In the quiet rural hinterlands of Maharashtra, where the soil’s yield determines daily survival and village life moves to a familiar, age-old rhythm, a new kind of artistry is flourishing. It is far removed from the glossy sheen of Bollywood’s cityscapes, yet just as significant in its raw, unvarnished humanity. Here, in villages like Udgir, men and women who work the fields by day are actors and filmmakers by night, their dreams projected onto small screens, often with no more than a local audience, but with a conviction that belies the scale of their productions.
On one such day, just outside Udgir, in the village of Haibatpur, I am orchestrating a scene for my latest short film, ‘The Story of Yuvraj and Shah Jahan.’
The scene is deceptively simple—a boy, Yuvraj, and a bangle seller, Shah Jahan, meet at the village’s edge. The tension between them is palpable, their friendship veiled by a society that shuns same-sex relationships. The filming takes place under the watchful eye of Pinkabai, a farmer from the same village, who, like many others in the area, harbors dreams of acting. Her daily life is punctuated by agricultural rituals: the releasing of the buffalo in the afternoon, the milking that must be done before dusk. Yet, on set, she becomes an artist.
As a native of Udgir, I have long been drawn to stories that challenge the norms of rural society. Growing up in these villages, I have always been aware of the unwritten rules that govern our lives. This is a society where tradition is paramount, and those who deviate are often ostracized.
Today, in Maharashtra’s hinterlands—Marathwada, Vidarbha, and West Maharashtra—thousands of unsung artists are attempting to transmute their daily realities into cinema.
Yet the path to artistic recognition for filmmakers like us is fraught with challenges. Independent creators in rural Maharashtra battle a host of obstacles, from financial shortages to the indifference of urban audiences. Without the means for promotion and distribution, their films often remain on hard drives, unseen by the public. Mainstream cinema, with its Rs. 100-crore budgets and flashy stars, leaves little room for socially conscious films that resonate with the experiences of India’s rural populace.
This tension between rural filmmakers and Bollywood’s glittering industry was starkly illustrated in the story of Prashant Ingale, an actor from a farming family in Shirur Taluk. In 2016, when Ingale, overwhelmed by debt and the pressures of rural life, attempted suicide by consuming fungicide, it mirrored the bleak realities portrayed in his films. Ingale’s story illuminates the grim divide between the financially constrained artists struggling to produce “meaningful cinema” and the excesses of Bollywood.
Though the Marathi film industry boasts a rich tradition, its independent directors remain at the mercy of financial constraints, local tastes, and the broader hegemony of mainstream cinema. Distributors will not touch our films. They do not see them as financially viable. Urban audiences ignore stories about rural life, finding them too distant, too foreign. They prefer narratives about their own world—the urban jungle of Mumbai or Pune.
These obstacles are hardly new for us. My journey into filmmaking began not with a traditional education at the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) in Pune, but in its canteen, where I befriended students and began assisting on their projects.
I consider myself an FTII canteen pass-out. Despite attempting the FTII entrance exam multiple times, I never gained admission. Instead, I devoured books from the institute’s library and learned his craft by immersing himself in the work of others. My story and struggle, with gradations, is like the odyssey of other filmmakers hailing from Maharashtra’s boondocks.
Bhaurao Karhade, the director of the National Award-winning ‘Khwada’ (2015) was forced to sell sold five acres of farmland to bring his project to life - a dark reflection of the very hardships his film sought to depict. Such filmmakers, hailing from economically parched regions, know their subjects intimately because they live those same lives. They blur the lines between art and reality, their works becoming both a mirror and a means of survival.
The mission of such ‘Indie celluloid boondockers’ as myself or Karhade and the others, is clear: tell authentic stories of rural India without compromising for commercial appeal. This often means a life of scraping by, securing donations from friends, and collaborating with like-minded, low-budget artists. Even as we face a Sisyphean task in financing and promoting their films, we push forward, buoyed by a growing trend of international collaboration and the rise of digital platforms.
While mainstream Bollywood may churn out blockbusters, filmmakers from the backwaters are intent on uncovering the poetry of the everyday—the silent struggles, the quiet resilience—of India’s rural heartland. They have crossed the Rubicon, turning their backs on commercial conformity to pursue a purer form of cinema. In the process, they are giving voice to a society long overlooked.
(The writer is a filmmaker whose short films have been acclaimed for their gritty realism and sharp social commentary. His latest short is ‘The Story of Yuvraj and Shah Jahan.’ Views personal.)
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