Image Credit: Timothy A. Gonsalves
Oscars, Poverty, and the West’s Never-Ending Fascination With a One-Dimensional India
This year’s Oscar buzz has brought yet another Indian-themed film into the limelight: All We Imagine as Light. A poignant documentary exploring socio-economic hardships, it comfortably fits the template the West loves when it comes to Indian cinema. Just like Slumdog Millionaire, Salaam Bombay!, and other similarly themed favorites, the film showcases the struggles of the underprivileged, framed in a way that indulges the West’s voyeuristic obsession with India’s poverty. It begs the question: Why does the West love to fixate on a single, overplayed narrative of India while conveniently ignoring the countless other dimensions of its stories?
Let’s cut to the chase—poverty sells. Slums are “inspirational,” caste struggles are “authentic,” and gritty tales of survival are “Oscar-worthy.” The West has an insatiable appetite for Indian films that reinforce their neatly constructed stereotypes about the country. A thriving India, a resilient India, or—heaven forbid—a scientifically advanced India just doesn’t sit well with their curated worldview. When was the last time you saw the Oscars or the Golden Globes genuinely celebrate a story of Indian brilliance? Take R. Madhavan’s Rocketry: The Nambi Effect as an example—a gripping biopic about Nambi Narayanan, a space scientist falsely accused of espionage. It’s a story of perseverance, brilliance, and justice, but apparently, that’s not “authentic” enough. After all, where’s the garbage heap? Where’s the grimy child covered in dust?
Instead, they stick to their favorite flavor of storytelling: India, the land of misery. Cue Slumdog Millionaire. A British director swoops in, cherry-picks the most stereotypical elements of India, and crafts a poverty-ridden fairy tale that feeds the West’s “exotic underdog” fetish. The slums of Dharavi, child abuse, and violent gangsters all wrapped up in a feel-good ending because, hey, the West loves a “hopeful” narrative. And the awards rolled in—eight Oscars, because of course.
But here’s the kicker: the West conveniently ignores that many parts of their own world now look like a scene from Slumdog Millionaire. Ever taken a stroll through Detroit lately? Or visited certain neighborhoods in Paris? I bet Dharavi would look like Disneyland in comparison. But no, those stories don’t get glorified because that would mean holding a mirror up to their own failings. Much better to project those narratives onto India, a “safe” playground for their poverty obsession.
Indian cinema has produced masterpieces that rival the best in global storytelling. Take Pather Panchali, Satyajit Ray’s haunting exploration of rural life, which had to claw its way into the Western consciousness decades ago. Or Baahubali, a visually stunning epic that redefined Indian filmmaking and became a global sensation, albeit without catching the Oscar committee’s attention—because, apparently, it was too grand, too confident, and too unapologetically Indian. And what about RRR, a cultural phenomenon that thrilled audiences worldwide? The only thing the Academy could muster was a nod to its song, Naatu Naatu. Clearly, the story of two larger-than-life revolutionaries wasn’t tragic enough to qualify for “Best Picture.”
But let’s return to the hypocrisy. When Indian filmmakers dare to tell stories of aspiration, modernity, or scientific innovation, they’re dismissed as “Bollywood masala.” Oh, but when an Indian story features a starving child, a caste battle, or a grimy slum, it’s suddenly “real cinema.” The racism in this bias is so obvious it’s almost laughable. They don’t celebrate India—they celebrate a version of India that fits their superiority complex. They’ll cheer for a downtrodden, struggling India but go silent when India launches a Mars mission or tells stories of scientific genius.
Meanwhile, the West congratulates itself on its “diversity” for giving awards to films that reinforce their preconceived notions about the global South. Their idea of India is stuck in sepia tones of misery. Where are the Oscars for Rocketry? Or Tumbbad, a dark, atmospheric horror masterpiece? Or The Lunchbox, a delicate and beautiful film about human connection? They’re nowhere to be seen, because these films refuse to fit the poverty narrative.
And let’s not forget the documentaries. Films like Writing with Fire or All That Breathes are undeniably brilliant, but their global acclaim comes because they continue to fit the West’s limited script. Stories of Dalit women journalists and environmental challenges are important, but why does it take these specific narratives for Indian documentaries to be seen? Would the Academy or the Golden Globes ever celebrate an Indian documentary that highlighted, say, the country’s technological strides or cultural richness without despair lurking in the backdrop? Unlikely.
Let’s call it what it is: cinematic tourism for the morally self-righteous. The West isn’t celebrating India—it’s romanticizing its struggles, fetishizing its poverty, and applauding itself for “recognizing” those stories. And all the while, they ignore the inconvenient truths in their own backyards.
It’s time we stop caring. The Oscars and the Golden Globes don’t define Indian cinema, nor do they validate its worth. India’s films are loved by billions across the globe for their diversity, creativity, and sheer brilliance. The West’s outdated and narrow lens will never capture the full story of Indian cinema, and that’s their loss.
So, dear Academy, keep clinging to your poverty fetish. We’ll continue making films that celebrate India in all its glory—its joy, its struggles, its resilience, and its brilliance. And when the world finally moves past your one-dimensional gaze, don’t worry—we’ll send you a participation trophy. After all, it seems that’s what you’re really chasing.
