In the shadows of censorship and colonialism, Indian filmmakers found a new language—one made of metaphors, music, and meaning—to resist British rule

In colonial India, cinema was not just an escape—it was a battleground. British censors scrutinized every reel, ready to remove anything remotely political. Dialogue was scrubbed, scenes were sliced, and scripts were rejected. But that didn’t silence the filmmakers; it sparked ingenuity.

From the 1930s to the mid-1940s, a new form of political expression emerged on screen. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t name names. But to Indian audiences, it was unmistakable—the story of their own freedom struggle, cleverly disguised and smuggled past the watchful eyes of the Raj.

Lyrics of Liberty: Songs with a Hidden Message

One of the most effective tools of resistance was the film song. Music, unlike a direct political speech, could slip through censors with a smile. Take, for example, the 1943 hit Kismet. The song “Door Hato Ae Duniya Walon Hindustan Hamara Hai” passed censorship by pretending to address Axis powers in World War II. But everyone in the theatre knew—it was a bold call to the British to leave India.

Composers like Anil Biswas and lyricists like Kavi Pradeep mastered the art of conveying meaning without being explicit. Audiences sang along in packed cinemas, knowing full well what those songs truly meant.

 

Myth, Metaphor, and the Mask of History

When filmmakers couldn’t show freedom fighters, they turned to kings, gods, and warriors from India’s rich mythological past. Historical epics became mirrors. In Sohrab Modi’s Sikandar (1941), the Macedonian conqueror’s clash with Indian king Porus was more than a lesson in ancient history—it hinted at resisting foreign domination.

Even mythological tales were reshaped. Ram’s fight against Ravana or Krishna’s counsel to Arjuna were infused with patriotic undertones. The audience understood who the villains represented. The censors, lacking cultural nuance or political awareness, often did not.

Visual Codes: Colour, Costume, and Cleverness

Every frame mattered. Visual symbolism became another layer of subversion. For example, a character dressed in a saffron kurta, a white dupatta, and a green skirt was not just a costume choice—it visually echoed the colors of the Indian flag: saffron, white, and green, covertly invoking national pride and unity without using banned symbols.

Directors used settings, colours, and props to convey political messages. Scenes with tricolour backgrounds, prisoners breaking chains, or characters quoting ancient Indian scriptures about justice were crafted to evoke feelings of resistance and hope. For example, the tricolour background alluded to the national flag, prisoners breaking chains symbolized the desire for independence, and quotations from scriptures subtly affirmed the righteousness of the struggle. These choices were bold, deliberate responses to censorship.

The IPTA Impact: Art as Political Firepower

Much of this resistance was nurtured by the Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA), formed in 1943. IPTA was a collective of politically conscious artists—writers, actors, directors—who believed that art must serve the people.

Many early filmmakers were either members or influenced by IPTA. They brought real struggles—famine, poverty, and inequality—into their stories. Dharti Ke Lal (1946), written and directed by Khwaja Ahmad Abbas, was one such film. It depicted the Bengal Famine without directly blaming the British—but its indictment was clear to every viewer.

The Audience Decoded It All

The real genius of these films lay in their ability to partner with the audience. These weren’t just viewers; they were collaborators. They could decode symbols, spot allusions, and understand every sly wink the filmmaker offered.

Cinema became a shared language of defiance. People came for entertainment but left with inspiration. The films were patriotic without banners or slogans.

From Coded Frames to a Free Screen

By the time India gained independence in 1947, the nation had already been mobilized through the voices of many leaders, poets, and filmmakers. The codes and cues of pre-independence cinema laid the foundation for the socially conscious films of the 1950s and beyond.

These early filmmakers didn’t just make art. They made history—quietly, cleverly, and courageously. And while the British controlled script approvals, they never truly controlled the message.