How Propaganda Films Hijack the Indian Mind

 

The Cinematic Blueprint of Political Polarisation

 

When Joseph Goebbels declared that cinema was one of the most powerful weapons in the arsenal of the state, he was not being hyperbolic. As Nazi Germany perfected the art of propaganda, film became more than a medium of entertainment—it became an instrument of indoctrination. Almost a century later, the template remains eerily relevant. In democracies and autocracies alike, propaganda cinema continues to thrive, shaping public opinion, altering historical memory, and manipulating national consciousness.

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The Craft of Conviction

At its core, a propaganda film does not merely present a narrative—it constructs a moral universe. Villains and heroes are painted in broad, unambiguous strokes. Complex socio-political realities are reduced to binary choices: nationalism versus anti-nationalism, civilization versus barbarism, us versus them. When such simplifications are backed by powerful imagery, emotive music, and gripping performances, the impact on the psyche of viewers can be profound.

Propaganda cinema cloaks itself in patriotism and purpose. It portrays dissenters as traitors, minorities as threats, and ideological opponents as enemies of the state. The intention is never just storytelling—it is nation-building, or more aptly, nation-moulding.

Yet, it is important to distinguish between dissent and hate. Not all political cinema is propaganda. Films like Kissa Kursi Ka (1977) and Aandhi (1975) questioned power and critiqued the system, but they did so without vilifying communities or weaponizing religion. They were voices of resistance in the truest democratic sense—satirical, symbolic, and aimed at the abuse of authority, not at inciting societal divisions. Unlike modern propaganda films, these classics did not seek to create an "enemy within." They questioned rulers, not citizens.

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The Indian Context: Beyond Entertainment

In contrast, the recent surge in politically charged films such as The Kashmir Files, The Kerala Story, and the upcoming The Delhi Files marks a troubling evolution. These films do not merely reflect the political mood—they are part of the machinery shaping it. Wrapped in the language of "truth-telling" and "bringing hidden histories to light," such films often distort facts, cherry-pick incidents, and weaponize trauma.

Now, Vivek Agnihotri, the director of The Kashmir Files, is working on The Bengal Files, a film purportedly based on political violence in West Bengal. Given Agnihotri’s established pattern—where history is viewed through the lens of communal victimhood and ideological warfare—The Bengal Files appears less like investigative storytelling and more like the continuation of hate politics through cinema. The project, unveiled amid political turbulence in Bengal, seems poised to further polarize public opinion in a state already grappling with deep-rooted tensions. Its objective appears less about truth and more about reinforcing a national narrative of siege and division.

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Follow the Money: Who’s Funding the Propaganda?

The success of these films isn't accidental—nor is their financing merely artistic. A closer look reveals an intricate ecosystem where ideology, money, and political power work hand in hand.

1. Producers with Political Links

Many of these films are backed by producers with visible or tacit ties to the ruling party.
The Kashmir Files, for example, was co-produced by Zee Studios and Abhishek Agarwal Arts—the latter run by a Hyderabad-based businessman known for his proximity to BJP leaders. The Kerala Story was produced by Vipul Amrutlal Shah, a filmmaker whose public statements often mirror Hindutva rhetoric.

2. Government Patronage as Indirect Funding

No government official writes a cheque—but support comes in subtler, more powerful forms:

• Tax exemptions granted by BJP-ruled states,
• Free screenings for students, police, and bureaucrats,
• Public endorsements by top leaders including the Prime Minister,
• And amplification by the BJP’s digital ecosystem, giving these films the kind of reach most filmmakers can only dream of.

Such soft backing dramatically reduces costs and guarantees attention—making it a kind of de facto state subsidy.

3. Shadow Funders and Ideological Venture Capital

A number of relatively unknown production houses have suddenly emerged with unexplained funding muscle. These are often linked to:

• Real estate and mining interests,
• Businessmen aligned with ruling party agendas,
• Or shell companies connected to media empires sympathetic to the regime.

While direct evidence is scarce due to opaque financial structures, patterns of political timing and exclusive access to resources strongly suggest orchestrated support.

4. Ideologically Driven Directors

Directors like Vivek Agnihotri, who calls himself a “cultural warrior,” are no longer just storytellers—they are missionaries with a camera. His close appearances with RSS-affiliated organizations and ideological think tanks like India Foundation suggest that these films are not independent creations—they are commissioned narratives. The Bengal Files, in this context, appears not as journalism through art but propaganda through celluloid.

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Cognitive Capture: The Mind as a Battlefield

A critical aspect of propaganda films is their ability to bypass critical reasoning. Neuroscience suggests that emotionally charged visuals activate the amygdala—the brain’s fear center—suppressing rational thought and enhancing memory retention. In other words, when a film shocks or angers us, it leaves a deeper impression than a news article or policy paper ever could.

