A Woman in a Man’s Story: Secondarisation of Dalit Women's Roles in Anti-Caste Tamil Cinema

“For most of history, anonymous was a woman”, said Virginia Woolf. This line helps us reflect on the historical invisibilisation of women in literature, media and popular culture. Bollywoodised films that silently promoted misogyny, caste hierarchy, and propaganda were effortlessly internalised and normalised in society. This algorithm was stripped naked by the new wave of Tamil cinema. The anti-caste films emerged as anti-oppressive, featuring the ‘New Dalit’ protagonist – strong, stylish, vocal, defiant, and resistant, yet almost always a male. While these films deserve recognition for challenging the portrayal of Dalits as victims, there still looms one pressing question for Dalit women: Where are we in these stories?

Why is Selvi in Kaala (2018, dir. Pa Ranjith) portrayed as the family’s caregiver? Why are Kalai in Madras (2014, dir. Pa Ranjith) and Draupathi in Karnan (2021, dir. Mari Selvaraj) limited to supporting their male partners through emotional turmoil? Why must Gengamma in Thangalaan (2024, dir. Pa Ranjith) always be adhering, and why does Aarathi in Thangalaan never claim ownership of the land that Aaran asserts as his? Why does Mahalakshmi in Viduthalai II (2024, dir. Vetrimaaran) fade from activism after marriage? All these women are shown as outspoken and brave. However, they are overpowered by Dalit men.

In an interview, Mari Selvaraj stated that his films aim not merely to entertain but to educate – an intent central to anti-caste cinema as a whole. These films consciously challenge and counter mainstream and commercial cinema, which often perpetuates dominant casteist narratives. However, a recurring criticism within this movement concerns the limited portrayal of Dalit women.

The ‘Secondarisation’ of Dalit Women

Films like Kaala, Karnan, Asuran, etc, compellingly expose the harsh realities of caste, capturing the emotions, resistance, and anger of Dalit communities with great depth. Yet, these films do not entirely overlook gender dynamics within and beyond the community. They do give attention to the behavioural traits of women by making them bold enough to speak for themselves; yet, there are shortcomings in terms of role representations and a holistic narrative of Dalit women. A few notable instances include the absence of Dalit women in village panchayat meetings, where crucial decisions are made, as seen in Karnan. Similarly, there is a lack of Dalit women's participation in Madras and Viduthalai.

"Across these films, Dalit women are repeatedly cast as wives, mothers, sisters, and love interests – a pattern we call ‘Secondarisation’ of Dalit women that confines their identities to their relationships with men."

Their subjectivities and resistance as Dalit women remain largely underexplored. Secondary positioning of Dalit women can be attributed to the dominance of the male gaze, the limited presence of Dalit women in scriptwriting and film research roles, the lack of Dalit women filmmakers and deeply ingrained patriarchal biases that centre narratives on men while secondarising Dalit women. Hence, it becomes crucial to foreground the lived experiences of Dalit women by employing them in film research, consulting them in scriptwriting, and sourcing material through Dalit women's literature. While catering to the viewers’ demand for women on screen, filmmakers can also do justice to Dalit women characters by incorporating the aforementioned measures, thereby restoring Dalit women’s agency and identity.

While it is noteworthy that anti-caste filmmakers refrain from objectifying or sexualising women, the persistence of secondary portrayals demands attention. Natchathiram Nagargiradhu stands as a rare exception, with René depicted as a self-assertive Dalit protagonist; yet, notably, no Dalit male counterpart shares her space. When Dalit men dominate the screen, the question of Dalit women’s representation remains.

Dalit Women and Gendered Roles

Dalit women have been expected to remain confined to the roles of wife, mother and daughter. This has been the major criticism levelled against the Dalit Panthers. Urmila Pawar writes in Aaydaan (The Weave of My Life, 2003), how her husband (Mr Pawar) expected her to remain within the home. She writes on what he says, “Let alone an ideal wife, you’re not even a good one”. This excerpt makes us question what is ideal? Being homebound? Adhering to a man? Being secondary? This expectation of serving the husband and being supportive of him was considered the role Dalit women were expected to perform. The gendered roles of Dalit women, depicted in the films, which are discussed further, somewhat reinforce this idea and fail to capture the activism that women like Urmila Pawar led. Mary (wife/mother in Madras), Selvi (wife/mother/grandmother in Kaala), Mariyamma (wife/mother in Sarapatta Parambarai), Bakiyamma (mother in Sarapatta Parambarai), Gengamma (wife/Mother in Thangalaan), Arathi (Thangalaan), Mahalakshmi (wife/mother in Viduthalai II) and Raaji (elder sister in Bison) are gendered roles assigned to Dalit women in films.

