From Ghooskhor to The Kerala Story, The Slippery Slope of Hurt Sentiments and Free Speech in Indian Cinema
What’s in a name? Plenty, as Indian filmmakers are discovering to their cost. The producer of a film titled Ghooskhor Pandat recently agreed to withdraw the title after the Supreme Court observed that it would not allow the film’s release unless the name was changed because it denigrated one specific community. On the surface, this appears to be a victory for those seeking to protect the dignity of a group from perceived defamation. But such observations raise a host of important, and deeply troubling, questions about the state of free speech and expression in India, and the slippery slope of allowing “hurt sentiments” to become the primary arbiter of what art can be created and consumed.
Were the makers of Ghooskhor Pandat referring to an entire community of people, or to a particular individual, when they chose that name? If it was an individual, was that person a real historical figure or an entirely imaginary character? The filmmaker argued that the character was purely fictional. If that was the case, weren’t those who were outraged simply tilting at windmills, projecting their own assumptions onto a work of fiction and demanding that it be changed to fit their sensibilities? The court’s intervention, however well-intentioned, seems to have validated that projection.
Titles aside, the larger and far more consequential issue is the growing trend of alleging that films denigrate entire communities. This allegation has been made against a string of recent movies, including The Kerala Story, its recently released sequel, and The Kashmir Files. The names of these films are innocuous; the controversy lies entirely in their content. Numerous commentators have flagged the narratives of these films as being pejorative towards Muslims. Both The Kashmir Files and The Kerala Story reached the courts, with petitioners describing them as harmful propaganda designed to incite communal hatred.
In those cases, however, the courts rejected the claims. They did so on two solid grounds. First, the films had been certified by the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC), the statutory body empowered to certify films for public exhibition. Second, and more importantly, the Constitution of India defends the right to free expression. These are valid, powerful arguments for not banning the release of any film in the country. They affirm that the state, including the judiciary, should not be in the business of deciding which ideas are acceptable and which are not.
This brings us to the glaring inconsistency that the Ghooskhor Pandat case exposes. By forcing the makers of that film to change its name, didn’t the honourable judges allow the argument of hurt sentiments to take precedence over freedom of expression? If the Supreme Court can intervene to protect one community’s hurt sentiments, many will now argue that it should protect the hurt sentiments of all communities. And if it can protect them from a title, why not from an entire storyline? Those making this demand would be well within their rights to do so, because everyone is, after all, equal in the eyes of the law, regardless of caste, creed, or religion.
The only problem with this seemingly logical argument is that if the courts start protecting all hurt sentiments, there would soon be no point in having a constitutional right to free speech and expression at all. The right to free expression exists precisely to protect the expression of ideas that may be unpleasant, unpopular, or offensive to some. It is needed most when it protects speech that the majority finds distasteful. Of course, there must be guardrails, well-established ones: speech that deliberately damages reputations (defamation), threatens national security, or incites imminent violence and breaches of public order. But if we all agree to say only sweet and loving things, to give each other a “jaadu ki jhappi” without ever offending anyone, then the right to free speech and expression becomes redundant, a dead letter that no longer needs constitutional protection. As for cinema and art, they would wither away—if not from actual state bans, then from a far more pernicious form of self-censorship, where creators preemptively avoid any topic that might trigger outrage.
Perhaps the only sane way to navigate this minefield of rights and offended sentiments is to adopt a simple, principled stance: do not ban any film, no matter which ideology or viewpoint it projects. Let the ultimate arbiter be the box office. In a democracy, the people, through their choice of what to watch and what to avoid, are the final censors. A film that is genuinely out of touch with public sentiment will fail financially. Box office failure sends a far stronger, more democratic message to the film industry about what people want to watch than any ban imposed by the courts or the government.
There is a delicious irony in all of this. No matter what new name the makers of Ghooskhor Pandat come up with, the film is now far more likely to be a box-office hit than it ever would have been without the controversy. Nothing succeeds in the age of outrage like a good old-fashioned controversy ahead of a film’s release. There is ample evidence for this phenomenon. Whether it was Padmaavat, Pathaan, The Kashmir Files, or The Kerala Story, the box-office earnings of these movies often rose in direct proportion to the outrage they sparked. This is a well-known psychological phenomenon called the “forbidden fruit effect.” When you ban something, when you tell people they cannot have it, you make it infinitely more desirable. The outrage, amplified and weaponized by social media, becomes the most effective free marketing campaign a film could ever hope for.
This writer even made a conscious attempt to hunt down films like Kiss, Beef, Once Upon a Time in Gaza, and All That’s Left of You online after they were denied screening rights at a couple of film festivals. The act of banning, of removing them from public view, created a curiosity and a demand that would not otherwise have existed. And if a film bombs even despite the controversies and the forced name changes—like Billu (which had to lose the ‘Barber’ from its title) and Laxmi (which had to lose the ‘Bomb’)—then it’s clear that even outrage has its limits. A bad film is a bad film, no matter how much free publicity it gets.
The path we are on is a slippery slope. Today, it is a film title. Tomorrow, it could be a book, a painting, a song, or a play. The principle of protecting “hurt sentiments” is a subjective and infinitely expandable one. There is no objective measure of hurt, and there will always be someone, somewhere, who is willing to be offended. The only way to preserve the space for creativity, for dissent, and for the free exchange of ideas is to hold the line firmly on the side of free expression, and to trust the people, not the courts, to decide what they want to see.
Questions and Answers
Q1: What was the controversy surrounding the film ‘Ghooskhor Pandat’, and how did the Supreme Court intervene?
A1: The controversy was over its title, which some felt denigrated a particular community. The Supreme Court observed it would not allow the film’s release unless the name was changed. The producer agreed to withdraw the title. The article questions this, arguing that if the character was fictional, the outrage was based on projection, not fact.
Q2: How did the courts’ handling of ‘The Kashmir Files’ and ‘The Kerala Story’ differ from their handling of ‘Ghooskhor Pandat’?
A2: In the earlier cases, courts rejected petitions to ban the films, citing two key reasons: the films had been certified by the CBFC, and the Constitution protects free expression. In the Ghooskhor case, the court allowed the argument of “hurt sentiments” to override free expression, creating a perceived inconsistency.
Q3: What is the “slippery slope” argument the article makes against protecting hurt sentiments?
A3: The argument is that if courts start protecting one community’s hurt sentiments from a title, they must logically protect all communities’ hurt sentiments from all content. This would lead to a situation where all potentially offensive expression could be banned, making the constitutional right to free speech and expression redundant and leading to self-censorship.
Q4: What alternative to banning does the article propose, and why is it considered more democratic?
A4: The article proposes letting the box office decide a film’s fate. It argues that in a democracy, the people, through their choice of what to watch, are the final censors. A film that is genuinely bad or out of touch will fail financially, sending a more democratic message to the industry than any government or court ban.
Q5: What is the “forbidden fruit effect,” and how does it relate to film controversies?
A5: The “forbidden fruit effect” is a psychological phenomenon where banning something makes it more desirable. The article notes that films like Padmaavat, Pathaan, and The Kerala Story often saw their box-office earnings rise alongside the outrage and controversy, suggesting that bans and outrage can act as free, effective marketing.
