How Bollywood Rewrites Punjab, Sikhs, and Dissent
Introduction: A Changing Cinematic Landscape
In recent years, Bollywood has changed significantly, reflecting larger political and cultural shifts in India. The Hindi film industry, once known for questioning authority, addressing social hierarchies, and confronting uncomfortable truths, now seems more aligned with the views of the ruling establishment. This alignment can be subtle, often operating through narrative choices, selective representation, and character development. Other times, it is more overt, with films echoing political messages directly. Together, these trends show that Bollywood is no longer just reflecting society; it is actively shaping a specific political narrative.
This shift is particularly evident in how identity, especially Sikh and Muslim identity, is portrayed in today’s cinema.
Dhurandhar and the Politics of Selective Representation
Films like Dhurandhar 2, directed by Aditya Dhar, exemplify this change. The film feels less like a nuanced story and more like a carefully crafted ideological project. Muslims are frequently depicted as barbaric, violent, and suspicious, while Sikhs appear either as drug addicts or as compromised individuals connected to Pakistan’s ISI. Sikh rebel groups are shown transporting drugs while simultaneously discussing liberation, merging political aspirations with criminal conspiracies.
The main character, Jaskirat Singh Rangi, also known as Hamza and played by Ranveer Singh, is a Sikh. However, his acceptance in the film is conditional. He is only "acceptable" because he aligns with a particular form of nationalism. His identity is embraced, even celebrated, as long as it serves the nation-state as the film depicts it. Once Sikh identity is tied to dissent, it is portrayed as dangerous and foreign-sponsored.
One of the telling moments in Dhurandhar 2 occurs when the protagonist’s old friend, Pinda, arrives in Karachi with two other turbaned Sikhs involved in drug trafficking. Pinda tells Hamza he will return to Punjab “when we get freedom.” This line does important ideological work by linking Sikh political struggle with drugs and criminality, suggesting that dissent is not genuine; it is manufactured and corrupt.
The film's portrayal is not random. It echoes real-world narratives that emerged during the farmers’ protests, when parts of the media and the political landscape labeled protestors as Khalistanis and agents of international conspiracies. In this way, cinema is not just reflecting public discourse; it is reinforcing and legitimizing it.
Censorship and the Politics of Silence
The politics of representation become even clearer when we consider what is kept from audiences. The film Punjab 95, based on the life of human rights defender Bhai Jaswant Singh Khalra, has faced delays with the CBFC for years. A remark made to its director, Honey Trehan, “itna sach kaun dikhaata hai,” reveals much about how truth itself is controlled.
The contrast sharpens when we think about Diljit Dosanjh. He is celebrated in a film like Border 2 for playing a patriotic character aligned with the state’s narrative, but faces censorship in Punjab 95 because that story challenges state power. Acceptance, then, is not based on talent or popularity; it’s about ideological alignment.
Constructing the “Acceptable Sikh”
The construction of Jaskirat’s character in Dhurandhar 1 and its sequel highlights how identity can be strategically diminished. While his name is distinctly Sikh, his religious identity lacks depth. He is shown smoking and drinking,actions that have significant meaning in Sikh religious practice. His Sikh identity becomes a superficial marker rather than a lived experience.
The Bani he recites is by Bhagat Kabir:
ਸੂਰਾ ਸੋ ਪਹਿਚਾਨੀਐ ਜੁ ਲਰੈ ਦੀਨ ਕੇ ਹੇਤ ॥
He alone is known as a true warrior who fights for the oppressed and for righteousness.
ਪੁਰਜਾ ਪੁਰਜਾ ਕਟਿ ਮਰੈ ਕਬਹੂ ਨ ਛਾਡੈ ਖੇਤੁ ॥੨॥੨॥
Even if he is cut into pieces, he never abandons the field of battle.
But the context in which this Gurbani is used becomes deeply problematic. At a time when the Modi government is accused of targeting people on the basis of religion, and when attacks on minorities are increasingly reported, invoking Gurbani to frame a fight for the nation as a religious duty distorts its meaning.
It subtly suggests that a “true Sikh” is one who fights external enemies like Pakistan, while those who raise dissent within the country are labelled as Khalistanis or rebels. This contradiction exposes a paradox in Aditya Dhar’s cinematic narrative, where faith is selectively invoked to serve nationalism, while dissent is delegitimized.
This selective portrayal reinforces a troubling idea: that a “real” Sikh is one who shows loyalty through nationalism and sacrifices for the state. In this framework, Sikh identity cannot exist on its own; it must merge into a single national identity.