This is particularly dangerous in a society where media literacy is low and cinema remains the most accessible form of mass communication. A citizen who watches a communal propaganda film may not consciously become prejudiced, but the seeds of bias are sown. Repetition, emotional manipulation, and social reinforcement (via WhatsApp forwards, social media memes, or television debates) water those seeds until they blossom into conviction.

What begins as “just a movie” soon becomes the basis of “I heard somewhere,” which hardens into “I know this happened.” The leap from perception to belief is barely noticed.

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From Socio-Politics to Geopolitics

The domestic impact of propaganda films is grave, but their geopolitical implications are equally troubling. When films demonize an entire religion or community—be it Muslims in India, immigrants in the U.S., or Uyghurs in China—they don’t just influence internal discourse. They signal to the world a nation’s ideological trajectory.

India, once proud of its pluralism, now finds itself defending against charges of Islamophobia, partly because of the global reach of its domestic narratives. When state-backed or state-endorsed films project a unidimensional nationalism, it affects bilateral relations, diplomatic equations, and even trade alliances.

Moreover, authoritarian regimes have long understood the power of cinema in projecting soft power abroad. Russia, China, and Turkey have invested heavily in period dramas and nationalist blockbusters that export their worldview globally. The battle for narrative supremacy has moved beyond battlefields and boardrooms—it now plays out on Netflix, YouTube, and Prime Video.

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The Fragile Viewer: Consent Without Awareness

Perhaps the most insidious feature of propaganda cinema is its subtle violation of the viewer’s consent. When we watch political speeches or campaign ads, we do so with a sense of guardedness, aware that persuasion is the intent. But cinema disarms us. We walk into a theatre seeking entertainment, not ideology. We let our guard down, suspend disbelief, and allow ourselves to be swept away.

This is precisely what makes propaganda films so effective: they do not argue, they hypnotize.

In a healthy democracy, films should provoke thought, not paralyze it. They should ask questions, not issue verdicts. When cinema begins to echo only one kind of nationalism, one kind of history, one kind of heroism—it ceases to be art and becomes artillery.

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Conclusion: Between Truth and Trauma

As citizens, we must remain vigilant. Not all films are propaganda, and not all propaganda films wear the mask of nationalism. Sometimes, the bias is subtle—a line here, a stereotype there. Sometimes, it is blatant. But in every case, the effect is cumulative.

We must ask: Who made this film? Who funded it? Why now? Whose version of history is being told? What is being omitted? And what purpose does it serve?

Cinema has the power to heal, to build bridges, to imagine new futures. But when wielded irresponsibly, it can also inflame, divide, and destroy. A nation that treats film as a weapon rather than a mirror will eventually lose sight of its own reflection.

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Author: Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India. He writes on law, politics, and culture, often exploring the intersection between power and perception.

NCERT and the Politics of History

 

The recent decision by the NCERT to delete or drastically reduce the mention of the Mughals from the school curriculum marks yet another milestone in the systematic distortion of Indian history under the ideological supervision of the ruling regime. Framed as an act of “syllabus rationalisation,” this move is anything but academic. It is political, prejudiced, and profoundly detrimental to the intellectual integrity of our classrooms. It represents not an edit, but an exorcism — one aimed at sanitising the past to suit the insecurities of the present.

To be clear: no one is suggesting the glorification of emperors or invaders. History must neither be worshipped nor weaponised. But the selective erasure of entire dynasties and epochs — in this case, the Mughal Empire — amounts to historical vandalism in saffron ink. And perhaps most ironically, it does disservice not only to India’s composite legacy but also to the very figures the BJP-RSS claim to revere — most notably, Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.

Shivaji Maharaj vs the Mughals: A Legacy Rooted in Resistance

Let us begin by acknowledging a truth that even this ideological regime cannot rewrite: Shivaji Maharaj was one of the greatest sons of India. A master tactician, an astute administrator, and a fierce patriot long before the word gained currency, Shivaji carved out a sovereign space against the might of the Mughal Empire. His battles with Aurangzeb are legendary not because the Mughals were weak or evil, but because they were powerful, dominant, and yet could not extinguish his spirit of swarajya.

To erase the Mughals from history is to erase the very backdrop against which Shivaji's courage was cast. He was not a rebel without a cause; he was a lion standing firm in the face of an empire. His resistance becomes legendary only when we understand the scale and nature of the power he defied. Take that context away, and you reduce his valour to a hollow abstraction — something the RSS may not realise in its ideological zeal.

