India’s mytho-national imagination has, in recent years, found a renewed and near-obsessive home in the theatres. With films like Adipurush (2023), Brahmāstra (2022), Ram Setu (2022), and now Nitesh Tiwari’s Ramayana (2026), the cinematic turn to mythology signals a lot more than just a narrative choice. On July 3, the first glimpse of Ramayana (2026) was unveiled across India. The venue witnessed an overwhelming surge of fans and media, teetering on the edge of a stampede. What unfolded was sheer frenzy—chants of religious slogans echoed alongside cheers for the film. Filmmaker Nitesh Tiwari and producer Namit Malhotra addressed the crowd, promising not just cinematic grandeur, but a cultural offering that aimed to represent India’s ‘truth’ on a global stage. The three-minute preview revealed key performances by Ranbir Kapoor (Ram), Sai Pallavi (Sita), and Yash (Ravana), supported by an ensemble including Sunny Deol (Hanuman) and Ravi Dubey (Lakshman), among others.
Ramayana First Glimpse | Why Indian Cinema Keeps Returning To The Myth
The Ramayana, while revered, remains a narrative—meant to be reimagined. What was once a text reshaped by regional, caste-driven, and feminist voices is now increasingly illustrated as a fixed, singular truth.
The first glimpse also revealed that the two-part live-action epic, slated for release in Diwali 2026 and 2027 respectively, has immersive 3D VFX and offers a whopping ₹835 crore spectacle. The surreal score of the film is a result of the first-ever collaboration between music maestros A.R. Rahman and Hans Zimmer. As the promotional glimpse played a second time, media persons, despite expectations of professional neutrality—were encouraged to chant the slogan “Our History, Our Truth,” and many did. The film’s rhetoric is as rehearsed as it is revealing. But the real question isn’t just whether this is considered a “true story” but rather, why India wants this story told now, again, and with such grandeur.
The Ramayana predates the idea of the nation-state, standing as a mythic foundation that appears unaltered by colonisation. For a country wrestling with questions of identity in a modern, postcolonial context, such mythology becomes a source of cultural rootedness. This is cinema crafted for the global Indian seeking cultural anchoring, and political ideologies hungry for visual emblems of pride. But India has always welcomed Ramayana adaptations with an open heart—an epic is eternal for a reason. Dadasaheb Phalke’s Lanka Dahan (1917) was one of the earliest silent cinematic adaptations of the Ramayana. The version most revered by cinephiles though, remains Mani Ratnam’s Raavanan/Raavan (2010) which offered a psychological inversion, sympathising with Ravana and challenging Rama’s heroism. Shyam Benegal’s Sita Sings the Blues (2008) introduced layered feminist and diasporic perspectives to the epic as well. Cult-favourite Ra.One (2011) dared to reimagine the Ramayana conflict as a tech-driven battle of AI good versus evil. Not to forget, my favourite Anime adaptation of Ramayana (1993) directed by Yugo Sako, which is a fond childhood memory for many.
What separates these previous films from the current myth-based films goes beyond storytelling—they recast mythology as historical truth, wrapped in nationalistic fervour. The Ramayana, while revered, remains a narrative—meant to be reimagined. What was once a text reshaped by regional, caste-driven, and feminist voices is now increasingly illustrated as a fixed, singular truth. Over time, the Ramayana has assumed near-scriptural authority, mostly through devotional works like Tulsidas’s Ramcharitmanas, which coalesce myth with religious dogma.
Subsequently, Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan (1987–88) ran on Doordarshan and was a cultural phenomenon amongst Indians. Colour television had only just made its way into Indian households, and access remained limited. Every Sunday, families and neighbours would gather around the lone TV set in the locality, often treating it with a reverence that bordered on the sacred—lighting incense, candles, and even adorning the screen with garlands. Consequently, Rama was viewed less as a literary figure and more as a divine icon, placing his story and character beyond challenge or reinterpretation. Rama, the maryadapurush, has long been portrayed as disciplined, just, and emotionally measured—placing societal duty above individual longing. Over time, the portrayal of Rama has shifted—from a man once marked by compassion and duty to a figure defined by a certain rigid masculinity and uncompromising authority. By presenting Rama’s decisions as the ultimate expression of virtue, mainstream retellings frequently legitimise patriarchal authority in the name of moral discipline. His actions are deemed honourable not for their emotional integrity, but for preserving familial and political ideals—even when they compromise personal bonds or a woman’s autonomy.
