Srithanya Satish ’27 analyzes films that spotlight the diverse and vibrant South Asian experience in her column, “In Focus: South Asian stories through film.”
As an Indian American who has constantly moved from one suburb to another, I’ve always been drawn to exploring the diversity of the human experience — from the mundane to the spectacular — through film. The intricacies of the mother-daughter dynamic, coming of age in a one-size-fits-all world or striving towards the desperate, yet sometimes destructive, need for absolute perfection were all reflective themes beautifully portrayed in movies I watched. But, there was one thing all of these films had in common — they were all American.
Of course, at first, that did not strike me as unusual. After all, I was born and raised here. But I had subconsciously veered away from the films of my motherland due to the preconception of some of them being “larger-than-life,” glorifying or even stretching reality, rather than hosting the dynamic realism I eagerly looked for. The Indian community calls them “masala” movies; they had something for everyone and the hero always saved the day.
It wasn’t until I started intentionally probing into my background and peeking at the movies my parents would watch post-dinner that I realized the rich history and development of South Asian films. There are so many more movies behind the grandiose action stars or extended colorful dance sequences that slip in between the cracks of mainstream media.
For one, I went into T.J. Gnanavel’s “Jai Bhim” assuming it was a heartfelt legal drama, but the film was much more than that. Time and time again, its poignant performances, rooted in the realistic and masterful portrayal of the systemic erasure and injustice of lower castes, still makes me return to Gnanavel’s world.
Based on a true story, “Jai Bhim,” follows the real-life case of a lawyer who seeks justice for a rural, lower-caste man from the Irula tribe in Tamil Nadu, who went missing from police custody. The lawyer’s charged fight, bolstered by the missing man’s relentless wife, highlights the institutionalized caste discrimination that has unfairly infringed on the lives of many.
Legally, the caste system was abolished by the Indian Constitution in 1950 by the lower caste Dalit reformer and trailblazer B.R. Ambedkar. There are several affirmative action policies and quotas for the lowest, or “scheduled,” castes and tribes to gain socioeconomic mobility through their reserved spots in education, government jobs and more. But even with explicit anti-caste discrimination laws, notions of caste hierarchy remain pervasive in India. Especially in its rural regions, lower-caste individuals are overtly exploited for their labor and face social exclusion for their “untouchability.”
The movie immediately starts with a police officer releasing individuals and separating them based on their caste. Amidst sly bribes for promotions and overt case planting onto the lower castes, the police’s cruelty and stoicism glares out in this muted landscape. They remain removed from any sense of remorse and unshaken by any pleas from the prisoners. The depiction of these cops — tinged by the easily corruptible system — is the movie’s first image of seething injustice. As the lower-caste individuals are quickly driven away in a bus, we, as the viewers, are left raging in the dark with their family members, hooked and needing to learn more.
Panning to the lush and green Konamalai Village in the Villupuram District, the joy of our main couple — Rasakannu (Manikandan) and Sengani (Lijomol Jose) — radiates from the screen. Despite oppressive rule from a higher caste manager, their hard work and knowledge of herbal remedies, snake-catching and more drives resilience and hope for a brighter future within the scheduled Irula tribe. Sean Roldan’s musicality in these scenes beautifully frames the folksy and upbeat celebration of life between this inseparable couple and their larger community. Their optimistic attitude towards life and all-encompassing love for each other and nature, prevailing against all societal odds, appealed to me. The heart of this film was set in our basic humanity; as long as we hold on to one another and stay resilient, we will triumph.
However, their resilience is put to the test when one of the rich village homes Rajakannu helped reports a theft, and the police wrongly blame Rajakannu. A pregnant and agonized Sengani soon connects with Chandru (Suriya), a fierce lawyer known for fighting against police brutality on behalf of marginalized communities, as the perpetrated web of lies regarding Rajakannu’s disappearance from police custody bleeds into something darker than a failed forced confession. It is the actors’ performances that bring gravity to the situation. Sengani’s piercing cries and resistance against the police officers’ attempts of suppressing her stung my heart. Her ultimate resolve in the face of continuous trials was the most incredible display of strength, a truly heart wrenching yet immensely admirable sight.
Along with Sengani’s tragically powerful performance, Chandru’s perseverance helps shine light on the rarity of justice for many dehumanized low-caste individuals. The quick pacing of the screenplay carries out Chandru’s sharpness in his cross-examinations that cut through his steel facade. Behind his collected presence in the courtroom, his fiery attitude for truth and justice made me understand his desire to be a vessel of hope for his community at-large.
Despite these uplifting moments, a heavy aspect of the film was the systematic violence towards Rajakannu. The suffocating atmosphere of the police station and the tight corners of the gray jail cell are shot with raw intensity by cinematographer S. R. Kathir, as an impending sense of dread fills up in the audience. The hierarchy is explicitly posed as the police officers with the wooden sticks and prim dressed uniforms sit atop high chairs, while Rajakannu and his other family members writhe on the floor in pain. These repeatedly enforced conceptualizations strongly allude to Gnanavel’s directorial grasp as the police are positioned to reinforce their superiority. The police’s power-driven mania, though, begin to reveal their insecurity about their fragile sense of authority as Rajakannu resists their attempts to frame them. He refuses to let the police brand his family more than their caste already has.
“Jai Bhim” is a deeply moving film on the struggles of the overlooked and “orphaned” communities of Indian society, namely, the lower castes and tribes. It deconstructs and spreads awareness about the corruption within systems of power and the continued adoption of class-based bigotry in everyday individuals. In doing so, the film shines a light on the relentless fight and path for justice we must take for social equality — and encourages us all to wake up and make change.
Editor’s Note: This article is a review and includes subjective thoughts, opinions and critiques.