Mughals: Flawed, But Foundational

Let us not whitewash the Mughals. Like all empires, they were complex and often oppressive. There were wars, conquests, bigotry, and bloodshed. But there was also syncretism, architectural marvels, administrative reforms, artistic patronage, and a profound impact on India’s cultural and linguistic tapestry. Urdu, Hindustani classical music, Indo-Islamic art and architecture — these are not foreign artifacts imposed upon India but integral threads in the fabric of our civilization.

Babar, Humayun, Akbar, Jahangir, Shah Jahan, Aurangzeb — each played a role in shaping the subcontinent’s political and cultural contours. To edit them out is not "rationalisation" but revenge — a cultural form of vigilantism that seeks to avenge imagined historical wrongs by inflicting real intellectual damage on the next generation.

NCERT and the Politics of History

This brings us to the heart of the matter. The NCERT’s choices are not being guided by historians, educators, or researchers — but by ideologues who see history as a field to be conquered. The current regime, driven by the RSS’s foundational worldview, views the past not as a shared inheritance but as a minefield of communal narratives that must be rewritten, recast, and, when necessary, removed.

History becomes not a subject to be studied, but a narrative to be controlled. When Mughal emperors are deleted and Hindu rulers are decontextualised and selectively glorified, what emerges is not education — but engineered amnesia.

This is not new. In Nazi Germany, textbooks were rewritten to instill racial superiority and demonise minorities. In Stalinist Russia, history books routinely deleted leaders who had fallen out of favour. What connects these authoritarian projects is the belief that control over the past is essential for control over the future. The classroom becomes a shakha — not a space for critical thinking but for ideological conformity.

A Syllabus of Silence

The practical implication of these deletions is chilling. Students will now grow up with a fractured understanding of India’s past. They will know of Shivaji but not the empire he resisted. They will read about 1947 without the centuries that shaped it. They will be fed myths in place of methods, slogans instead of sources.

Worse, this curricular cleansing fosters a dangerous communal binary — Hindus as perpetual victims, Muslims as eternal invaders. It legitimises the kind of bigotry that now flourishes in social media echo chambers, street corner speeches, and even Parliament. By demonising the Muslim past, the regime seeks to normalise anti-Muslim politics in the present.

The Legal and Constitutional Betrayal

As a lawyer, I cannot help but reflect on the constitutional implications. Article 51A(h) of the Constitution enjoins every citizen “to develop the scientific temper, humanism and the spirit of inquiry and reform.” What happens when the State itself sabotages this duty by tampering with the truth? When education becomes a tool of indoctrination, the State violates not just academic ethics but constitutional morality.

The Supreme Court, in Aruna Roy v. Union of India, rightly held that “secularism implies that the State must remain equidistant from all religions and treat them with equal respect.” What respect is shown when one community’s contributions to Indian civilization are scrubbed from the public record?

What Must Be Remembered

This is not a call to romanticise the past. It is a call to confront it — with all its contradictions and complexities. Shivaji and Akbar, Bhagat Singh and Bahadur Shah Zafar, Gandhi and Ambedkar — these are not opposing sides in a civilizational war. They are co-authors of India’s story. You cannot build a new India by burning the pages of the old.

The Mughals should be taught — critically, contextually, comprehensively. Their failings should be exposed, but so should their contributions. Likewise, Shivaji Maharaj should be celebrated — not as a communal mascot but as a national hero. He deserves better than to be conscripted into a false binary by those who reduce history to a slogan.

Conclusion: Let Our Children Learn

The challenge before us is not just about textbooks. It is about the soul of education in India. Do we want thinking citizens or obedient followers? Do we want a generation that knows how to question power — or one that chants what power demands?

The answer will not come from courts or classrooms alone. It must come from civil society, academia, the media, and every citizen who values truth over tribe, inquiry over identity. We must resist the rewriting of our history — not just for the sake of the past, but for the sanity of the future.

Let our children inherit facts, not fictions. Let them learn from Shivaji — and from the Mughals too. Let them understand India in its full, plural, painful, and powerful truth. That is the only history worth teaching.

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The author, Siddhartha Shankar Mishra, is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India. He writes on law, politics, and society with a focus on democratic accountability, civil liberties, and ideological critique. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.

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Two Sides of the Same Coin: Why I Don’t Trust the RSS, the Communists, or Any Ideology

 

Ideologies are seductive. They offer certainty in a complex world, identity in an age of confusion, and meaning where there is doubt. But look closely, and you’ll often find hypocrisy wrapped in righteousness. That’s exactly why I have no patience for either the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) or the Indian Communist movement. Both claim to serve the people. Both behave like monopolists of truth. And both, ironically, have become mirror images of each other in their hypocrisy and authoritarian reflexes.

