Reflecting on the legacies of Shyam Benegal and Manmohan Singh: Sharad Raj navigates hyperbolic tributes, nuanced critiques, and the socio-political transformations that defined an era of capitalism and cultural shifts, in this article.

Photography: Vinta Nanda

The passing of Shyam Benegal and Dr. Manmohan Singh marks the end of an era that shaped India’s socio-political landscape. While Benegal redefined Indian cinema through social realism and introduced iconic actors like Naseeruddin Shah and Smita Patil, Singh’s economic liberalization reshaped India into a capitalist powerhouse, leaving complex legacies. This reflection critiques the hyperbolic tributes in a post-truth world driven by social media, offering a nuanced exploration of their contributions, shortcomings, and the transformations—economic, cultural, and moral—that continue to influence contemporary India. Let’s look at this balanced tribute to towering figures of our times.

Scarcity of Heroes in Troubled Times

In these times of collapsing world order, failing institutions, and the evident breakdown of global capitalism, heroes are scarce, and alienation is profound. There is nothing novel or exciting to inspire us. Our film industry is re-releasing old movies and branding them as “classics” because true classics no longer exist. We are yearning for role models and achievements that can lend us a sense of purpose.

When the socialist world order was crumbling under its own weight—partly engineered by Mikhail Gorbachev—and Dr. Manmohan Singh was steering India towards liberalization, figures like Sachin Tendulkar and Shah Rukh Khan kept us grounded. All seemed well. Privatization was heralded as the “cool future,” but it has now reached a cynical dead end. Fascism dominates the world, which, in my view, was the original goal of the neo-liberal order. However, this dominance has uprooted us in the process. As a result, people either find shelter in diabolical Islamophobia, as seen in Israel and the West, or take refuge in Hindutva, and so on. These ideologies provide a semblance of meaning to people’s lives.

But what about those who are not communal, who do not “hate”? What about the decent, peace-loving individuals? Where do they go? They retreat to a world of hyperbole that, paradoxically, leaves no room for a critical view of people or their lives. Ironically, with fervour, they defend what they love and elevate it to exaggerated heights, unknowingly falling into the same trap they so vehemently criticize.

The Passing of Icons and Social Media Frenzy

December 2024 was a month marked by the passing of extraordinary personalities. It began with the demise of Ustad Zakir Hussain, one of our greatest tabla players, whom I had the privilege of hearing live many times, followed by Shyam Benegal, MT Vasudevan Nair, Bapsi Sidhwa, and then Manmohan Singh. While Zakir Hussain was remembered by aficionados of Indian classical music, a towering figure like MT Vasudevan Nair was mourned primarily by Malayalam-speaking people. I am certain many non-Malayalees may not even have heard of him.

It was Shyam Benegal and Manmohan Singh whose passing generated a frenzy of accolades and mourning. Their towering contributions deserved all the attention they received. However, the overly patronizing stance some of their admirers adopted toward those who did not pay homage to them was symptomatic of the times we live in. Social media exerts this kind of pressure, compelling us to have an opinion on everything, especially when larger-than-life personalities are involved. Unfortunately, these opinions often lack nuance or informed critical appreciation. While it is customary not to speak ill of the dead, the issue is not about advocating for criticism of those who cannot defend themselves. It is about maintaining a sense of balance.

A similar phenomenon was observed during the recent celebrations of Raj Kapoor’s centenary birth anniversary. Hyperbolic greatness was ascribed to him, to the extent that the entire Kapoor clan took a private jet to meet the Prime Minister of India in Delhi. This was splashed across social media in a way that may be remembered as an irony or absurd comic-tragedy for years to come. Raj Kapoor was indeed an important filmmaker of the Nehruvian era, but within the mainstream paradigm. Why decontextualize him? Kapoor had a distinct sense of mise en scène, uncommon in popular cinema. Awara, Shree 420 and Mera Naam Joker are special films and his sense of music was laudatory. However the entire body of work being declared great in present commentaries may need some probing. Acknowledging his contributions within the Bollywood framework would have sufficed, but the sweeping superlatives declaring him the greatest filmmaker of all time were over-the-top.

