Indian cinema has long been fascinated with the village. From the earthy, socialist realism of Do Bigha Zamin (1953) to the melodramatic lament of Mother India (1957), the village once stood as both heartland and hinterland — a space of moral clarity, rustic struggle, and often unyielding fate. But as the urban middle class began to dominate cinematic production and consumption, the depiction of the village increasingly came to reflect an urban gaze, that is, a perspective shaped by distance, nostalgia, condescension, or even outright fantasy.
In recent years, this urban gaze has taken on new shades, evident in the way mainstream and indie filmmakers alike have re-engaged with rural India. While some have tried to explore the village as a site of resistance, authenticity, or even horror, others continue to reproduce sanitized or exaggerated versions of village life that serve urban sensibilities more than rural realities.
A key example of this complex gaze is Panchayat (Amazon Prime, 2020–2024), a web series rather than a film, but immensely influential in its portrayal of village life. Set in rural Uttar Pradesh, the show follows an engineering graduate who reluctantly takes up a government job as a panchayat secretary. The charm of Panchayat lies in its gentle humor, its careful observation of rural bureaucracy, and its endearing characters. Yet, its very structure, with a protagonist who is always an outsider, subtly aligns with an urban viewer's perspective. The village becomes a quirky, endearing stage upon which the reluctant hero grows. What is left underexplored are the systemic issues and lived complexities of villagers themselves, whose subjectivities often remain at the margins.
Contrast this with Jai Bhim (2021), which, while primarily set in Tamil Nadu’s tribal belt, offers a rural backdrop steeped in structural injustice. The film, based on a real case fought by Justice Chandru, documents the state violence against a tribal man falsely accused of theft. While the film is didactic and overtly political, its commitment to showing rural communities not just as pastoral idylls but as sites of legal and political struggle marks a significant departure from mainstream representations. Here, the rural is not a metaphor for authenticity or regression but a political space demanding engagement.
Yet, even progressive cinema is not immune to the urban gaze. Take Article 15 (2019), directed by Anubhav Sinha. Inspired by real events such as the Badaun gang rape case, the film explores caste oppression in rural India. While it deserves credit for forcing urban viewers to confront caste realities, its protagonist is an upper-caste IPS officer who undergoes a moral awakening through his encounter with village injustice. The villagers are rendered as subjects to be saved, their agency flattened to amplify the hero’s arc. The film’s aesthetic with foggy fields, ominous silences, haunting music, and packages the village as an exotic moral theatre.
In contrast, Kadaisi Vivasayi (2021), a Tamil film directed by M. Manikandan, takes a radically different approach. It centers on an 80-year-old farmer who is the last to still practice traditional farming. The film is meditative, slow, and observational, refusing to exoticize or dramatize rural life. It neither patronizes its protagonist nor filters his story through an urban lens. Here, the village is not just a setting but a living ecosystem — vulnerable, sacred, and self-sustaining, gradually eroded by urban expansion and modernity. It is one of the rare instances where the rural is allowed to narrate itself on its own terms.
Then there are films like Laal Singh Chaddha (2022), where the village is a mere origin story, a place the protagonist must leave in order to grow. Similarly, in Shershaah (2021), the protagonist’s Kargil-hero journey begins in a Punjabi village, romanticized in sepia tones before the narrative quickly shifts to urban settings and border conflicts. These films use the village to evoke authenticity, sentiment, or nationalistic pride but do not dwell there long enough to challenge or complicate its image.
Laapataa Ladies: A Subversive Take on Rural Narratives
Kiran Rao's Laapataa Ladies (2024) offers a refreshing departure from conventional portrayals of rural India. Set in the fictional state of Nirmal Pradesh in 2001, the film follows two newlywed brides who, due to a mix-up during a train journey, end up in the wrong households. This Shakespearean comedy of errors unfolds in a meticulously crafted rural setting, shot in the villages of Bamuliya and Dhamankheda in Madhya Pradesh. The production design, led by Vikram Singh, captures the authenticity of village life, from traditional Chitravan folk art to the use of tree barks for thatched roofs.
Beyond its aesthetic appeal, Laapataa Ladies delves into the societal norms and patriarchal structures that define rural communities. The film uses the 'ghoonghat' (veil) as a metaphor for the invisibility and loss of identity experienced by women, highlighting how traditions can obscure individuality and agency. Through the journeys of Phool and Jaya, the narrative explores themes of female empowerment, education, and the courage to challenge societal expectations.
Critics have praised the film for its nuanced storytelling and social commentary. The Indian Express noted that the film "delivers its message loud and clear" without being overbearing. The Times of India highlighted how the film "smashes patriarchy with sass and substance," emphasizing its balance of humor and depth.
Laapataa Ladies stands out for allowing rural characters, especially women, to be the architects of their own stories. It avoids the urban savior trope, instead presenting a narrative where the village is not merely a backdrop but a dynamic space where individuals confront and navigate complex social realities.
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What unites many of these films is not simply their use of the village as a backdrop, but the way they frame it for a viewer presumed to be urban. The urban gaze, whether nostalgic, critical, or savior-like, often positions the village as an “other” to be admired, fixed, escaped, or mourned. It rarely allows the rural self-representation that would grant village characters the same narrative centrality and interiority as their urban counterparts.
However, there are signs of change. Independent cinema, regional films, and OTT platforms have begun to open up rural storytelling beyond the clichés. Films like Laapataa Ladies exemplify this shift, offering narratives that are rooted in rural realities and driven by the voices of those who inhabit them. The challenge remains: can Indian cinema continue to look at the village not from afar but from within, not as a canvas for urban dreams or guilt, but as a world in its own right?
Until then, the village in Indian cinema will continue to wear the mask that the city gives it, sometimes beautiful, sometimes tragic, but rarely whole.