In the recent protests at Jantar Mantar, which restored faith for many in what seemed like a broken, flailing democracy at the hands of remorseless autocrats, the songs that played were from films that belonged to the youth of the Millennials – the Millennials who had demonstrated to the current youth what protests meant, and that they were necessary and in fact could be done.The songs belonged to films like Rang De Basanti (2006), Swades (2004), Yuva (2004), Black Friday (2004) and Rockstar (2011). It is remarkable, and disappointing, that none of the tracks were played from films released in the last 12 years that have been marked by the oppression of free speech by this regime.The last films in public memory that speak of dissent remain Afwaah (2023) and Jawaan (2023). Both these films took on the idea of anger, dissent and citizen interest in distinctly different ways. Afwaah had limited shows but Jawaan brought into the mainstream two important points – it reminded us of the failures of the regime as well as of our responsibility to vote. These films came after a long hiatus starting 2014, where the most political and brave films in memory remain Haider and PK.Patriotism and nationalism have been recurring themes in popular cinema in the last 12 years. Teamed with jingoism and aggressive masculinity, they create an image of an extremely violent, male patriot – which has now unfortunately become the only definition of a patriot acceptable in the current times.This patriot has to be loyal to the regime. This dangerous image that has been consistently fed through cinema has bolstered two critical narratives coming from this hegemonic regime.Firstly, that the regime is equal to the state itself. Therefore, any dissent against the regime is automatically considered seditious and anti-national. When matched with their consistent narratives and actions on the ground – labelling dissenters everything from the ‘Khan market gang’, ‘tukde tukde gang’, anti-national and ‘urban Naxal’ to the latest ‘dimaagi Naxal’ – dissent or questions themselves are considered seditious, as is protest.Secondly, because the definition of the celebrated, proverbial patriot is someone who is loyal to the regime – now fused with the state – the idea that the two are separate is lost. Within that conception, to be loyal to the idea of constitutional values that define the state, which are flouted by the regime, are today considered unpatriotic. Which is why, over the last 12 years, we see no films on the simple idea that dissenters are patriots who are loyal to their country and want to build a better nation.Dissent is a fundamental pillar of democracy and is built into its very fabric. By denying and demonising dissent, the regime is fundamentally demonising democracy. The right to critique a regime rests with the people of the country, and the constitution offers the people of this democratic country that right.In Nehruvian India, in films like Shree 420 (1955), Pyaasa (1957) and Jaagte Raho (1956), dissent was expressed in many shades. We see it in the lovable tramp who, in Shree 420‘s ‘Dil ka Haal Sune Dilwaala’, sings Shailendra’s trademark simple lyrics that convey massive truths about systemic inequality. He speaks of how at every turn the system, comprising hunger and the police, are designed to keep the poor intensely subjugated to the upper-class oppressor.In Pyaasa, Sahir’s searing poetry of ‘jinhe naaz hai hind par woh kahan hain’ (‘those who are proud of India, where are they?’) is a sharp criticism of a nation’s pride when prostitution exists and the situation of women is the way it is. Vijay (Guru Dutt)’s last monologue in Pyaasa, where he rejects the success of a world he disrespects because of its inherent inequality and apathy, is a form of dissent. As for Jaagte Raho, the entire film is a metaphor for societal apathy and thus is a kind of dissent.Each of these films from the 1950s, nine to ten years after independence, had the freedom to criticise the regime and its seeming failures in the harshest and most evident way.Political dissent was not limited to the Nehruvian times. The ‘angry young man’ was the metaphor of all the angst faced by a disillusioned, angry people who, after 30 years of independence, could not see the promises made to them; were resisting the clampdowns of the Emergency and were rejecting the incompetence of governance.Amitabh Bachchan embodied dissent for years, flouting authority, breaking rules and refusing reform. Bachchan’s Vijay died in many films at the hands of authority or those espousing the ‘right’ way of life, but he never conformed.Popular Hindi cinema through the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s continued to mirror people’s angst and dissent in many ways. The alternate cinema movement embodied dissent in its very existence. The fact that they made films away from the commercial glare, refusing to conform to its formulae, and picked up pertinent stories and issues is testimony to that. And to make a film like Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron (1983), which looked at the nexus of corruption, journalism and politics, is impossible today.Why was this possible? The protagonists of the stories were labourers, coolies, farmers, jobless poets, migrant labourers, rickshaw pullers, struggling photographers, righteous doctors – stories of the majority of people who inhabited India and who watched these films too. The films were made for them and about them.After liberalisation, as economic divisions turned into chasms, the audience of films changed. Cinema, as did society, began to obliterate questions on class inequalities and the systems designed to maintain those inequalities for the benefit of the upper classes.One crucial film released, again to limited theatres, was Nandita Das’s Zwigato (2023), which turned the gaze inward at the upper-middle class and its apathy, entitlement and the fact that it benefits from a structure designed to support it by oppressing a struggling class. That film, by virtue of its existence, is dissent.Until 2001 we had films like Nayak, in which a politician is asked to allow a civilian to govern for a day and questions are asked on corruption. Films like Lage Raho Munnabhai (2006) and PK (2014) bring dissent into the mainstream, with the former glorifying protests and the latter questioning the blatant and mindless following of religious practices.The question that is crucial to ask is, who are films being made for today? And, therefore, whose mouthpieces are they? The popular Hindi films are made for the urban rich who can enter multiplexes and are keen to watch the narratives they wish to believe – of the invincibility and power of the regime they seem to have put their faith in.The last 12 years have seen popular Hindi cinema become the mouthpiece of the government, making films that popularise only the official view, ranging from The Kashmir Files (2022) and The Kerala Story (2023) to Article 370 (2024), Dhurandhar I (2025) and Dhurandhar II (2026). How, then, will there ever be space for dissent?When dissent itself has been designated anti-national, how will it find room in nationalistic representation by a regime? It is deeply ironic that a country that won its independence through movements seeped in dissent, today, as a democracy, labels those very mechanisms of accountability as ‘anti-national’. It is crucial for the citizens of the country to ask today whether they are ruled or governed, controlled or served, oppressed or free.What then is the role of popular Hindi cinema? Is it to reflect and pre-empt the mood of the country, the desires, aspirations, angst and anger of its people? Or is it to become the voice of its oppressive state, that is now one of the worst in the world when it comes to freedom of the press, that imprisons dissenters without trial, and the prime minister of which in his Independence Day address openly calls for the isolation of ‘dimagi Naxals’ – a new epithet coined for dissenters?Saumya Baijal is a Gurgaon-based independent writer on cinema, politics, gender and culture, poet (English and Hindi), storyteller and ad woman.