A similar pattern appears in subtler ways in films like Animal, starring Ranbir Kapoor. Unlike Dhurandhar, Animal does not explicitly declare ideological allegiance. However, its narrative choices have serious implications. The main character is shown as having mixed Hindu-Sikh heritage. He smokes, performs Hindu rituals like havan, and even drinks gau-mutra. These details are not by chance; they contribute to a broader cultural aim—one that seeks to blend Sikh identity into a larger Hindu framework.
This is how ideology works best—not through loud statements, but through quiet normalization.
Faith, Sacrilege, and Nationalism
In Dhurandhar 2, one controversial moment features a character inspired by Ajit Doval—Ajay Sanyal—who quotes Gurbani after smoking a cigarette. For many Sikhs, this is not just inappropriate; it is almost sacrilegious. Gurbani isn’t just text—it holds sacred meaning and spiritual significance.
The bani recited, attributed to Bhagat Kabir, speaks of the true warrior who fights for righteousness and remains active even when cut into pieces. However, its context distorts this meaning. By framing Gurbani as part of a nationalist struggle against external enemies, the film subtly redefines Sikh spirituality to serve state ideology. It suggests that a “true Sikh” fights Pakistan, while those who express dissent within India are labeled traitors or Khalistanis.
This contradiction is at the heart of the film’s politics. Faith is invoked selectively to support nationalism, while dissent is discredited.
Criminalising Dissent and Othering Muslims
Dhurandhar 1 and its sequel also play a significant role in criminalizing dissent. In one scene, Major Iqbal's father mentions money being funneled through NGOs, universities, and socialists. This suggests that dissenting voices are not genuine but orchestrated by foreign powers. Such narratives echo right-wing views that frame activism, academic critique, and civil society engagement as part of a global conspiracy.
These portrayals have real implications. They alter public perception, making it easier to see dissent as a threat rather than a democratic expression.
Alongside this, Muslims are consistently depicted as the “other.” In Dhurandhar 2, Muslims appear inherently suspicious, violent, and ideologically driven. In one scene, Major Iqbal states that all Muslims must prove loyalty to their faith, regardless of nationality, implying that Indian Muslims are inherently tied to Pakistan. This reflects a deep-seated bias that many Indian Muslims face daily—the belief that their faith dictates their political views.
This pattern isn’t limited to Dhurandhar. Films like The Kerala Story and Sooryavanshi have similarly reinforced narratives that cast Muslims as threats or outsiders. The cumulative effect is a normalization of suspicion.
From Patriotism to Propaganda
At its core, Aditya Dhar’s films extend beyond patriotism into a more focused type of nationalism that centers on Narendra Modi. Characters express lines that echo his rhetoric, like “ye naya Bharat hai, ghar mein ghus ke maarega.” These statements reinforce the idea that past governments were weak, and real strength only emerged under the current regime.
In this context, cinema shifts from storytelling to ideological support. Every character becomes a voice articulating what the audience is meant to believe about Muslims, Sikhs, dissenters, and even academics.
Historical Stereotypes: From Caricature to Control
It’s important to note that the portrayal of Sikhs as caricatures predates the current political climate. In the 1990s and early 2000s, Bollywood often reduced Sikhs to comic clichés. In films like Raja Hindustani, actors like Johnny Lever portrayed exaggerated Sikh characters with loud voices and absurd behaviors. Similarly, Anupam Kher’s role in Mohabbatein involved speaking in the third person, reinforcing stereotypes of eccentricity.
These representations were shaped by the widespread Santa-Banta jokes that turned an entire community into a punchline. Often dismissed as harmless, they contributed to a cultural perception of Sikhs as naive or comical, undermining their historical identity—especially after 1984.
Later films tried to remedy this by showing Sikhs as brave and patriotic. Movies like Singh Is Kinng, Namastey London, and Singh Is Bliing depicted Sikh men as courageous and fun-loving. Yet, these portrayals remained limited. Sikhs were still one-dimensional—heroic but naive, visible but not complex.
As comedian Jaspreet Singh asks: where is the normal Sikh?
This question highlights the central issue. Sikh characters in Bollywood rarely exist as ordinary people with everyday dreams, contradictions, and emotional depth. They are often caricatures, patriots, or suspects.
There are exceptions. Films like Laal Singh Chaddha and Rocket Singh: Salesman of the Year depict Sikh characters as normal individuals dealing with life’s challenges. However, these representations are uncommon.
Punjab as Fantasy and Threat
Beyond individual characters and films, it’s crucial to examine how Punjab itself is imagined in Bollywood. Punjab is rarely shown as a complex place with its own political history, internal contradictions, and changing realities. Instead, it swings between two extremes: either a hyper-romanticized land of mustard fields, music, and diaspora nostalgia or a troubled borderland marked by drugs, militancy, and instability. Both portrayals flatten Punjab into a stereotype, ignoring the layered lives of its people.