In Kaala, Selvi is introduced with a cooking scene, as the nurturing homemaker, interacting warmly with everyone, firmly situating her within the domestic sphere. Even when Kaala’s former lover Zareena reappears, Selvi is expected to respond with patience and understanding; her jealousy is softened into playful, sweet fights. Her identity revolves entirely around protecting Kaala, and she ultimately dies without an independent narrative of her own.

In Asuran, Pachiyamma marries Sivasami, believing in his strength and ability to protect their family. She is portrayed as a devoted wife who cares for her alcoholic husband and defends her family. Although she bravely confronts villagers over their misuse of water resources, she ultimately relies on her son to handle the conflict. Her courage is evident, yet her role remains secondary, defined by her duties as wife and mother. What stands out, however, is her shared ownership of land with her brother. When a dispute arises, he acknowledges, “This land isn’t mine alone; Pachiyamma owns it too.” This acknowledgement of a Dalit woman’s land ownership marks a rare and significant representation in Asuran.

41-year-old Jasveer, a Dalit woman in a successful protest and reclamation of land rights in Punjab, said, “The Constitution of India has given us the right to own land, then why are we not given land, just because we are from a lower caste? We are born on this land and we have every right to have a piece of it”. Gogu Shyamala writes about Baindla Sayamma, who banged her fist on the table and demanded her right to land ownership. While Asuran captures this, Thangalaan misses it, where Arathi, though initially portrayed as strong and protective of the land, is eventually overshadowed by Thangalaan’s realisation of his male inheritance, asserting his ownership over the land. Her long guardianship of the land thus becomes secondary to male ownership. Gengamma’s character exists mainly to question and support Thangalaan’s decisions, never to influence them. He lectures her about land and duty, reinforcing his authority, while she remains confined to the role of a dutiful wife and mother. The act of buying blouses for women is led by the Thangalaan. However, this overlooks the historical revolution led by Ezhava women like Nangeli, who cut off her breasts in defiance of the oppressive breast tax imposed on lower-caste women forbidden from covering their upper bodies. For Dalit women, the act of covering the body was a radical expression of dignity and resistance, rooted in a long history of struggle. The film, however, fails to capture this revolutionary spirit, instead depicting Thangalaan as a saviour and crediting him for the act. Thereby diminishing the depth and agency of the women who embodied this resistance.

Viduthalai II opens with Mahalakshmi as a communist activist, leading labour unions and resisting patriarchal violence—symbolised through her choice to cut her hair short after abuse by her ex-husband. However, her political agency fades after marriage, as she becomes a homemaker caring for children while Perumal continues his public activism. Perumal and Mahalakshmi stay apart after marriage for days, and that is glorified by the film, where her resistance is subdued by the wifehood and motherhood, and Perumal is out in the movement.

In Bison, Raaji once again appears in the role of a nurturing elder sister to Kittan, stepping into a maternal position after their mother’s passing. Throughout the narrative, she consistently urges their father to allow Kittan to pursue his dream of playing Kabaddi. However, her presence largely remains confined to this supportive function. Although her personal life is referenced, it is never meaningfully explored.

The Love/Romantic Interest

Kalaiarasi (Kalai) in Madras, Draupathi in Karnan follow a familiar pattern – they exist primarily as caregivers, healers, and emotional anchors for men. Kalai is introduced as an unconventional, outspoken woman who participates in protests and identifies as an atheist. Yet her character’s potential diminishes when she is reduced to a source of comfort for Kaali after his friend Anbu’s death. When Kaali’s mother tells Kalai, “The sight of you makes him feel better. Don’t leave him,” and Kalai replies, “He came back alive only for my sake,” her identity is confined to that of a nurturing lover. Her ideological stance and resistance to oppression remain unexplored; she ultimately lives through her love for him. Similarly, Draupathi’s character highlights that she was created primarily to showcase the hero’s love life. Her role exists largely to position her as Karnan’s love interest. Newly released Bison also carries this trope, where Rani’s entire identity is reduced to her being in love with Kittan and waiting for him. All these portrayals reduce a Dalit woman’s identity by secondarising them to a Dalit man.

Puyal in Kaala stands out as a rare exception to this trope. Although she is a love interest of Lenin, she has her own identity. Her spirit of resistance is powerfully portrayed when she confronts Hari Dada’s men during the protest at Dhobi Ghat. Even after being assaulted and stripped during the police attack on Dharavi, she refuses to retreat or cover herself; instead, she seizes a stick and fights back. True to her name—Puyal, meaning “storm”, she embodies fierce defiance, reflecting the enduring strength of Dalit women in anti-caste struggles.

