There is a Facebook group. A big one. Nearly 26,000 members. Movie buffs. Smart. Articulate. Passionate about storytelling. Some of the best reviews I have read, sometimes better than the films they discuss.
The admin? A good man. Woke, progressive, principled. Runs a tight ship. No punches pulled. No shady deals to hype or tank a film. Integrity intact.
So, they watched Chhava. Reviews came in. Some liked it. Some didn’t. But what stood out was his closing note:
“Whether you like CHHAAVA as a film or not, both Chhatrapati Sambhaji and Chhatrapati Shivaji are deeply respected not just in Maharashtra, but beyond its borders. So, when discussing aspects of the film that didn’t work for you, let’s be mindful of sensitivities. For instance, avoid referring to them by their first names alone; use a salutation or their full name. Gyan nahi de raha – It’s too important in my view.”
And just like that, we saw it. The quiet suffocation of free speech.
I do not blame him. He is protecting his people. He knows what happens to those who slip up. He knows the state we live in, the country we belong to, and the risks that come with saying the “wrong” thing.
But it rankles. Not that he is afraid. Fear is rational. But that he knows the safest bet is to preemptively surrender. To police not just his own speech but that of thousands of others. To create a culture where members self-censor, not just to avoid trouble, but to ensure no one else invites trouble that could affect them all. To establish a silent, unspoken rule: Don’t just watch your words. Watch others’. And report them before someone else does.
This is how it starts. Not with laws. Not with bans. But with fear. Not with censorship from above. But with whispers from within.
We have reached a point where caution is not enough. Now, we must declare our loyalty. Signal our obedience. Beg not to be seen as one of them. The offenders. The disloyal. The troublemakers. We must all shout, ‘Jai Bhavani’, not out of a sense of pride that defines our historical identity, but out of fear. And each of us must shout louder and longer than the other, even as we watch out for others who might not shout it with as much zest, or as loudly or as long. Lest someone be watching.
We must become one with the lynch mob. We must beg to be included. Not because we derive any pleasure. But purely for self-preservation.
“Bhai, bhai, main nahi. Main nahi. Main to bataa raha tha usko. Main bhi to gussa hoon uspe. Meri taraf mat dekho. Please mujhe chhod do. Main bhi hoon tumhare saath. Please dekho na. Main tumhare jaisa hoon. Yeh dekho maine patthar uthaya. Ye maaraa. Dekho dekho. Kitna gussa aayaa hai mujhe. Dekho na! Saalaa Pakistani. Haraami. Maaro saale ko. Maaro. Maaro.”
This is not about a film. Not about a Facebook group. This is about what we are becoming.
And it makes me sad.
For him. For cinephiles. For citizens. For this country. For my daughter’s future. I wonder what Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj would have thought of our cowardice.
Later edit: I posted a comment on the original post. It was removed. Immediately. With apologies. He understands. But is helpless. I hear you, brother. I hear you.
