You think Netflix’s Class gets caste right? No, it just caters to urban woke gaze

In Netflix’s Class, stereotypes are grossly sketched in the personalities of Dalit protagonists.

By Shikha Chandra, (Edited by Ratan Priya)

From Ketan Mehta’s Manjhi: The Mountain Man to Anubhav Sinha’s Article 15 to Netflix series Class, the topic of caste in Indian films and shows hasn’t been a rarity in recent years. But the gaze  is predominantly ‘upper’ caste and urban woke.

While such attempts do start a dialogue around India’s historical system of injustice, the way most Indian filmmakers approach casteism is flawed and insensitive. The portrayal sits right with the so-called woke living in metropolitan cities, without making them uncomfortable or seek answer to difficult questions or make them reflect on their privileges and surroundings. And the media builds narratives to attract the ‘woke’ individuals because it’s an easy way out—it doesn’t address the elephant in the room, and it dusts off the responsibility to inform people the right way. The modern-day urban residents happily go about their business, believing they’ve got some food for thought.

But the reality is that they have only been shown what they like to see. The complex truth lies buried behind the red and black Netflix logo and silver screens.

An escape for ‘caste-less’ savarnas

I started watching Class, the Indian adaptation of Spanish series Elite, as yet another teen drama set in an upscale school. It compelled me to think about the depiction of the marginalised in popular media discourse. Class may brand itself as a social commentary on oppressive regimes, but I didn’t like how it portrayed the community I belong to. Besides issues like religious conflicts, sexuality and drug abuse, caste largely remains at the centre of the plot, to the extent that the critical theme seems forced and normalised. Characters are at ease and rather dismissive while making a casteist remark, and move on to the next conversation, making it easier for the viewer to ignore the implications of the rampant prejudice.

Moreover, no oppressed caste character in the series, other than Dheeraj Valmiki, one of the three underprivileged students, gets into the fictional Hampton International School. Why? Because these high-class spaces are ‘reserved’ for the Kalras, Ahujas and Mehtas, who diss constitutional reservation. Reflecting a stark contrast between the two worlds, Dheeraj is shown to be a misfit in the posh circles. The creators have used a rustic, crude and gloomy aesthetic for the poor boy, while a swanky, bright and well-lit colour scheme is chosen for the rich people. Even when the activities they are engaged in are darker than pitch.

Indian casting directors might have come a long way from practising glaring colourism that pedestalised Euro-centric beauty standards, but when it comes to representing the oppressed castes, they still choose to darken the faces of the actors.

While I can testify to this bias based on the comments I have received on how I don’t look like a Dalit, the ‘appearance politics’ in movies further prove how the Brahminical society wants to see an avarna—shabby, raggedy, dark-skinned and covered in soil. Moreover, the economic condition of such characters is almost always dire, which fits in with the grubby dress-up. It propagates the belief that the Scheduled Caste people exist as a pity case in a space far removed from the privileged world of the audience. The spectators can feel bad for the characters and engage in so-called intellectual social conversations in their groups but they wouldn’t have to worry any further. These characters, their stories and struggles reside in a reality they’re not remotely associated with.

By building false narratives, the makers of such shows and films imply that the urban space is divorced from caste complexities.

The victimised protagonists receive blatant casteist slurs — whether they are in a rural setting or an elite space like Hampton International. In reality, though, casteism—especially in the so-called high-class society—exists in a subtle, hushed manner. The discriminatory undertones scream louder than the hollering. Most on-screen portrayals of this marginalisation not only diminish their mental impact on an individual but also normalise the casteist language, letting the characters off the hook without consequences. The question is, what message is conveyed to the savarna individual watching such shows and films?

Stereotypes milk Dalit suffering for cash

Stereotypes are grossly sketched in the personalities of the Dalit protagonists in Class. The characterisation of the two brothers, Dheeraj and Neeraj, speaks volumes about how there are only two ways an oppressed caste, Ambedkar-following person can exist—either as a radical vagabond who goes the unlawful, savage way as a rebel without a cause or as a bullied and mellow student who aims to become an IAS officer. There is no in-between. The popular media discourse pigeonholes men into these two poles-apart personas; women don’t even exist in these spaces. Throughout the series, we never hear about the boys’ mother. What’s her side of the story? What happened to her? The makers conveniently erase the existence of Dalit women in a public space, disposing of the point of view of a doubly discriminated person. Women either largely remain in the shadows of the discussion or are subjected to violence to build the plot line.

While filmmakers use assault towards Dalits to weave a story that would sell, the normalisation is deeply concerning. In Article 15, the entire narrative revolved around the rape and murder of girls belonging to the ‘lesser’ community. And guess what, an upper-class, Brahmin IPS officer becomes the ‘saviour’, much like a Nietzschean übermensch. In Class, the big shot Tarun Kalra dismisses Neeraj because of his caste. He even says that a dead Dalit is worth more than a living one; that what follows an avarna’s murder are a few university protests, candle marches, and then everything goes back to normal. The whole exchange feels insensitive and disparaging, and the issue is pushed off the table as soon as it starts. The issue of oppressor castes committing violence on Dalits is dealt with in a scornful and ultra-apathetic mood, which is disappointing and triggering. While oppressor caste individuals might not have noticed the gravity of the statement, I felt a knot in my gut tightening—how long before I am next?

Creators make it a point to restrict the marginalised individuals to the rural or lower-class setting, subtly saying that casteism doesn’t exist in urban spaces. Narratives of the newer generations trying to make an identity for themselves in the metropolitan areas and big cities are never paid heed to. What challenges do they face in the process? How do they fight the discrimination practised in a low-key manner at their workspaces? Rather than communicating the story of intolerance of the target audience, they skip the important lessons in mindfulness, sensibility and understanding.

It’s ironic that “varna-baiting” is demonstrative of how most productions nowadays use a caste-based story to attract modern audiences. Suhani Ahuja, the daughter of a wealthy industrialist in Class, gets lauded for the best video project because she includes a clip of a father talking about the injustices he faced as an avarna. It was a traumatic memory for the man but the privileged lot saw it as a sob story. At some level, this incident is reflective of milking a community’s suffering and seeing it as an opportunity to cash in, earn laurels, and build on the unjust social capital by constantly projecting oneself as the ‘model’ citizen. We need to question — are all these social dramas doing the same?

Shikha Chandra is a graduate from Lady Shri Ram College for Women, Delhi University, and works as a content marketer at Headout. She tweets @Shikhachandra04. Views are personal.

Courtesy : The Print

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