This simplification is not new. Even in the 1990s, during one of Punjab’s most turbulent periods marked by militancy, counterinsurgency, and extensive state repression, Bollywood chose to look away. The film Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge presents Punjab as an ideal, almost pastoral homeland. The village is frozen in time with lush fields, strict but loving fathers, and a longing for “roots.” What stands out is not what the film shows but what it leaves out. There is no trace of the violence, disappearances, or fear that defined Punjab during that decade.
This absence is political. By portraying Punjab as timeless and peaceful, the film erases the real history of state violence and social upheaval. It replaces history with nostalgia. For diasporic audiences, this version of Punjab becomes the main image—a place of purity and tradition, disconnected from its recent past.
On the other hand, when Bollywood does engage with conflict, it often simplifies and distorts it. In films like Gadar: Ek Prem Katha, the lines between Hindu and Sikh identities are deliberately blurred. The protagonist, played by Sunny Deol, often reads as Sikh-coded—he drives a truck, lives in a Punjabi rural area, and represents a specific martial masculinity—but his religious identity is not well-defined. This ambiguity is not a mistake. It allows the film to use Sikh cultural markers while placing them within a broader Hindu nationalist context.
The mixing of identities in Gadar also serves another purpose. It creates a unified “Indian” identity positioned against Pakistan, collapsing internal diversity into a single nationalist identity. Sikh history, which has its own unique relationship with both Partition and the Indian state, is absorbed into a larger story that leaves little room for difference.
This trend continues in contemporary cinema, but with more obvious political messages. Films like Dhurandhar 1 and Dhurandhar 2 not only flatten Punjab; they actively present it as a place of suspicion. The region is repeatedly shown as vulnerable to foreign influence, filled with drugs, and politically unstable. Even when the story is set against a specific historical backdrop, it projects a sense of ongoing disturbance, as though Punjab is always on the verge of chaos.
This has real consequences. It influences how audiences view Punjab—not as a vibrant, changing society but as a problem. It also reinforces the idea that any claim of regional identity or political demand is inherently suspicious.
The narrative around drugs is particularly significant. While Punjab does face a serious drug crisis, its repeated depiction in cinema as a defining issue reduces the entire state to a single problem. In Dhurandhar 2, this narrative intensifies by linking drugs to separatism and Pakistan, creating a simplistic explanation that shifts the focus away from internal critique.
At the same time, there is very little cinematic exploration of Punjab’s intellectual, cultural, and political traditions. The state has a rich history of resistance, from anti-colonial movements to farmers’ protests, yet these rarely receive nuanced portrayal on screen. When they do appear, they are often reframed through a nationalist lens, stripped of their original context.
Even language plays a role in this flattening. Punjabi, especially in mainstream Bollywood, is often reduced to comic relief or emotional emphasis—used in songs, punchlines, or moments of heightened sentiment. Rarely is it seen as a language of intellectual or political discussion. This contributes to the idea that Punjabis are expressive but not analytical, emotional but not ideological.
The overall impact of these portrayals is a severe distortion. Punjab becomes either a fantasy or a threat—never a reality.
Conclusion: Cinema as Power
This is why the absence of films like Punjab 95 is so important. A film that directly addresses human rights violations and state accountability disrupts both dominant narratives—the romantic and the security-driven. It forces audiences to face uncomfortable truths that do not fit neatly into current frameworks. Its ongoing delay is not merely about censorship; it's about controlling which version of Punjab is allowed to exist in public memory.
When compared to films like Dhurandhar 1 and Dhurandhar 2, the contrast becomes even clearer. One set of films promotes a narrative of suspicion and hyper-nationalism, while the other struggles to reach audiences. This imbalance reveals the broader environment in which Bollywood operates—one where certain stories are favored while others are systematically ignored.
Ultimately, the portrayal of Punjab in Bollywood is not just about representation; it is about power. It is about who gets to define a region, its people, and its history. When cinema reduces Punjab to a caricature—whether as a land of comic excess, patriotic sacrifice, or political instability—it denies the possibility of complexity.
And without complexity, there can be no truth.
The stories that are told and those that aren’t become acts of power. In this context, Dhurandhar 1 and Dhurandhar 2 are not just movies. They are part of a larger narrative that defines patriotism narrowly, vilifies minorities, and invalidates dissent. This is not just cinema; it is ideological production.
At that point, the line between storytelling and propaganda starts to blur. When cinema stops questioning power, it does not become neutral. It becomes a tool for that power.