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What is the story about?
India in 2026 is a country consumed by uncertainty.
Young people worry about jobs even as the economy expands. Students spend years preparing for examinations whose credibility is repeatedly questioned. The outrage that followed the NEET controversy and other examination irregularities has exposed a deeper crisis of institutional trust. The rape and murder of a trainee doctor at Kolkata’s RG Kar Medical College reignited concerns about safety within educational and professional campuses. Debates around stand-up comedians, censorship, and criminal complaints against artists have sharpened questions about freedom of expression.
These are not marginal concerns. They are among the defining social undercurrents of contemporary India. The question is whether Hindi cinema is engaging with them.
For an industry that has long claimed to be a mirror of society, Bollywood today appears curiously distant from the anxieties shaping everyday life. Films continue to arrive in large numbers, but relatively few grapple with the lived experiences dominating conversations in homes, classrooms, offices, and social media feeds.
The slate of Hindi films releasing this month offers a telling example. The most hyped of the lot is a dated David Dhawan cringe-fest. Starring
Varun Dhawan, Hai Jawani Toh Ishq Hona Hai is the story of a man who accidentally impregnates two women and is then forced to deal with the consequences. It is being promoted as a family entertainer.
The next is Main Vaapas Aaunga, a Partition-era romance directed by Imtiaz Ali which mines nostalgia for a generation that doesn’t have anything to look forward to. There’s also Cocktail 2, a classic Archie-Betty-Veronica love triangle featuring three gorgeous leads singing, dancing and egging each other on in scenic European locations.
The jarring disconnect between our reality and the multiplex screens raises a larger question: if Hindi cinema is no longer reflecting the realities of the society around it, can it still claim cultural relevance?
It is only imperative to compare today with the early 2010s, a time when India was going through another moment of upheaval.
We were emerging from the aftershocks of the global financial crisis. A series of corruption scandals dominated headlines. Public anger culminated in the India Against Corruption movement. The 2012 Delhi gang rape triggered a national reckoning over gender violence and state accountability.
It was a period marked by profound distrust in institutions, political uncertainty, and questions about identity. Hindi cinema did not always address these issues directly. But it absorbed them.
The films of that era were often animated by a restless search for meaning. Peepli Live (2010) satirised media spectacle and agrarian distress through a sparkling black comedy. Shanghai (2012) explored political corruption and the manipulation of democratic institutions. No One Killed Jessica (2011) channelled public anger over justice denied. Kahaani (2012) captured urban paranoia and institutional opacity. Madras Cafe (2013) examined political violence and statecraft.
But above all stood Gangs of Wasseypur (2012).
Anurag Kashyap’s sprawling crime epic was ostensibly about coal mafias and gang rivalries. Yet its enduring power came from something deeper, murkier. It depicted a society where institutions had collapsed into networks of patronage, violence, and opportunism. Politicians, businessmen, criminals, and local strongmen became indistinguishable.
The film pointedly asked a question that many Indians seemed to be juggling with in that period of transition: Who am I in this new India?
It was a loaded question that incorporated class, caste, aspiration, and belonging. Old political certainties were eroding. New identities were emerging. India was searching for a narrative.
However, the years that followed brought a different answer.
The BJP’s rise to power in 2014 reshaped the political conversation around questions of nationalism, civilizational identity, and religious belonging. Public discourse increasingly became organised around binaries—national versus anti-national, Hindu versus Muslim, insider versus outsider. Whether one agrees with that characterisation or not, identity became the dominant currency of politics.
Interestingly, Hindi cinema has been engaging with this shift, but often in a narrower way than it did with the social churn that preceded it. The mainstream got preoccupied—and soon obsessed with—historical spectacle, patriotic narratives, military heroism, and mythological symbolism. Meanwhile, eager to jump on the serialised storytelling bandwagon that was starting to pick pace, studios began to create universes—spy, cop, horror—of their own. What fell through the cracks was the everyday texture of social anxiety.
Where are the stories about educated young people navigating a labour market that increasingly feels precarious despite impressive macroeconomic indicators? Where are the dramas examining why public trust in institutions—from recruitment systems to infrastructure authorities—has become such a recurring source of anxiety?
The absence is striking because these are not niche concerns. They affect millions of Indians directly. One explanation is structural.
Hindi cinema today is far more risk-averse than it was 15 years ago.
The mid-budget film—the category that once produced politically charged, socially observant cinema—has largely disappeared. Theatrical economics increasingly reward either large-scale spectacles or films built around established stars. Stories rooted in contemporary social realities often migrate to streaming platforms.
