When the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) delayed Phule, a biopic celebrating Jyotirao and Savitribai Phule’s fight against caste oppression, from April 11 to April 25, 2025, it did more than demand edits—it handed the pen of history to Brahminical gatekeepers. By excising terms like “Mahar,” “Mang,” “Peshwai,” and “Manu’s system of caste” and softening scenes of Peshwa-era atrocities, the CBFC, under pressure from Brahmin groups like the Brah1969min Federation, ensured Dalit-Bahujan truths must seek approval from the very ideology the Phules defied. This isn’t just censorship; it’s a power grab over memory, forcing the oppressed to sanitize their pain for the comfort of those tied to their suffering. To grasp the absurdity, consider these parallels: what if other marginalized groups had to beg their oppressors’ heirs for permission to tell their stories?
Imagine Black Americans submitting narratives of slavery—shackles, auctions, torn families—to a Confederate board for “sensitivity” checks. Erasing “plantation” or “master” to avoid offending Southern pride would mirror the CBFC’s removal of “Peshwai” or “Manu’s system” from Phule, stripping caste history of its specificity to shield Brahminical legacy. The Phules’ battle against Brahmin-led oppression, documented in Jyotirao’s Gulamgiri, is no less visceral than slavery’s horrors; yet, like a Confederate censor, the CBFC demands their rebellion be softened, ensuring Dalit-Bahujan voices don’t “malign” the dominant caste.
Or picture Native Americans needing British or Spanish colonial descendants to vet tales of stolen lands and massacres like Wounded Knee. Scrubbing “reservation” or “smallpox blankets” to prevent “division” parallels the erasure of “Mahar” or “Shudra” in Phule, diluting the Phules’ fight against Peshwa-era caste atrocities. Just as colonial powers rewrote indigenous genocide to glorify empire, Brahminical pressure on Phule reframes a story of Dalit-Bahujan resistance into one where Brahmin reformers, not the oppressed, take center stage, as if history owes the colonizer a kinder edit.
Consider South Africans asking apartheid’s architects to approve films about Nelson Mandela, with “Bantustan” or “pass laws” cut to spare white South Africans’ feelings. This echoes the Brahmin Federation’s demand that Phule highlight Brahmin allies, sidelining the Phules’ critique of Brahminical dominance to avoid “tensions.” The CBFC’s edits—replacing a Shudra sweeping his footprints with vague “boys throwing things”—are no different from muting apartheid’s brutalities, denying Dalit-Bahujan communities the right to name their jailers as freely as Mandela named his.
What if women recounting suffrage or sati needed patriarchal councils to “balance” their stories, erasing “patriarchy” or “dowry deaths” to protect male honor? This mirrors Phule’s censorship, where Savitribai’s war on Brahminical patriarchy is muted, her poetry’s rage against caste and gender oppression filtered through a male, upper-caste lens. The CBFC’s cuts rob Dalit-Bahujan women of their hero’s voice, just as patriarchal gatekeepers might silence feminist history to preserve a narrative where men remain the arbiters of truth.
Or envision LGBTQ+ activists needing conservative clerics to clear films about Stonewall, with “homophobia” or “sodomy laws” scrubbed to avoid “defaming” religious values. This aligns with Phule’s erasure of “Manu’s system,” denying Dalit-Bahujan communities the language to call out Brahminical hierarchies, as if queer liberation must bow to a priest’s approval. The Brahmin Federation’s push for “inclusion” of Brahmin reformers in Phule is a similar dodge, reframing a story of defiance to placate those who upheld the oppressive order.
These analogies expose a universal truth: dominant groups dread the mirror of history. In Phule’s case, the CBFC’s edits don’t just dilute a film—they sever Dalit-Bahujan communities from their intellectual lineage, from Gulamgiri’s razor-sharp critique to Savitribai’s fiery verses. By demanding terms like “Peshwai”—the Brahmin-led regime the Phules fought—be erased, Brahminical hegemony ensures caste oppression’s roots stay buried, much like a Confederate censor hiding slavery’s scars or a colonial clerk sanitizing genocide’s blood. This isn’t about avoiding “tensions”; it’s about control, protecting a social order where caste elites still hold disproportionate power—economic, cultural, and narrative.
The outrage lies in the demand itself: that Dalit-Bahujan voices, like the Phules’, must pass through a Brahminical filter, just as Black, indigenous, or queer stories might be forced to kneel to their oppressors’ heirs. Defenders claim this prevents unrest, but caste violence festers not from truth but from its suppression, emboldening oppressors while alienating the oppressed. Director Ananth Mahadevan insists Phule sticks to facts, yet the pressure to sanitize reveals who still writes India’s history. When Dalit-Bahujan truths are censored, their heroes’ fire is dimmed, and Brahminical dominance—cloaked as fairness—tightens its grip on the past. If India is to face its caste reality, stories like Phule must burn unfiltered, as the Phules did, naming their foes without permission. Anything less is a betrayal of their fight—and a victory for those who’d rewrite it.
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