Article 15

The Constitution in the Shadows

To watch Anubhav Sinha’s *Article 15* is to witness a Bollywood procedural stripped of its usual escapist gloss, replaced instead by the suffocating fog of a winter morning in the Indian hinterland. It is a film that operates not as a mere whodunit, but as a forensic examination of a social structure so ancient and calcified that it feels less like a belief system and more like the very geography of the setting. Sinha, previously known for lighter fare, pivoted sharply with this film (and his preceding *Mulk*), positioning himself as a chronicler of the uncomfortable truths modern India prefers to leave in the dark.

The film introduces us to Ayan Ranjan (Ayushmann Khurrana), a cosmopolitan, Europe-educated IPS officer posted to the dusty, fictional district of Lalgaon. He arrives with the detached curiosity of a tourist, commenting on the "beautiful countryside" while reading Nehru’s *Discovery of India*. But the landscape is deceptive. When three Dalit girls go missing—two found hanging from a tree, one still lost—Ayan’s textbook understanding of justice collides with a reality where the caste of the victim determines the urgency of the investigation.



Visually, *Article 15* is a triumph of atmosphere. Cinematographer Ewan Mulligan bathes the film in a perpetual, sickly twilight. The sun rarely seems to break through the mist, creating a visual metaphor for the opacity of the caste system itself—it is everywhere, obscuring everything, yet intangible to those who don’t have to suffer it. The camera often lingers on the vast, swampy fields where the crimes took place, turning the environment into a silent, complicit witness. The framing emphasizes isolation; characters are often dwarfed by the towering trees or lost in the expansive, foggy dark, suggesting that the rot in Lalgaon is bigger than any single individual.

The emotional core of the film lies in Ayan’s gradual radicalization, or rather, his awakening. Khurrana delivers a restrained performance, shedding his usual affable charm for a stoic, often frustrated confusion. He plays the "outsider" trope effectively—he is the audience surrogate, the urban liberal who believes in the letter of the law.

However, the film’s most searing moment isn't a speech, but a roll call. In a scene of tragic absurdity, Ayan demands to know the caste of his subordinates to understand why they are obstructing the case. As they rattle off a hierarchy of sub-castes—Kayastha, Brahmin, Jat, OBC—Ayan’s exasperation mounts. It is a scene that exposes the fractal nature of bigotry; there is always someone lower to look down upon.



The film is not without its flaws. It has been rightfully critiqued for leaning into the "Savarna Savior" trope—where a privileged upper-caste hero is required to rescue the helpless marginalized victims, sidelining Dalit agency. The local activist character, Nishad (played with burning intensity by Mohammed Zeeshan Ayyub), feels tragically underutilized, serving more as a symbol of doomed resistance than a fully realized protagonist. Yet, despite this narrative crutch, the film succeeds in forcing the audience to confront the "invisibility" of caste violence. It argues that neutrality is impossible; to be "apolitical" in such a system is to side with the oppressor.



Ultimately, *Article 15* is a necessary scream in a quiet room. It transforms the abstract legalese of the Indian Constitution into a bloody, tangible struggle for dignity. It may not dismantle the hierarchy it critiques, but by shining a flashlight into the fog, it ensures we can no longer pretend we don't see what's hiding there.