Sundaramma and Manemma: a study of Dalit women in two Telugu films of 2021

Telugu cinema has made films about caste since Malapilla in 1938, which introduced its first Dalit woman character (p. 104). Bhagya Shree Nadamala and Priyanka Tripathi argue that for most of that time it showed caste “through an upper-caste conventional gaze” (p. 105). In their study they ask whether two films of 2021, Narappa and Love Story, broke with that.

They answer that the films do give Dalit women a voice and a will of their own, which they call “Dalit feminist consciousness”. But they also say the films were made from outside the community, and that this limits what they can show.

What the study argued

An industry run by a few castes. The authors describe Telugu cinema as tied to three landowning castes, the Reddys, Kammas and Kapus. These castes put farm wealth into film, produced stars such as N.T. Rama Rao and Chiranjeevi, and built fan clubs that also worked as caste associations (p. 104). They write that this “triumvirate’s dominance still persists” in the two Telugu states (p. 104).

Two ways of showing Dalit women. In older films, they argue, Dalit women either take part in a Gandhian “liberal revival” led by male heroes, or stay on the margins (p. 105). They point to films by K. Viswanath, such as Shankarabharanam (1980), in which Dalit women are absorbed into a “Savarna model”: an upper-caste hero rescues a Dalit woman from being a victim (p. 105).

A new wave that still centred men. From 2018 to 2021 a run of Telugu films took up caste, including C/o Kancherapalem, Palasa and Uppena. The authors argue that these films made Dalit men the agents of change, while Dalit women were “reduced to mere photographs adorning their homes” (p. 106).

Sundaramma in Narappa. Narappa, directed by Srikanth Addala, is a remake of the Tamil film Asuran, which was adapted from Poomani’s novel Vekkai (p. 107). The authors read Narappa’s wife, Sundaramma, played by Priyamani, as its “narrative backbone” (p. 108). In one scene she confronts nine upper-caste men who are drawing water from a well with a motor. She warns them that she will throw the motor into the well, and the camera gives her a solo shot that the authors say is “usually reserved for male protagonists” (p. 108). She also challenges her husband’s deference to upper-caste men: “How could you fall at everyone’s feet just because they asked you to?” (p. 109).

Manemma in Love Story. In Sekhar Kammula’s Love Story, Manemma, played by Easwari Rao, is the mother of the Dalit Christian hero. She is an anganwadi (village pre-school) teacher and owns half an acre of land. When her son wants to sell it, she refuses: “I will die, but I will never agree on this. It is our strength” (p. 110). The authors connect this to the land Dalits own. Citing the agricultural census of 2015–16, they note that Dalits own “only about 9 per cent of total agricultural land” (p. 110). Before visiting an upper-caste family she says she will wear an expensive saree, because “their first glance would be towards our feet” (p. 113). The authors read this line as a comment on the custom of making Dalits leave their footwear outside upper-caste homes.

Made from outside. The authors note that both directors are non-Dalit. Dalit film-makers try to show Dalit life “in all its complexity”, they write, and films like these “may sometimes lack this depth” (p. 113, note 15). They conclude that Telugu cinema is “yet to witness the rise of Dalit filmmakers”, unlike Marathi and Tamil cinema with Nagraj Manjule, Mari Selvaraj and Pa. Ranjith (p. 115).

Why it matters

Much of the recent writing on caste in Indian cinema, including our brief on Pa. Ranjith, is about Tamil films and their heroes. This study looks at Telugu films and at Dalit women in them, and it reads the films closely, shot by shot. It shows how a camera angle, a costume or a line about footwear can either repeat a caste stereotype or push against it.

It also raises a question that applies beyond these two films: what changes when Dalit women are written with more dignity by people outside the community, and what still does not.

What the study does not show

• What audiences thought. The study has no interviews or surveys of viewers. It judges reception from press reviews, nominations and ratings.
• A trend. Two films cannot show whether Telugu cinema as a whole has changed. The study does not count Dalit women’s roles across many films.
• The film-makers’ intent. The authors read the films as texts and did not speak to the directors, writers or actors.
• A Dalit-made comparison. Because no Telugu film by a Dalit director is studied, the contrast with Dalit-made cinema rests on Tamil and Marathi examples.

Talking points

• The authors praise these films and also say a “Savarna patriarchal lens” sits behind them. Can a film by a non-Dalit director carry Dalit feminist consciousness, or only point towards it?
• Both women are defined partly by owning land. Does that make them stronger characters, or does it make them exceptions to how most Dalit women live?
• A question to weigh against the study: the fierce, protective mother is a familiar figure in Indian film. Does Sundaramma break with stereotype, or update an old one?

The work

Bhagya Shree Nadamala and Priyanka Tripathi, “Towards inclusivity: Dalit women’s representation in contemporary Telugu cinescapes”, Feminist Review 137 (2024): 102–119. The article online (DOI)