The title “greatest showman” is fitting, but separating “showman” from “great” and assigning the latter to him in isolation diminishes its meaning when compared to the likes of Satyajit Ray and Ritwik Ghatak. Additionally, Kapoor’s portrayal of women in films like Satyam Shivam Sundaram cannot be overlooked. The objectification often bordered on vulgarity, and it is one film I could never watch in its entirety due to its unesthetic depiction of a woman’s body. This is the same “me” who watched Nagisa Oshima’s Realm of the Senses—a film exploring unsimulated sex and pornography as high art—without flinching. Similarly, Ram Teri Ganga Maili also falls short of the aesthetics of nude art.

The celebration of All That We Imagine as Light was similarly lost in the glitter of its Cannes award. Some celebrated critics and analysts praised the film for reasons unrelated to its cinematic merits, simply because Cannes validated it. Jahnu Barua, a celebrated filmmaker, was even called “mad” for being critical of the film. Are we morally or culturally obligated to blindly praise a film just because it has been validated by the West? After all, Cannes is the same festival where masterpieces like Taxi Driver and L’Avventura were once booed.

The frenzy extends beyond cinema. Consider the reaction to Virat Kohli’s recent loss of form. Many have forgotten his contributions, treating him like a schoolboy who needs to be punished. What Kohli truly needs is time to regain his form—or to retire, if he feels his best is behind him. Ironically, the same people criticizing him now will shower him with praise if he announces his retirement. Some social media groups are already making exaggerated claims that Kohli is greater than Sachin Tendulkar—something even Kohli would likely disagree with.

This kind of extreme behaviour is not new. In the 1970s, West Indies and Pakistan were notorious for their fans’ reactions to losses, smashing television sets and attacking players’ homes. India is not far behind, whether in violent outbursts after losses or disproportionate celebrations after victories, such as the frenzy following the T20 World Cup win.

Reflecting on Legacies

Now let’s discuss Mr. Shyam Benegal and Dr. Manmohan Singh, two towering nonagenarians we recently lost. Both were immensely significant—irreplaceable parts of our rich history—but the moral cacophony surrounding who said what, who condoled their passing, and who didn’t only serves to distract us from their true legacies. Some criticized Bollywood stars for not publicly mourning Benegal’s death, when in reality, the opposite is true. Others went so far as to call him the first filmmaker to treat cinema as “serious art” rather than mere entertainment—a statement Mr. Benegal himself would likely have dismissed.

It was Ritwik Ghatak’s Nagarik (1952), though released in 1977, that first signalled the dawn of cinematically significant art films in India, followed by Satyajit Ray’s Pather Panchali in 1955—both films being leagues ahead of even Benegal’s finest work. I’m certain “the maestro,” as he is aptly described in Atul Tiwari’s biography, would have agreed. Similarly, Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s Swayamvaram (1972) predates Benegal’s Ankur (1974), further cementing that others had already charted this course.

Aesthetically, despite being influenced by Ray, Benegal found his own voice in the realm of “social realism,” the official state film policy at the time. He introduced elements of mass communication to cinema, steering it away from being purely an art form. A repeat viewing of the brilliantly restored Manthan by the Film Heritage Foundation reveals formulaic plotting and characterization, albeit set in realistic tones. For instance, Ray would likely never have allowed a plucked-eyebrowed Shabana Azmi in Ankur—a valid critique that even the formidable Shabana and Benegal must contend with. Yet, except for Shubhra Gupta, few acknowledged this in their tributes to him.

I had the pleasure of meeting Shyam Benegal a few times as an FTII student when he chaired the Governing Council. He struck me as a suave government representative, more akin to a CEO than an artist, appointed to resolve the student strike—and he did so with astute tact. At the same time, after some tough posturing, he demonstrated leniency toward certain disciplinary issues, earning him a mix of respect and critique.

In my view, Benegal’s greatest contribution was introducing Indian cinema to some of its finest actors. Without him, we may never have seen the brilliance of Naseeruddin Shah, Om Puri, Amrish Puri, or Smita Patil. Bhumika remains, in my opinion, his finest film. While it’s customary not to be overly critical of someone who has passed, crafting tributes and condolences rooted in exaggeration is equally problematic despite the formidable body of work left behind by the filmmaker. This tendency masks the truth about the individual.