But the streaming revolution has not entirely solved the problem.
OTT platforms have certainly been producing more grounded narratives, however, much of that energy has gone into crime thrillers, police procedurals, and true-crime-inspired dramas. They frequently depict institutional failure, but rarely interrogate the broader social conditions responsible for public distrust, which has resulted in a peculiar situation.
India is in a state of flux, experiencing one of its most consequential periods of social transformation since liberalisation. Young Indians are navigating unprecedented technological change, economic competition, political polarisation, and informational overload. Yet mainstream Hindi cinema often behaves as though these tensions exist somewhere outside the frame.
This is not merely an artistic problem. It is a cultural one. Cinema matters because it helps societies process themselves. The greatest Hindi films have rarely functioned as direct political commentary. Their power has come from capturing the emotional atmosphere of an era.
The angry-young-man films of the 1970s reflected frustrations with unemployment, corruption, and state failure. The liberalisation-era romances of the 1990s expressed the aspirations of a newly globalising middle class. The films of the early 2010s channelled widespread distrust of institutions and uncertainty about India’s future direction.
Today’s defining emotion is anxiety—not ideological alone, existential anxiety.
Anxiety about opportunity, fairness, safety, speech. Anxiety about whether our institutions are capable of protecting individual aspirations. Yet relatively few Hindi films seem interested in exploring that emotional landscape.
This helps explain why some of the most culturally resonant storytelling in recent years has emerged outside mainstream Bollywood—from regional cinema, documentaries, independent filmmakers, and digital creators who engage more directly with contemporary realities.
The danger for Hindi cinema is not that audiences will stop watching films. The danger is that audiences will stop looking to films for meaning. A film industry remains culturally relevant only when it helps people understand the world they inhabit. Spectacle can generate box-office numbers. Nostalgia can generate social-media engagement. Nationalism can generate applause.
But relevance comes from recognition. People must see their fears, contradictions, aspirations, and dilemmas reflected on screen.
The Hindi cinema of the early 2010s understood this. It recognised a society in transition and tried, however imperfectly, to capture its turbulence. The Hindi cinema of today often appears to be looking elsewhere. And in that widening gap between what India is experiencing and what Bollywood is depicting lies the industry's most important challenge—not commercial survival, but cultural significance.
Young people worry about jobs even as the economy expands. Students spend years preparing for examinations whose credibility is repeatedly questioned. The outrage that followed the NEET controversy and other examination irregularities has exposed a deeper crisis of institutional trust. The rape and murder of a trainee doctor at Kolkata’s RG Kar Medical College reignited concerns about safety within educational and professional campuses. Debates around stand-up comedians, censorship, and criminal complaints against artists have sharpened questions about freedom of expression.
These are not marginal concerns. They are among the defining social undercurrents of contemporary India. The question is whether Hindi cinema is engaging with them.
For an industry that has long claimed to be a mirror of society, Bollywood today appears curiously distant from the anxieties shaping everyday life. Films continue to arrive in large numbers, but relatively few grapple with the lived experiences dominating conversations in homes, classrooms, offices, and social media feeds.
The slate of Hindi films releasing this month offers a telling example. The most hyped of the lot is a dated David Dhawan cringe-fest. Starring
The next is Main Vaapas Aaunga, a Partition-era romance directed by Imtiaz Ali which mines nostalgia for a generation that doesn’t have anything to look forward to. There’s also Cocktail 2, a classic Archie-Betty-Veronica love triangle featuring three gorgeous leads singing, dancing and egging each other on in scenic European locations.
The jarring disconnect between our reality and the multiplex screens raises a larger question: if Hindi cinema is no longer reflecting the realities of the society around it, can it still claim cultural relevance?
It is only imperative to compare today with the early 2010s, a time when India was going through another moment of upheaval.
We were emerging from the aftershocks of the global financial crisis. A series of corruption scandals dominated headlines. Public anger culminated in the India Against Corruption movement. The 2012 Delhi gang rape triggered a national reckoning over gender violence and state accountability.
It was a period marked by profound distrust in institutions, political uncertainty, and questions about identity. Hindi cinema did not always address these issues directly. But it absorbed them.
The films of that era were often animated by a restless search for meaning. Peepli Live (2010) satirised media spectacle and agrarian distress through a sparkling black comedy. Shanghai (2012) explored political corruption and the manipulation of democratic institutions. No One Killed Jessica (2011) channelled public anger over justice denied. Kahaani (2012) captured urban paranoia and institutional opacity. Madras Cafe (2013) examined political violence and statecraft.