Let’s begin with the Sangh.

The RSS projects itself as a cultural force committed to "Bharatiyata" — Indian-ness. But scratch the surface and you’ll find a homogenising impulse: one language, one religion, one narrative. It has a visceral discomfort with diversity, especially if that diversity doesn't conform to its curated vision of Hindu civilisation. What it calls culture is often dogma. What it calls tradition is usually selective memory.

It screams nationalism from rooftops, but behaves like an elite capitalist cartel. Its political progeny, the BJP, has overseen some of the most aggressive privatisation campaigns in post-liberalisation India. Public sector units — once seen as symbols of national pride — have been sold off to private conglomerates. Labour laws have been diluted, environmental safeguards weakened, and farmer protests dismissed with disdain. All this while chanting “Vande Mataram” and invoking Lord Ram. Is this nationalism or neoliberal corporatism with a saffron filter?

The Sangh’s idea of nationalism isn’t about public welfare or constitutional values — it’s about controlling the narrative. Journalists who question the regime are branded anti-national. Students who protest are charged with sedition. Even Supreme Court judges aren’t spared trolling if they show signs of independence. The message is simple: toe the line, or prepare for war — digitally, legally, and socially.

On the other side, we have the Indian Communists — draped in  Marxist jargon, forever nostalgic for a revolution that never happened.

They claim to speak for the proletariat, the worker, the marginalised. But many of them haven’t seen the inside of a factory since their student days at JNU or Presidency College. Their revolution is largely rhetorical, performed in conferences, campus debates, and op-eds. In practice, they are often just another elitist clique — patronising the poor while living comfortably off state subsidies, academic tenures, or NGO consultancies.

Much like the RSS, the Left hates being questioned. Dissent within is treated as betrayal. Remember what happened in Bengal? The CPI(M) was in power for 34 years, and by the end of it, they had turned into a bureaucratic dinosaur — indifferent, arrogant, and increasingly violent. Land acquisition in Singur and Nandigram exposed their double standards. The same party that once cried hoarse about farmers’ rights ended up suppressing them in the name of "development."

Both the Sangh and the Communists use history as a political tool. The RSS rewrites it to glorify a mythical Hindu past and vilify Muslims. The Communists whitewash it to erase uncomfortable truths — their silence on the Soviet gulags, on Chinese authoritarianism, or even on India's own missteps under Communist rule.

Here’s the bitter truth: both are deeply hypocritical.

In the name of nationalism, the RSS behaves like a capitalist syndicate — selling assets, courting billionaires, and muzzling voices. In the name of society, the Communists often practice a soft version of capitalism themselves — hoarding power, monopolising institutions, and living lives entirely disconnected from the people they claim to represent.

Their hypocrisies don’t stop at economics. The RSS claims to protect Indian culture but is often silent or complicit when Dalits are lynched, when Muslims are demonised, when women are harassed. The Communists talk of equality but are notoriously male-dominated and caste-blind. How many Dalit or Adivasi voices do we see leading the charge in elite left spaces? Very few.

Even structurally, both formations are disturbingly similar. The RSS runs through a hierarchy — shakhas, pracharaks, and sarsanghchalaks. The Communists have their politburos, central committees, and cadres. Both distrust mass participation that isn’t tightly controlled. Both fetishize discipline. Both despise messiness — the very essence of democracy.

And here’s the danger: they are both fundamentally authoritarian in temperament. They may differ in aesthetics — one wears khaki, the other prefers Lenin caps — but they operate with the same mindset: conformity is loyalty; questioning is rebellion.

I have no quarrel with individuals who believe in change. Many idealists on both sides truly care about the country. But when noble intent calcifies into ideological dogma, it ceases to liberate and begins to imprison. That’s what these ideological camps have become — intellectual prisons.

I write this not as a fence-sitter or a centrist trying to please everyone. I write this as someone who believes politics should be rooted in principle, not posture. I believe in the Constitution, not Nagpur’s civilisational sermon or Karl Marx’s Manifesto. I believe in the right to dissent — whether it’s a student shouting slogans or a judge writing a dissenting opinion. And I believe in truth — not the kind curated by propaganda cells, IT wings, or ideological commissars.

India doesn’t need more ideologues. It needs more citizens. Citizens who can think critically, vote wisely, question loudly, and dream boldly. Not men marching in lines with flags and slogans, but men and women walking independently — with their eyes open and minds free.

So no, I don’t like the RSS.

I don’t like the Communists.

And I don’t like any ideology that pretends to free you while tightening the leash around your neck.