Ramanand Sagar’s television show was most likely the origin and onset of the Ram Janmabhoomi movement that inspired the current retellings of the myth as well. When the biggest upcoming film of Bollywood endorses a myth with a slogan like “Our Truth, Our History”, it sidesteps the essential truth that the Ramayana is not a historical record. To treat it as fixed is to deny its original plurality and the agency it once allowed across its many versions. This perspective thus enforces a singular, unquestioned version of Hinduism, obscuring the religion’s inherent diversity and contradictions. It suppresses folk traditions, regional variations, and philosophical complexity, reducing a multifaceted faith to one uniform myth, one hero, and one immutable “truth”.
Dramatic music, amplified dialogues, and VFX are formulated to override analysis. Emotion dulls dissonance; viewers stop inquiring about what is true and start responding to and reaffirming what they already feel. Filmmakers know the power sentimentality holds. Once a myth is seen, elevated by CGI and music—it reshapes how it is remembered. The power of cinema is real. Audiences tend to trust what they witness on screen more than texts; if a film “looks grand” and “feels real,” it presumes the status of truth.
Unlike other religions, Hindu mythology monopolises cinematic space—seen as safer terrain amid anxieties of backlash around Muslim or Christian narratives. These films tap into a collective connotation of historical grievance, confirming iterations of having been wronged, invaded, or dishonoured. Hindu epics, embedded with Jungian archetypes, subtly shape cultural perception over time. A film on Shivaji today is rarely historical; it stands as a contested symbol of regional insistence, religious belonging, and national claim. Audiences form emotional ties with figures like Sita, Rama, and Hanuman—so when these characters are depicted as being “wronged,” viewers experience that betrayal as their own. This shared injury becomes a justification for real-world hostility, often directed at those cast as the outsider.
That perceived hurt often fuels real-world hostility, with the “other” cast as Ravana, the Mughal, or the secular traitor—reinforcing communal divides under the camouflage of cultural storytelling. Audiences emerge with a sense of moral supremacy, even as they validate intolerance under the guise of dharma. In a film like Adipurush (2023), Ravana is styled with stereotypically Islamic features—a subtle “othering” tactic aligning with extremist right-wing political narratives. Mythic framing slips into daily perception—a Muslim friend becomes “a descendant of the invader” and a secular liberal “an enemy of faith”. Repetition of such a vocabulary fuels fear, not empathy, especially in younger minds. What’s erased and rewritten enough times often becomes belief. This emotional imprint limits critical questioning, reducing epics to binaries: righteous Hindu versus evil other, pure woman versus corrupt temptress or the loyal warrior versus invader.
What’s certain is the assumption of the producers about the film’s massive success, and its potential to solidify India’s presence on a global cinematic stage. With such visibility, influence, and capital at play, it becomes essential that filmmakers approach their craft with clarity—free from bias or agenda, focused on storytelling rather than spectacle-driven propaganda. The visuals, from the first look, signal unmatched scale and technical finesse. Yet without narrative integrity, emotional resonance risks becoming manipulation. Filmmakers understand the stakes—national pride or provocation sells, especially in a divided political atmosphere. Cinema, thus, doesn’t just depict the past—it weaponises it, turning myth into modern ideological currency. A recent statement by Punjab 95 director Honey Trehan resonates the predicament of Bollywood’s current produce: “The government is using films and filmmakers as mouthpieces". While some exploit this, others earnestly believe they are reviving heritage, often shaped by misinformation or ideology. The question persists—are we truly engaging with mythology, or actively constructing mythomania? The tenacity of feeling must include the freedom to question.
This demands that critics, scholars, and filmmakers engage thoughtfully with equal emotional rigour. While the apparent craftsmanship in Ramayana (2026)—from animators to actors, musicians to technicians, deserves high praise, the film’s impact must also be measured by its ability to tell a story that moves without misleading, and stirs without steering. In the current climate, the burden of meaning is heavy; and the line between cultural pride and cinematic posturing must not blur. A film’s true power lies not in noise, but in what it dares to say—and how.
