Re-watching Bheed on the fifth anniversary of the pandemic lockdown, Muhammed Noushad writes that Anubhav Sinha’s 2023 movie is a tribute to the massive humanitarian crisis of migrant exodus caused by the irresponsibly mismanaged lockdown.
Five years ago, on March 24, 2020, as several new cases of COVID-19 were being reported across the country, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi declared a nationwide lockdown with just four hours’ notice. The announcement stated, “a total ban is being imposed on people stepping out of their homes for a period of 21 days.” Subsequently, road and rail transportation were shut down; factories, industries, markets, and eateries closed; and millions of daily wage laborers were stranded in cities without jobs, money, or food. This led to a massive exodus of migrant labourers in the following days, as they sought to reach their villages—the only place where they felt a sense of belonging. On many occasions, news reporters were told by desperate migrant labourers — who walked along highways and railway tracks for hundreds or even thousands of miles, braving the pandemic and hostile state measures — that they at least hoped to die back home in the presence of their loved ones.
However, these poor Bahujan men, women, and children were often stopped, as state borders were officially sealed at multiple locations, all conveyances indefinitely canceled, and even basic amenities cut off. Literally stranded on highways and railway platforms, and having met horrible accidents, several people died; official statistics place the death toll at 198. The misery was unmatched; their cries went unheard by both the rulers and the larger civil society. Anubhav Sinha’s black-and-white movie, Bheed (2023), is a fictionalised depiction of this unprecedented humanitarian crisis of internal displacement that India witnessed — and failed to address. As the fifth anniversary of the national lockdown quietly passes, rewatching the movie is a tribute to the unsung heroism of those innumerable ordinary men and women — the faceless, nameless labourers who make our cities functional.
Bheed is a multi-layered narrative with multiple major characters, though Rajkumar Rao’s Dalit police officer-in-charge, Surya Kumar Singh Tikas, leads the story. While documenting the thought-provoking contemporary history of the pandemic, based on true events, the screenplay also explores how caste, communalism, class divide, corruption, and state apathy played its role, and worsened the crisis.
An upper-caste, urban character (Dia Mirza), stranded in her cozy car alongside Bahujan masses miserably scattered in the fields, assumes that “their” immunity must be higher than “us” and that “they” may not get affected by the virus as quickly as “we” do. Her driver responds, saying, ‘We are used to it, madam’. The upper-caste lover of the Dalit hero, Renu Sharma (Bhumi Pednekar), has disowned her caste and committed to marrying Surya, despite her father’s objection. An apparent epitome of ethical integrity, she frequently admonishes and reassures her vulnerable Dalit fiance. Althogh this works well in building the bond between the couple, the privilege with which this confidence comes is problematic in a castiest setting. The most striking part is how the film explores the link between caste and sexuality—and the role it plays on the bed while making love.
Despite his imposed inhibitions and self-doubt, the protagonist doesn’t shy away from his Dalit identity. In the midst of a high-stakes crisis, he discloses it to his Yadav (OBC) boss and the upper-caste political leaders pressuring him. The stark divisions that caste still creates remain evident, even in times of a catastrophe like internal displacement. The movie effortlessly weaves multiple nuances of Indian social fabric and nearly avoids being preachy. However, there is one instance that speaks loudly — when a young journalist, (Kritika Kamra) while sharing a meal with colleagues, wonders why the local population living nearby doesn’t come forward with food and water for the stranded migrants. Her colleague laughs, ‘You seem to believe that before the pandemic hit, we used to care for the hungry and the needy’. He satirically adds, ‘we turn a blind eye to the hunger of poor children sleeping on the pavements. We are a sick society’.
Since the country’s governance and civic engagement mechanisms hardly acknowledged the existence of these poor migrants when they were serving the cities in equally—or even more pathetic conditions, it is only natural that they were forgotten and overlooked when they suffered the worst during the lockdown. This could have been drastically different if the state cared enough to arrange transportation for these poor millions, or at least food when they badly needed it. The absence of a benevolent state in the worst exodus of the country’s history since partition, and the overarching presence of an oppressive state is provocative.
The bus that carried Tablighi-looking moulanas and their philanthropist effort to distribute food to the starved children leads to a communal conundrum. The upper caste security man forcefully snatches the food from the hungry children and returns to the Muslim charity worker. “Give this to some animals, we eat only vegetarian” is what he says – a clear reference to the xenophobic dehumanisation of non-veg eaters (read Muslims). As the moulana clarifies it’s poori and bhaji, he still refuses.
Apart from being a powerful political thriller, Bheed is also about delicate intimacies, emotional commitments, and the sensitive compassion of ordinary people. A large number of people who were orphaned by the state and divided by caste and communalism are documented in these frames, as a reminder to what a divisive and repressive state won’t do and a sensitive society can do.