But above all stood Gangs of Wasseypur (2012).
Anurag Kashyap’s sprawling crime epic was ostensibly about coal mafias and gang rivalries. Yet its enduring power came from something deeper, murkier. It depicted a society where institutions had collapsed into networks of patronage, violence, and opportunism. Politicians, businessmen, criminals, and local strongmen became indistinguishable.
The film pointedly asked a question that many Indians seemed to be juggling with in that period of transition: Who am I in this new India?
It was a loaded question that incorporated class, caste, aspiration, and belonging. Old political certainties were eroding. New identities were emerging. India was searching for a narrative.
However, the years that followed brought a different answer.
The BJP’s rise to power in 2014 reshaped the political conversation around questions of nationalism, civilizational identity, and religious belonging. Public discourse increasingly became organised around binaries—national versus anti-national, Hindu versus Muslim, insider versus outsider. Whether one agrees with that characterisation or not, identity became the dominant currency of politics.
Interestingly, Hindi cinema has been engaging with this shift, but often in a narrower way than it did with the social churn that preceded it. The mainstream got preoccupied—and soon obsessed with—historical spectacle, patriotic narratives, military heroism, and mythological symbolism. Meanwhile, eager to jump on the serialised storytelling bandwagon that was starting to pick pace, studios began to create universes—spy, cop, horror—of their own. What fell through the cracks was the everyday texture of social anxiety.
Where are the stories about educated young people navigating a labour market that increasingly feels precarious despite impressive macroeconomic indicators? Where are the dramas examining why public trust in institutions—from recruitment systems to infrastructure authorities—has become such a recurring source of anxiety?
The absence is striking because these are not niche concerns. They affect millions of Indians directly. One explanation is structural.
Hindi cinema today is far more risk-averse than it was 15 years ago.
The mid-budget film—the category that once produced politically charged, socially observant cinema—has largely disappeared. Theatrical economics increasingly reward either large-scale spectacles or films built around established stars. Stories rooted in contemporary social realities often migrate to streaming platforms.
But the streaming revolution has not entirely solved the problem.
OTT platforms have certainly been producing more grounded narratives, however, much of that energy has gone into crime thrillers, police procedurals, and true-crime-inspired dramas. They frequently depict institutional failure, but rarely interrogate the broader social conditions responsible for public distrust, which has resulted in a peculiar situation.
India is in a state of flux, experiencing one of its most consequential periods of social transformation since liberalisation. Young Indians are navigating unprecedented technological change, economic competition, political polarisation, and informational overload. Yet mainstream Hindi cinema often behaves as though these tensions exist somewhere outside the frame.
This is not merely an artistic problem. It is a cultural one. Cinema matters because it helps societies process themselves. The greatest Hindi films have rarely functioned as direct political commentary. Their power has come from capturing the emotional atmosphere of an era.
The angry-young-man films of the 1970s reflected frustrations with unemployment, corruption, and state failure. The liberalisation-era romances of the 1990s expressed the aspirations of a newly globalising middle class. The films of the early 2010s channelled widespread distrust of institutions and uncertainty about India’s future direction.
Today’s defining emotion is anxiety—not ideological alone, existential anxiety.
Anxiety about opportunity, fairness, safety, speech. Anxiety about whether our institutions are capable of protecting individual aspirations. Yet relatively few Hindi films seem interested in exploring that emotional landscape.
This helps explain why some of the most culturally resonant storytelling in recent years has emerged outside mainstream Bollywood—from regional cinema, documentaries, independent filmmakers, and digital creators who engage more directly with contemporary realities.
The danger for Hindi cinema is not that audiences will stop watching films. The danger is that audiences will stop looking to films for meaning. A film industry remains culturally relevant only when it helps people understand the world they inhabit. Spectacle can generate box-office numbers. Nostalgia can generate social-media engagement. Nationalism can generate applause.
But relevance comes from recognition. People must see their fears, contradictions, aspirations, and dilemmas reflected on screen.
The Hindi cinema of the early 2010s understood this. It recognised a society in transition and tried, however imperfectly, to capture its turbulence. The Hindi cinema of today often appears to be looking elsewhere. And in that widening gap between what India is experiencing and what Bollywood is depicting lies the industry's most important challenge—not commercial survival, but cultural significance.
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