articles related to them. See Kamma Mahajana Sangam Khammam, [last accessed 21 March 2024].

6

Gandhi's approach to addressing the issue of untouchability is characterised by defining it as a sin perpetrated by caste Hindus, thereby placing the burden of uplifting the untouchables on the caste Hindus themselves. This approach is framed as a form of self-purification for the upper castes. Conversely, it imposes upon Dalits the imperative to relinquish specific cultural practices, including certain animal-related customs, meat eating and alcohol consumption, while mandating adherence to upper-caste rituals in order to attain reform. It implies a loss of agency experienced by Dalits in their efforts to liberate themselves from the confines of caste discrimination.

7

The Karamchedu (1985) and Tsunduru (1991) assaults on Dalits, occurring in Prakasam and Guntur districts, respectively, stand as the most horrific massacres in Andhra Pradesh’s history. In premeditated attacks, numerous Dalit men were lynched, dismembered, packed into sacks and discarded in the nearby Tungabhadra drain, while Dalit women suffered brutal sexual assaults.

8

This revival addresses the issue of disappearing influence of Brahminism by positioning male Brahmins as proponents or revivers of classical culture. It emphasises the necessity for non-Brahmins, especially women from Shudra and untouchable communities, to undergo Brahmanisation. This phenomenon, as discussed by Srinivasa Rao Yenda (2022), is evident in Telugu films directed by K. Viswanath, such as Shankarabharanam (1980), Kalam Marindhi (1972) and Aapadbandhavudu (). These films depict the expectation that Shudra and Dalit women should acquire the skills to perform rituals essential for upholding Brahmin domestic life.

9

The ‘Savarna model’ dictates the overbearing role of the Savarna (dominant caste) protagonists to rescue Dalit women from a state of abject victimhood.

10

This gaze refers to films made by Savarna directors, which predominantly overlook instances of Dalit resistance against caste oppression and marginalise their voices.

11

The translation of the dialogues in this article adheres to the original subtitles provided in the films.

12

A type of land grant wherein the jagirdar, or jagir holder, possesses full rights over the revenue generated from the allocated lands.

13

See conceptualisation of the ‘Other’.

14

In Andhra Pradesh, particularly in Rayalaseema and coastal areas, upper-caste individuals employ derogatory names to exert psychological control over Dalits (Swamy, 2022). In response and to assert their presence, Dalit women often add ‘Amma’ or ‘Akka’ to their names. ‘Akka’ is commonly linked with activism and movements, while ‘Amma’, signifying ‘mother’, conveys respect (Hariharan, 2017).

15

When Dalit filmmakers narrate the stories of Dalits, they attempt to ‘humanize the life of Dalits and depict it in all its complexity’ (Nagpaul, as cited in Patel, 2018; emphasis mine). However, films like Narappa and Love Story may sometimes lack this depth. On the other hand, when non-Dalit filmmakers explore Dalit feminist consciousness, it is important to recognise that they may lack sensitivity and direct personal experience with the unique challenges faced by Dalit women. Despite this, these works still play a crucial role in raising awareness about the intersectional issues that Dalit women face and their acts of resistance.

Author biographies

Bhagya Shree Nadamala is a Senior Research Fellow (PhD) in the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, Indian Institute of Technology Patna. She is currently working on Dalit feminism in South India for her doctoral thesis and her areas of interest comprise Dalit studies, Dalit representation in Telugu cinema and feminist studies.

Priyanka Tripathi is an Associate Professor of English and former Head of the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences at the Indian Institute of Technology Patna (India). She is also the Co-Executive Editor of the Journal of International Women’s Studies, an online, open-access, peer-reviewed feminist journal published by Bridgewater State University. She has published extensively in Gender, Place & Culture; Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction; South Asian Popular Culture; Minnesota Review; National Identities; Indian Literature; Journal of Gender Studies; Journal of Graphic Novels and Comics; GeoHumanities and Economic and Political Weekly, amongst others. She works in the area of gender studies, South Asian fiction, geohumanities and graphic novels.

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