There’s a strange irony in the way truth is treated in modern democracies. When a film dares to expose uncomfortable realities, it’s not celebrated as a triumph of free expression—it’s labeled a threat to national security. Take the case of Satluj, the film by Honey Trehan that India’s censors deemed too dangerous to let exist. To me, this isn’t just about one movie; it’s a chilling glimpse into how power weaponizes fear to silence dissent. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the state frames inconvenient history as a destabilizing force, while simultaneously greenlighting films that glorify its own narratives. It’s a masterclass in doublespeak, where the line between truth and propaganda blurs until they’re indistinguishable.
India’s film censorship board, the CBFC, has long been a shadowy gatekeeper, but under the Modi government, it’s transformed into something far more insidious. Trehan’s ordeal—127 demanded cuts, a name change from Ghallughara to Satluj, and the erasure of Punjab police’s atrocities—reveals a system that doesn’t just regulate content. It reshapes reality. In my opinion, this isn’t censorship; it’s ideological engineering. The CBFC isn’t just blocking films; it’s rewriting history, ensuring that only stories that align with the ruling party’s agenda survive. And when a filmmaker dares to challenge that, they’re not just censored—they’re criminalized. Trehan’s accusation that the board is ‘hand in glove’ with the government isn’t hyperbole. It’s a stark admission that the state has co-opted the very institutions meant to protect artistic freedom.
What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t an isolated incident. The CBFC’s actions are part of a broader pattern: films that critique police brutality, caste violence, or religious nationalism are systematically stifled, while pro-government narratives are fast-tracked. Consider The Kashmir Files or The Kerala Story, which have been hailed as cinematic triumphs despite their Islamophobic undertones. The contrast is jarring. Why is it acceptable to depict Muslim suffering but not Sikh persecution? The answer, of course, lies in politics. As Trehan wryly notes, ‘Show Muslims in a bad light and your film will get a standing ovation in parliament.’ This isn’t just hypocrisy—it’s a calculated strategy to divide and control, using cinema as a tool of soft power.
But here’s the thing: censorship doesn’t erase truth. It amplifies it. When Satluj was banned, it didn’t disappear. It became a rallying cry. Guerilla screenings in Punjab’s village squares, gurdwaras, and fields turned the film into a revolutionary act. People who had long been silenced by state violence now saw their stories validated. For someone like Ranjit Singh, whose father was tortured by police, the film wasn’t just a movie—it was an archive of his family’s trauma. This raises a deeper question: What happens when the state tries to bury history? It doesn’t vanish; it resurfaces, louder and more defiant.
The psychological toll on filmmakers is equally staggering. Self-censorship has become a survival tactic, a way to avoid legal repercussions or career ruin. Anna MM Vetticad’s observation that the CBFC’s goal is to ‘create an atmosphere of fear’ hits the nail on the head. When artists are forced to choose between truth and profit, the result is a cinema that reflects power, not people. And yet, there’s a glimmer of resistance. Trehan’s digital release, bypassing the CBFC entirely, is a bold statement. It’s a reminder that art can’t be contained by bureaucracy. If anything, censorship only fuels its urgency.
Looking ahead, the implications are dire. A film industry reduced to propaganda risks losing its soul. But perhaps, in the cracks of this authoritarian machinery, new voices will emerge. The people of Punjab have already shown that a banned film can unite communities, spark protests, and reclaim narratives. This isn’t just about one filmmaker’s struggle—it’s a battle for the right to remember, to tell stories that challenge power, and to demand accountability. The question is: Will the world watch and listen, or will it turn away, complicit in the silence?
