When Art Meets Politics: The Uncomfortable Truth Behind Rahman And Muntashir’s Spat
The Indian film industry has always been a kaleidoscope of creativity, cronyism, and cultural tension. But the recent public clash between lyricist Manoj Muntashir and music maestro A.R. Rahman feels different. It’s not just a disagreement about artistic choices—it’s a microcosm of the existential debates roiling modern Bollywood: Who gets to create? Who decides what’s ‘acceptable’ art? And when does criticism become weaponized?
The Core Conflict: Artistic Integrity vs. Political Allegiance
At face value, this feud centers on Rahman’s decision to compose music for Chhaava, a film he later described as “propaganda,” and Muntashir’s blistering response questioning his integrity. But here’s what fascinates me: Why does Rahman’s admission feel so scandalous? Personally, I think it’s because we’ve grown accustomed to artists playing a delicate game of plausible deniability. Musicians collaborate with projects they know might carry ideological baggage, but rarely admit it publicly. Rahman’s candor—calling a film “propaganda” after signing on—breaks the unspoken rule of compartmentalization. Muntashir’s critique, meanwhile, isn’t just about hypocrisy; it’s a challenge to the notion that artists can divorce their work from its political context.
The Muslim Success Paradox: A Flawed Defense?
Muntashir’s argument that Muslim icons like A.R. Rahman himself or former cricket captain Mohammad Azharuddin have “made it” in India is a classic deflection. On paper, it’s a strong point—proof that systemic bias doesn’t exist. But let’s unpack this. What many people don’t realize is that spotlighting exceptional individuals often distracts from systemic inequities. Just because a few Muslim artists achieve fame doesn’t mean the industry is free of bias. It’s like pointing to Kamala Harris as proof the U.S. has solved racism. The deeper issue? Systemic barriers can coexist with token exceptions. Rahman’s success doesn’t negate the possibility that other Muslim artists face quiet exclusion—or that the current political climate has shifted dynamics in subtle, insidious ways.
Industry Dynamics: Relationships Over Talent?
Muntashir’s claim that Rahman’s declining opportunities stem from poor networking rather than discrimination raises a crucial question: Is Bollywood’s decline in Rahman’s output about religion, relevance, or relationships? From my perspective, the answer is a tangled web of all three. The industry’s shift toward formulaic, regional content has marginalized experimental composers—even legends. But the relationship angle is particularly thorny. Bollywood has always been a nepotistic ecosystem where trust is currency. Rahman, a global icon, might struggle to navigate the cliques that now dominate Hindi cinema. Does that make his exclusion political? Not necessarily. But it does reveal how meritocracy in creative industries is a myth—success hinges on alliances, timing, and cultural alignment.
The Propaganda Paradox: Who Decides What’s ‘Political’?
The term “propaganda” itself is loaded. Muntashir’s criticism of Rahman for using it assumes the lyricist’s intent was clear from the script. But what defines propaganda? A film about Shivaji Maharaj—a historical figure celebrated as a Hindu icon—could be framed as cultural pride or divisive nationalism, depending on who’s watching. This raises a deeper question: When does art become political? In my opinion, the line is intentionally blurry. Creators often embed ideologies subtly, knowing overt messaging alienates audiences. Rahman’s dilemma—recognizing a project’s agenda after the fact—reflects this ambiguity. It’s easy to say, “Read the script,” but harder to admit that even artists struggle to parse their own complicity in political narratives.
The Bigger Picture: Bollywood’s Identity Crisis
This feud isn’t just about two artists. It’s a symptom of Bollywood’s identity crisis. The industry is caught between global aspirations and domestic polarization. Films like Chhaava—with their mythologized historical narratives—are increasingly seen as aligning with the ruling party’s cultural agenda. But here’s the twist: Many creators participate willingly, either out of ideological alignment or economic pragmatism. Rahman’s discomfort, then, might stem not from overt discrimination but from feeling out of step with the industry’s new power brokers. The real story isn’t about religious bias; it’s about how creative freedom erodes when art becomes a tool for cultural warfare.
Final Thoughts: The Cost Of Speaking Truth
What this clash ultimately reveals is the cost of speaking truth in a system built on silence. Rahman’s mistake, if you can call it that, was honesty in a space where ambiguity is survival. Muntashir, meanwhile, represents the establishment’s pushback—defending the status quo by attacking the messenger. Personally, I find Rahman’s vulnerability more compelling than Muntashir’s deflections. It’s a reminder that even legends are navigating the same murky waters as everyone else. The bigger question for Bollywood—and for India—is whether we can have honest conversations about power and art without reducing them to tribal warfare. Probably not. But the fact that this debate is happening at all? That’s the sound of a society grappling with its own contradictions.
