'Empuraan' backlash shows that in India art must now conform to a singular national narrative

The controversy surrounding the Malayalam film L2:Empuraan (L2E) has reignited a vital conversation about the erosion of artistic freedom in India. This is no mere cultural flashpoint — the backlash, followed by compelled apologies and 24 ‘voluntary edits’, underscores a more disturbing pattern: a rising intolerance towards dissent, and a systematic narrowing of creative space under an increasingly homogenised ideological order.

In essence, L2E is a work of fiction; one that takes cinematic licenses, uses mass-market methods, and interweaves political subtext in its narrative. Like any art form, it has aspects which elicit both assent and dissent. Audiences can discount its aesthetics, question its decisions, or even reject its politics. What they cannot be made to do is apologise for viewing or producing it.

The film’s reference to the 2002 Gujarat riots has sparked fury. This painful chapter — where unofficial estimates put the death toll at nearly 2,000 — remains an open wound, one the State seems determined to erase from public memory. L2:E is not a documentary, nor does it claim to offer a factual retelling. Yet even a fictional nod to events that challenge the ruling narrative has triggered outsized outrage. In a healthy democracy, art is expected to grapple with uncomfortable truths. In today’s India, such truth-telling is increasingly met with suppression.

This is not an isolated incident. Conversely, many movies like The Sabarmati Report, The Kashmir Files, and The Kerala Story have had political support despite criticism regarding their ideological slant or historical inaccuracies. Prime Minister Narendra Modi endorsed The Sabarmati Report, as he did The Kerala Story, which was promoted to the level of a cultural artefact by select political groups. Such films, including the recently-released Chhaava, serve a certain conception of history and identity that is aligned with the current regime’s narrative.

Why L2:E is targeted

The selective indignation is all the more striking when one realises that India has a rich tradition of politically confrontational cinema. Malayalam cinema, in fact, has never been afraid to challenge authority. Movies that are critical of political leaders, social hierarchies, or religious orthodoxy have always been well-received in Kerala. What then, is so different about L2:E? Why is it being targeted?

The explanation is to be found in the growing weaponisation of religion and identity in politics. India is turning into a nation where any piece of art is interpreted in terms of collective grievance. Any deviation from the mainstream narrative is responded to with a cyclone of boycott demands, economic intimidation, and online harassment. What is worrisome is not the criticism of L2:E, but the coercive conformity it has been put through. Public apologies were called for and issued. Scenes, cleared by the Censor Board of Film Certification, are being ‘voluntarily’ changed after release. This erodes not only the creators' independence, but also the institutional framework designed to safeguard it.

The Enforcement Directorate’s raid on producer Gokulam Gopalan and the Income Tax actions targeting director Prithviraj Sukumaran appear to echo the intense opposition from the RSS towards the movie.

Free speech: then and now

The freedom of speech and expression guaranteed by Article 19(1)(a) of the Constitution is coming more under attack. This is not just about one movie. It's about whether India is still a nation where art can question, provoke, and challenge authority.

Time too must be placed against the backdrop of cultural regression. Fifty years ago, Indian society was much more conservative, yet risky creative endeavours took place. In 1973, M T Vasudevan Nair's story was adapted into Nirmalayam, in which a protagonist spits on an idol — a scene unimaginable today. Likewise, the song ‘Manushyan Mathangale Srishtichu’ (religions are man-made) by the legendary trio of Vayalar Ramavarma, G Devarajan, and K J Yesudas unabashedly questioned blind religiosity. Such art would face bans and threats in contemporary India.

The atmosphere of terror has started muzzling artists from all walks of life. Stand-up comedian Kunal Kamra has been subjected to State-sponsored opposition for his shows. Even the audience who attend such events are now running the risk of harassment. This is not freedom of expression; this is its spectre.

The issue is not that a movie like L2:E is out there, or that it questions a specific ideology. The issue is that such a movie is made to be a threat, while movies like Chhaava, which romanticise historical figures through an explicit ideological filter and have allegedly provoked acts of real-world violence (as seen in Nagpur), are met with little to no outrage. If fiction can trigger such institutional paranoia, then the actual threat is not in the film, but in the inability of the State to accept other perspectives.

Ideological homogeneity

A fictional film, even with political undertones, does not purport to be an accurate portrayal of history. If accuracy was the goal, it would be a documentary. Yet, the demand seems to be that all art must now conform to a singular national narrative; one religion, one culture, one history.

This fixation on ideological homogeneity is not limited to cinema but reflects the way historical figures are looked at today. Aurangzeb, Rana Sanga, and Tipu Sultan — historically analysed as multifaceted political figures — are now seen through the religious prism only. The sophistication of historical nuance has given way to a two-dimensional morality: heroes and villains, depending on the political flavour of the day. But the fact remains, all emperors have their good, bad, and ugly sides.

The true casualty of this decade isn’t just artistic freedom — it's the very idea of a pluralistic and free India. When a nation cannot tolerate imagination, storytelling, or dissent without resorting to criminalisation, it undermines the foundations of democracy itself.

This nation increasingly resembles a sanctuary for the easily wounded — those who claim injury at the hands of art. India must ask itself: Will it remain a country where art is free to speak truth to power, or will it become one where power dictates what can be said, seen, and remembered?

The answer will shape not just the future of our cinema, but the very soul of the Republic.

John Brittas is a Member of Parliament, and Nandini Nair is a Research Associate.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the authors' own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.