Let’s stop choosing between two extremes of the same disease. India deserves better than dogma wrapped in a flag — saffron or red.

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Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India. He writes on law, politics, and society with a focus on democratic accountability, civil liberties, and ideological critique. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.

 

From Street Protests to Power Luncheons: The Many Avatars of Pujari

 

Back in the politically charged 1980s, a young, firebrand student leader roared through the dusty lanes of Sambalpur. His name? Suresh Pujari. His enemy? The Marwari businessman, symbolic of a so-called capitalist stranglehold on the local economy. His weapon? The loud, defiant slogan—“Marwari hatao, Odisha bachao!”

It was the age of campus revolutions, the era when ideology was worn like a badge of honour and not merely as a selfie filter. Pujari, then a spirited voice of the youth, rallied against what he called the monopolisation of trade, power, and influence by a select few merchant families. The speeches were fiery, the marches intense, and the slogans dramatic enough to make Che Guevara smirk from his grave.

But that was yesterday.

Fast forward to today, and behold the same Suresh Pujari, now swearing in as Odisha’s Revenue Minister under the saffron flag of political pragmatism. And guess who’s applauding from the front rows? The very same Marwari businessmen, now partners in progress, co-hosts in investor summits, and co-drafters of "Vision Odisha 2030". Oh, how the slogans have aged — from revolution to resolution, from boycott to bhai-saheb, and from resistance to ribbon-cutting.

One might call this political maturity. After all, governance demands diplomacy, economic pragmatism, and yes — friendly ties with the business community. But when a man makes a U-turn so spectacular that it leaves his own ideology behind like a torn protest banner, the public deserves more than silence. They deserve a footnote, if not a full confession.

Suresh Pujari’s transformation is not just personal — it is emblematic of a wider phenomenon where rebellion is not crushed, but cleverly accommodated. Once a voice for the marginalised, he is now a polished spokesperson for “ease of doing business.” The rebel has become the receptionist. The crusader now manages the accounts.

To be fair, Pujari is not alone. Indian politics is a museum of ideological conversions. From firebrand leftists who now host Ambani’s sons at weddings to Dalit leaders who quote Adam Smith in Parliament, transformation is no longer news—it is the very nature of the beast. But what makes Pujari’s case uniquely ironic is the unapologetic manner in which he has embraced the same ecosystem he once vilified.

In the corridors of Bhubaneswar’s Secretariat, murmurs are rife. “He’s only doing what’s needed for Odisha’s development,” some say. Others shrug and add, “Who else will bring in the money if not the Marwaris?” True. But that begs the question—was it development he was protesting against in the first place? Or was it exclusion? Monopoly? Exploitation?

Pujari, had he retained a sliver of that student fire, could have carved a new path — one that engaged with capital but without losing sight of justice and equity. But alas, the man who once marched barefoot in student rallies now walks carefully-polished corridors, escorted by industrialists offering CSR brochures and MoU drafts.

This isn't just about hypocrisy; it's about the erosion of memory. Political history, especially in Odisha, has rarely been kind to those who stood on principles. But to see those principles traded at the altar of convenience is to witness not evolution, but erosion.

Kuldip Nayar would have likely asked: “Where is the line between change and compromise?” Khushwant Singh would have chuckled and remarked, “The only ideology that survives in politics is the ideology of power.” Between the two lies the tragicomedy of Indian democracy — and the curious case of Suresh Pujari.

One can still picture the younger Pujari — sleeves rolled up, eyes burning with ambition, chanting slogans against capitalist encroachment in front of Marwari-owned shops. Today, the same hands are busy signing land lease documents and chairing business conclaves, where the keynote address begins with, “We welcome our Marwari brothers who have contributed immensely to Odisha’s economy.”

Of course, people change. Contexts change. The economy, too, demands new frameworks. But what doesn’t change — or at least shouldn’t — is the soul of public service. When revolts become resumé points, and slogans become stepping stones, we are no longer building a democracy. We are curating a theatre.

The story of Suresh Pujari should be taught in political science classes — not as a lesson in betrayal, but as a cautionary tale in ideological drift. It shows how political careers are often less about transformation and more about transaction. Where once there was a barricade, now there’s a banquet.

And while the Minister might sleep soundly on starched bedsheets in his Lutyens-style Bhubaneswar bungalow, one wonders if the ghost of that old Sambalpur student ever knocks at night, asking:

"Did the revolution lose its way… or did you change the map?"

The question lingers — unanswered, perhaps deliberately — in the corridors of power.

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[Author’s Note]
Siddhartha Shankar Mishra is an Advocate at the Supreme Court of India and writes on law, politics, and society. He can be reached at ssmishra33@gmail.com.