Baahubali And The Perils Of Uncritically Defending Flawed Characters

A wooden mask left behind in a forest by Avantika (Tamannaah Bhatia) intrigues Baahubali (Prabhas). In the song “Khoya Hai” (Dhivara), even before he sees her, he uses the mask to sculpt a sand portrait—adding long, flowing hair and carefully carving out her eyes. Not like one would depict a beloved, but like one pursues a puzzle or a quest. In his imagination, she emerges as an apsara, gliding through meadows and waterfalls—a vision both ethereal and untouchable, enticing him ever further. From that moment onwards, Baahubali becomes determined to chase the illusion of the woman he has conjured and she is expected to live up to it.

In a 2015 article for The Hindu Businessline, titled “The Rape of Avantika”, journalist Anna M.M. Vetticad interrogated the casual romanticising of sexual violence in Baahubali: The beginning (2015). Almost ten years later, Bhatia brought up the article in a recent interview, claiming that its intent was to shame and control (her) sexuality. When Vetticad’s article was first published, it sparked discussions, primarily centred on women, autonomy, and the very definition of what constitutes sexual assault. As mentioned by her, “For most people though, the issue of consent arises only at the point of penetrative sex in real life, or on screen with a literal—not metaphorical—depiction or suggestion of forced penetration. Everything up to that instant is considered fair game.” What may appear as romantic banter here is, in fact, a stark depiction of a woman navigating and deflecting the advances of a man she barely knows.

In the supposed fight sequence, he’s barely breaking a sweat—smitten, almost indulgent—as he lets her fight her heart out while casually undressing her, untying her hair, and even “bathing” her under a waterfall to reveal her fair skin beneath the grime and dirt. Because of course, there has to be an undercurrent of subtle racism and entrenched beauty standards at play. Moreover, Baahubali assumes the role of a makeup artist too, applying kajal and a lip-tint to Avantika, completing the pedestalised image of her that exists in his mind. 

Baahubali did not accept Avantika as she was: in a soldier’s avatar, wrapped in fabric, rough, with her hair tied. Her so-called ruggedness demanded “softening”—she had to shed the extra fabric and present herself in a more feminine way in order for her to be capable of falling truly in love and deemed worthy of it too. As if it is a man’s responsibility to remind women of how their beauty should look like or nudge them into conforming to his idea of identifiable femininity. In an interview, Bhatia mentioned how director SS Rajamouli explained it away saying, “She is a wounded, divine feminine who longs to be loved but keeps everyone at a distance. But here, there is a young man who is merely trying to woo her to make her see how beautiful she is.”

In a cringy attempt to seduce her, Baahubali mentions, “Tum ek ladki ho, mai ek ladka hoon. Main tumhe pyaar karne aaya hoon.” These ideas reinforce the “masculine and feminine energy” red-pill dating lingo, with the masculine “leading” and the feminine “submitting” almost like a docile body, underscoring regressive gender roles. 

In her rejoinder to the allegations Bhatia levied against her, Vetticad wrote, “ ‘The Rape of Avanthika’ was about Baahubali the film, not about Bhatia the individual.” Bhatia’s response to the article illuminates several intriguing aspects of navigating life as a heroine in the industry. To suggest that the audience’s reaction to a woman’s clothes being non-consensually ripped off on-screen is just a result of “sexual repression” strikes as remarkably out of touch—particularly coming from the very actor who played that role. If one were to present the same criticism towards the song “Panchhi Bole” from the film, Bhatia’s argument would hold more weight, since it actually depicts two people consensually engaging in a sensuous exchange of energy. While it is true that women are often subjected to shame and guilt for representing romantic/sexual content on screen, Vetticad’s critique doesn’t fall under such an exercise.

By framing the article as an attempt to silence her, she not only misunderstood the critique’s intent, but also revealed how internalised misogyny can surface when defending such flawed situations constructed on screen. Had she spoken about her character in the scene on her own terms, it might have reflected artistic ownership—a way of showing how women navigate even problematic roles. In an industry as ruthless as cinema, it is unrealistic to expect anyone to be a feminist icon or be consistently politically correct. Such expectations are as disappointing as they are fruitless.