The High Point

In many of these films, Dalit women have a single moment of significance – a high point, where their advice aids men, after which they recede from the narrative, stepping in only to support men through challenges and remaining in the background.

Mary constantly asks Anbu to stay away from fights for the sake of the claim on the Wall. When she finally asks him not to go, suspecting a threat, he never returns, as he is killed in a conspiracy.

Selvi demonstrates foresight and initiative when she secretly sends her sons to follow Kaala as he goes with Bhimji to meet Zareena, anticipating a possible attack that ultimately occurs, saving Kaala’s life. She also rushes to the police station after his arrest and, on their return home together, tragically dies in an accident that Kaala survives.

Mahalakshmi actively takes part in strategic discussions with the men, offering crucial advice for their planned attack. Her guidance ultimately proves instrumental to the success of the revolutionaries.

Mariyamma scolds Kabilan when he quits boxing and becomes an alcoholic. She stands by him when he apologises after an attack on them. Bakiyamma (Kabilan’s mother), although she is against Kabilan becoming a boxer, when he tries to revive himself after the alcoholic phase, stands by him and tells him that boxing can only revive him and asks him to go ahead. Both women keep up with the mistakes committed by Kabilan and carry the burden of taking care.

Arathi serves as the protector of the land and its gold, fiercely defending it from encroachers until she is fatally wounded by a British intruder. Sooner, Thangalaan (Arathi’s partner Aaran in past life and co-guardian of the land) realises that he is Aaran. After which, she advises him to protect the land and gold. However, when Thangalaan insists on taking a portion of the gold for his community’s welfare, she has no choice but to yield, once again highlighting the unequal dynamic between them.

Climax: Celebration of the Dalit man

In most of these films, it is ultimately the man who is celebrated. Kaala lives on through his legacy while Selvi disappears; Kaali and Kalai stand together, yet Kaali clearly dominates, preaching the importance of education; Kabilan triumphs in the boxing ring as women cheer him on; in Asuran, Pachiyamma is once again left to care for the family while Sivasami departs with the message of education. Karnan sacrifices his government job and endures imprisonment to save his village, earning glory, while Draupadi remains confined to the role of his wife. In Thangalaan, the male protagonist claims the gold and hero status, while Aarathi’s contributions go unacknowledged. She is merely reinstated as the land’s guardian. Across these narratives, Dalit men emerge as victors, their heroism celebrated, while Dalit women continue to remain in the background. We rarely witness women’s contributions to the struggle for annihilation of caste because the male characters are portrayed in ways that dominate the narrative and command primary attention, rendering women secondary.

Portraying women as secondary echoes Simone de Beauvoir’s concept of the “second sex,” where she asserts that “one is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.” De Beauvoir critiqued and dismissed the intellectual men who sought to define women through their own perspectives, arguing that such constructs positioned women as the ‘Other’— a process of secondarisation.

The Unfulfilled Wish

Ambedkar stated, “I measure the progress of a community by the degree of progress which women have achieved,” and “I strongly believe in movements run by women. If they are truly taken into confidence, they may change the present picture of society, which is very miserable”. Yet, cinema’s portrayal of Dalit women remains far from this vision. Dalit female characters are rarely progressive or central to movements; they function mainly as supporters while men lead the struggle. Just as Dalit women were marginalised or misrepresented in the Dalit Panthers movement and in Dalit men’s literature, contemporary Dalit cinema continues this pattern of limited representation. Though depicted as educated and vocal, Dalit women on screen often lack real agency; they neither lead nor embody progress. The current trope of secondarisation demands revision so that Dalit women can have an independent narrative and stories of their own. Additionally, we would like to draw attention to casting actors as well. Anti-caste filmmakers should question whether it is truly necessary to “train” the perceived upper-caste actors to portray Dalit protagonist characters, and also darkening the skin tone of the actors, a practice that comes with its own limitations and problems. Greater consideration should instead be given to casting Dalit actors in Dalit roles and providing them with the necessary training, when required.

As Dalit women viewers, we connect deeply with characters who are not overshadowed through domination or guidance by male figures but who, like Puyal and René, embody resistance, voice, and confidence. The representational shift from ‘Silent Supporters’ to ‘Roaring Resisters’ is essential. This is not to suggest that Dalit women are always strong. They experience their own struggles and vulnerabilities. Yet, within the intertwined structures of caste and patriarchy, they have never been granted the space to rest and the subjectivities of no-rest, the struggle has gone significantly unacknowledged.

It is the same anti-caste cinema that gave us characters like Rene and Puyal, proving that it has the potential to create many more such powerful portrayals. However, the wish to see more assertive Dalit women on screen remains unfulfilled. Therefore, revisiting Ambedkar’s vision for women’s empowerment and equality is a need of the hour.