The real horror in Dhadak 2 isn’t the killer, it’s us

While Dhadak 2 centers its narrative around caste-based discrimination against those from marginalised communities, it also holds up a mirror for those of us born into privilege. It reminds us — or perhaps forces us to finally see — how unaware, protected, and detached we have been from these realities.

One of the most powerful scenes features Shekhar (Priyank Tiwari) — a senior student from the same community as the protagonist, Neelesh Ahirwar (played by Siddhant Chaturvedi). During a college debate on reservations, Shekhar addresses his upper-caste peers:

“Tumhare dada school gaye the? (Did your grandfather go to school?)”

“Haan (Yes).”

“Aur tumhare papa? (And your dad?)”

“Haan (Yes, he too).”

“Aur tum toh padh hi rahe ho (And you too are in college).”

“Toh? (Yeah, so?)”

“Toh main apne parivaar ka pehla hoon jisne college dekha hai. Isliye fellowship zaroori hai. (So the point is I am the first person from my family to be admitted in a college and this is why we need fellowship.)”

This moment isn’t just a rebuttal. It’s a reality check. One that explains the logic — and more importantly, the necessity — behind reservations in education and employment. For many from the “general” category, the existence of quotas feels like an infringement on merit. But for someone like Neelesh, even reaching a college seat is an act of generational resistance.

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Casteism in Dhadak 2 doesn’t stop at academic inequality — it turns violent.

When Vidisha Bharadwaj aka Vidhi (Triptii Dimri) invites her boyfriend Neelesh to her sister’s wedding, her cousin — Ronnie (Saad Bilgrami), who’s also their law college classmate — is enraged. He not only physically assaults Neelesh, he urinates on him. A deliberate, humiliating act meant to “show him his place.”

And what is Neelesh’s crime? That he dared to love someone from an “upper caste”.

But does the blame only rest with Ronnie? Or is he merely a vessel of the entitlement and prejudice fed to him since childhood?

This film forced me to look back at my own childhood. Every summer, my family would visit our hometown in Bihar. There, the women who came to help at home would remove their slippers about 50 metres away, on the road. Concerned, the younger me would say, “Aunty, someone will steal your chappals, you’ll get hurt!” They would smile gently and walk barefoot into the house.

One day, one of them was hungry. She plucked a leaf from our garden, and my grandmother — who adored her — placed some puffed rice on it. The woman sat outside and quietly ate. I was fascinated. I copied her: I plucked a leaf, sat next to her, and ate puffed rice. Everyone laughed.

At the time, as a child, I thought ‘aunty’ is a little dim. Years later, I understood how caste was responsible. The domestic help wasn’t allowed to wear shoes inside or eat with us. Not because she didn’t have a place in our home, but because centuries of conditioninh dictated that “lower caste” meant “lower worth.” She was taught to remove shoes before entering an “upper caste” house and we hid behind an ancient practice.

After all those years, safe in my bubble of privilige like Vidisha, I too once believed caste discrimination was a thing of the past or something that only happened in villages.

Until, during my internship at a top media house, I admired a video producer’s work and asked for her number. Out of habit, I asked for her surname. She immediately replied, “Why? You want to know my caste?”

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I was stunned, and perhaps a little hurt because I never thought like that; my identity ensured I didn’t have to. I still can’t identify caste by surname. But in that moment, I saw her guarded response and her pain, which made a basic question feel like an attack.

In the film, when Vidisha hears Neelesh’s story, she says, “Mujhe lagta tha yeh sab saalo pehle hota tha (I thought this was a thing of the past).” To which Neelesh replies: “Jinke saath nahi hota, unko aisa hi lagta hai Vidhi (The ones who don’t go through it, think the same).”

It hit me like a slap. How casually we flaunt our names. How blind we are to what that name might mean for someone else. Something, very beautifully shown by director Shazia Iqbal, when Neelesh hesitates to introduce himself by his second name in a class full of upper caste students. He says, “Neelesh BA LLB”, becoming a target of ragging.

The film doesn’t stop at caste. It exposes bias against art, gender, and freedom, something we also saw in Karan Johar’s last directorial Rocky Aur Rani Ki Prem Kahani.

Neelesh’s father (Vipin Sharma) is a cross-dressing folk dancer, for which he is ridiculed as a “nachaniya (a demeaning word for a dancer).” After he gets ragged at college for his profession and caste, he tells a mad Neelesh: “Mujhe dance karna tha, main lada. Tu kyun lad raha hai? (I liked to dance, I fought for it. What is your fight for?)”

The implication: you don’t have to suffer like I did. But Neelesh is fighting not just for art — he’s fighting to exist with dignity.

The film subtly also shows the gender discrimination within the same family, which is very common to find in Indian homes–irrespective of the caste or status. Sometimes unknowingly, when they say, ‘Ladkiya itne zor se nahi bolti (Girls don’t talk so loud)’ or ‘Toh kya hogaya woh ladka hai (So what? He is a boy!)’ Acts of misogyny, carefully wrapped as advice by elders that you are not supposed to question, only follow.

Vidisha and Ronnie are both educated, from the same family. But while Ronnie is protected, Vidisha is policed. Her questions are judged and her choices are monitored. Ronnie, spurred by toxic masculinity, is ready to kill Neelesh. His justification? “Ghar ki izzat (Family’s honour).” While his father encourages him, Vidisha’s father, while clearly uncomfortable, also gives in. His only advice to Neelesh: “Beta, Vidisha se door raho. Warna yeh tumhe maar denge (Son, please stay away from Vidisha. If not, they will kill you).”

A silent surrender. From a man who knows this is wrong, but has no voice in his own family (despite being the head of the family) — just because he’s father to a daughter. In other families, the reasons differ.

The film also has another character Shankar (Saurabh Sachdeva), a self-appointed gatekeeper of caste “purity.” He kills two inter-caste couples — first, a lower-caste boy who loves an upper-caste girl. Then, the upper-caste girl who refuses to leave her partner. His next target is Neelesh. When paid for the work, he gets offended. “Mai criminal nahi hu, yeh toh punya ka kaam hai (I am not a criminal. This is work of charity).”

Neelesh survives and fights back, because it’s a Dharma film — and this time, the hero doesn’t die. Watching Shankar reminded me of every relative and family elder who believes it’s their job to police love, control women, and define ‘izzat’. They are the ones who say, “Ladki ko itni chhoot mat do. (Do not give so much freedom to girls)”. They are the ones who measure a family’s honour by a daughter’s silence. They are the ones who shame a father for educating his girl — and then blame him when she dares to live freely.

The most haunting moment of the film is not a murder. It’s a scream.

Triptii Dimri, who exceptionally lives the character screams when her uncle brings a pistol to shoot Neelesh after he escapes Shankar’s clutches. That scream was not of fear, but frustration. It doesn’t belong to Vidisha alone — it is the voice of every girl told to obey, every boy told to “be a man,” every queer child mocked for how they express themselves, every lower-caste student made to feel they don’t belong, every artist shamed, and every parent silenced.

It is the scream of a society that’s had enough. Enough judgment. Enough shame. Enough violence.

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