In today’s digital era, hyperboles have become normalized. Social media compels us to comment on everything, and in a post-truth world, dramatic observations generate the clicks, views, and validation we seek. To avoid being singled out, we often join the herd, following the meta-universe’s Pied Piper.

Dr. Manmohan Singh, on the other hand, was the Chief Guest at my IIMC convocation at the India International Centre, New Delhi, where he handed us our journalism diplomas and delivered what I found to be a rather uninspiring speech. That was my only personal encounter with the former Prime Minister. His appointment as Prime Minister by Sonia Gandhi was a masterstroke, and his decency and scholarly credentials are undisputed. Yet, it raises the question: What is the political economy of “decency”?

Dr. Singh’s liberalization of the economy in 1992, as Finance Minister, marked the beginning of India’s neoliberal era. While socialism was indeed crumbling under its own weight, Singh and Narasimha Rao threw out the baby with the bathwater. Was there truly no alternative to preserving elements of Nehruvian socialism? That is a question for historians to address.

The opening of the floodgates led to the privatization we witness today—most notably, with Dharavi being handed over to Gautam Adani and Navi Mumbai to Mukesh Ambani in Maharashtra for pittances, ensuring immense profits for them in the near future. The trajectory Singh helped set in motion continues to reshape India, for better or worse.

We transformed economically, politically, culturally, and, perhaps most importantly, morally. Profit has a way of reshaping priorities. Dr. Singh, along with another staunch advocate of capitalism, P. Chidambaram, once labelled Naxalites as the biggest internal threat to India—a sentiment a close friend recently reminded me of. This was in stark contrast to identifying Hindutva as the real danger in the post-Mandal, post-Babri Masjid demolition era. A columnist in The Indian Express, in his homage to Dr. Singh, even compared him to Nehru, claiming that he followed in the footsteps of the great statesman. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Historian Irfan Habib once likened Nehru to the Italian Marxist Antonio Gramsci, and Aditya Banerjee, in his recent book Nehru’s India, even calls Nehru a Marxist. That may be overstating it, but Nehru was unquestionably a socialist, while Dr. Singh was a hard-nosed capitalist executing the agenda of his American patrons. Deprived Indians, enamoured with all things Western, eagerly embraced privatization. It became the buzzword of the era, and anything governmental or pro-poor was dismissed with disdain.

From personal experience working with privately run satellite channels, and later digital platforms, I can confidently say that their corruption could put the much-maligned Doordarshan bureaucrats to shame. Sure, one might argue that once bribed, the private sector "gets things done," but the long-term damage to the moral fabric of the country was irreparable. Crony capitalism was unleashed, and we’ve been trapped in its grip ever since.

Today, I can only laugh at liberals who oppose Modi while still lionizing Dr. Singh, all the while lamenting the plight of Dalits and Muslims. Privatization was, in many ways, a counter to the Mandal Commission’s recommendations, as the private sector isn’t obligated to provide reservations in education or jobs for SCs, STs, and other marginalized communities. This is something we, as a nation, must address if equality is ever to be achieved. Trade unions and workers' rights have no place in private enterprises, stripping the working class of fundamental protections like access to education, food security, the right to protest, and more.

Caste discrimination, rampant in the private sector, is left unchecked, as there are no mechanisms for redressal—unlike in the public sector. And now, the same liberals who once championed privatization are protesting from the rooftops as Modi “puts the country on sale,” opposing the privatization of sectors like insurance and telecom. But who opened those floodgates? Their “decent man,” who, though more honourable compared to today’s leadership, not only paved the way for crony capitalism but also remained conspicuously silent on the rise of Hindutva, which we now face in its most virulent form.

The chauvinism associated with being a nuclear power feels to me just as masculine as Modi’s infamous chest-thumping—though admittedly less crude.

All I’m saying is that the mourning for Dr. Singh’s passing, particularly by those who stand opposed to the politics of the day, could have been more nuanced. His legacy deserves a critical lens, not just unquestioning praise.