While Bhatia’s Avantika is simply a role in a fictional film, an actress’s choice to inhabit a character still leaves them with certain responsibilities to the film, to the audiences and to themselves—raising questions of intent and complicity. When a character is complex and exercises autonomy, the performance can illuminate systemic inequities and provoke meaningful reflection. Conversely, if a character exists merely to serve male-centric narratives, the role risks reinforcing harmful tropes. Yet even within such limitations, embodying trauma on screen can function as subtle resistance, but the thin line between depiction and approval requires conscious narrative choices to prevent misreading.

Artistic responsibility is tightrope: actors cannot fully control audience interpretation, yet their work does shape social perception to an extent. This responsibility is always appreciated, but not inherently expected out of actors. For instance, Rehnaa Hai Terre Dil Mein (2001) is another example of a beloved classic romanticising stalking and abuse. However, Dia Mirza has repeatedly acknowledged to audiences that the film hasn’t aged well and expressed discomfort with how the film romanticised aggression. She also reflected that while audiences at the time perceived Maddy’s character as “intense,” it is now evident that his actions are deeply problematic and would not be acceptable today. 

In contrast, Rashmika Mandanna has often defended Ranvijay’s (Ranbir Kapoor) character in blockbuster-hit Animal (2023). She has emphasised people to distinguish between art and the artist, asserting that the characters actors portray are “raw creative expression and not a reflection of reality.” Mandanna further mentions audience autonomy, highlighting that viewers are free to choose what to watch and how to be influenced. Yet, to assume that audiences are either entirely malleable or completely independent spectators is both unrealistic. Making a film, any film, in today’s politically volatile environment holds certain responsibility which doesn’t end once the film is released. In Animal, Ranvijay not only cheats on Geetanjali, but is also disrespectful and abusive toward other women. Reflecting on this, Mandanna commented that she would choose someone like him in real life: “I truly believe that if you love someone and someone loves you, changes will happen.”

Similarly, Kiara Advani defended her character Preeti in Kabir Singh (2019), arguing that the film isn’t about the infamous slap at all and people don’t need to fixate on it. According to her, Preeti demonstrates strength and agency by leaving a man who wronged her, deciding to raise a child on her own, and resisting returning to a toxic relationship—until the climactic reconciliation scene, where “love wins.”

This framing risks normalising abusive behaviour by suggesting that reconciliation erases prior harm. Additionally, it sidesteps broader concerns about the depiction of women in the film, particularly that Preeti’s choices are largely reactive to male actions rather than fully autonomous, leaving her empowerment contingent on a man’s presence.

In all these instances, romantic love appears inextricably linked with the notion of abuse—and this is hardly a new phenomenon in South Indian cinema or even in Bollywood. Who controls the story shapes how trauma is framed. Male-directed narratives often render female suffering as spectacle or reduce it to a catalyst for the hero’s journey. Consent and power dynamics within fiction determine whether audiences perceive agency or objectification, making narrative framing crucial to the ethical portrayal of a woman’s body. Set against the canvas of mythic heroism, with sweeping landscapes and a rousing soundtrack, such stories usually transform into a blockbuster experience.

Despite seeming like a situation blown out of proportion, it is striking to witness them choose to defend problematic films—fully aware of the influence, visibility, and weight their words carry. Whether it is Bhatia, Mandanna, or Advani, a multitude of factors contribute to shaping their highly-curated personal and public image. An actor’s defense may stem from introspection, genuine misunderstanding, patriarchal conditioning, or subtler, less visible forces—such as the desire to save face, personal insecurities, or even blind, unquestioned loyalty to directors.

It is perhaps fortunate that these women occupy a position of privilege their fictional counterparts could never access. Yet, it may be this very social, cultural, and political distance between their lived realities and the worlds their characters inhabit that creates a quiet detachment—one that allows their interpretations to exist without being deeply touched by the weight of those experiences. Vetticad highlights the power imbalance between journalists like herself and actresses backed by a vast PR machinery. While this isn’t a debate pitting one woman against another, the real focus should be on the system and industry that conditions them this way. 

Circling back to Bhatia, as the Baahubali franchise gears up for a grand re-release in theatres, one can’t help but wonder—has there truly been no evolution over the span of almost ten years? Can an actor possess such absolute directionless conviction in their role without leaving room for reflection, constructive criticism, or even a trace of self-doubt? Or has responsibility toward audiences become so distant that the personal assumes the ultimate priority?