I have a theory.
Old Indian cinema raised us to believe that parents were above scrutiny. That family was sacred. That obedience was love. That if something hurt, you adjusted. You endured. You waited for the emotional background music to fix it.
Then those children grew up. They became writers, filmmakers, storytellers. And suddenly the script changed. It stopped saying, “Parents are always right.” It started asking, “But what if they’re not?”
For decades, mainstream films worshipped hierarchy. Look at Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham.
A father disowns his son for marrying someone “beneath” his status. The emotional weight of the story never truly questions the father’s ego. The son leaves. The son suffers. The son longs. The climax is not accountability. The climax is reunion. The message was subtle but clear. Disobedience disrupts harmony. Return restores it.
Then came Baghban.
Here, the children were the villains. Ungrateful. Selfish. The parents were pure sacrifice. Again, guilt was the primary emotion. Nobody talked about boundaries. Nobody talked about emotional patterns. It was simple. Respect your elders or be ashamed. That was the era many of us grew up in.
Family over individual. Always. Then something shifted.
Dil Dhadakne Do entered box office like a smack on the faces of the elderly.
Here, the family looks perfect. Wealthy. Polished. Successful. But underneath that gloss is control. Reputation over happiness. Ego disguised as protection. The father is not a monster. He is insecure. Obsessed with legacy. Terrified of losing authority. The mother is not weak. She is complicit in maintaining the illusion. The daughter is trapped in a loveless marriage to protect family status. The son is shielded and infantilised so the patriarch’s ego remains undisturbed.
This film does something older cinema rarely did. It questions the structure itself. It asks:
Why must the father’s insecurity decide everyone’s life?
Why is maintaining reputation more important than emotional truth?
There is no divine aura around authority anymore. There is examination.
Then Thappad said something radical in the simplest way.
One slap. Earlier cinema would have normalised it. Adjust. It happens. Don’t overreact. This film asked, why should it happen at all? That question alone marked a generational shift. And somewhere between those two eras, I was growing up.
Then I watched Udaan.
It did not glorify rebellion. It did not demonise the father in cartoonish ways. It showed something quieter. A house filled with authority. A son who wanted to write. A father who believed discipline was survival. When I watched it, I did not feel anger. I felt recognition. I had always wanted to be a writer. Not desperately. Not dramatically. Just persistently. Words made sense to me. Stories felt like oxygen.
My father never believed it was practical. To him, earning was not optional. It was identity. Stability was not preference. It was protection. He had built his life on that belief. When I chose writing, he did not explode. He doubted. Doubt is heavier than anger. It lingers. I did earn. Slowly. The growth in this industry is slow but not flashy. Enough to survive, not enough to silence criticism. And in that slow climb, his disbelief survives too.
Sometimes I feel, deep inside, he wants me to fail. Not because he hates me. But because if I fail, his worldview is validated. He can step in, offer help, and guide me back to what he thinks is safe. Maybe that is fear. Maybe it is love in a form I do not fully understand. What I do know is this. I struggle to pay bills sometimes. I measure expenses. I live carefully. And I am still happy.
There is a quiet pride in choosing alignment over approval. In waking up and knowing the life you are building is yours. But that choice has created distance. We talk. We function. We care. Yet there is a gap. He sees risk. I see meaning. He sees instability. I see possibility. Neither of us is a villain. We are just products of different narratives.
Old cinema taught his generation that authority sustains order. That children must adjust. That love equals sacrifice. New cinema allowed mine to question that. To seek boundaries. To separate love from control. This shift is not disrespect. It is recalibration. For years, emotional power flowed one way. Now it is negotiating. I love my father. I respect what he built. I understand why he fears my path. But I also love what I am building. Even if it grows slowly. Even if it looks fragile. Even if approval never fully arrives.
If I had chosen differently, maybe the distance would be smaller. But so would I. Approval feels warm.
Breathing feels necessary. And I chose air.
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