The Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC), more popularly, if inaccurately, called the Censor Board, is in the news again. Over the past week alone, three of its decisions have grabbed headlines.
First, its ongoing confrontation with the makers of the Malayalam film Janaki vs State of Kerala, where it ordered the filmmakers to change both the title and the name of the protagonist. The reasoning? “Janaki” is an alternate name for Goddess Sita and, according to the Board, cannot be associated with a character who undergoes assault in the film. Next came Punjab ’95, starring Diljit Dosanjh, where the Board recommended a staggering 127 cuts, raising the inevitable question of what would remain of the film after such editorial surgery. And finally, Aamir Khan’s Sitaare Zameen Par, which made headlines for an altogether different reason: the Board ordered the makers to add a quote by the Prime Minister in the opening credits, and replace phrases like “businesswoman” and “Michael Jackson.”
To any reasonable person, these decisions appear preposterous. If filmmakers cannot write stories with characters named after revered figures, we will soon run out of protagonist names in a country where the list of revered figures is both endless and ever-expanding. Similarly, if a film must undergo 127 cuts, the Board is no longer certifying the film; it is practically making one of its own. And when even words like “businesswoman” and “Michael Jackson” become objectionable, the question arises: what’s not?
But these incidents are not isolated. They form part of a larger and recurring pattern in the CBFC’s functioning. The problem is not simply one of occasional overreach; it is structural. Despite being a certification authority in name, the Board continues to operate as a censorial body, imposing its own sense of morality, obstructing the legislative intent behind its creation, and applying its powers with glaring inconsistency.
The CBFC draws its powers from the Cinematograph Act, 1952, a law intended to provide for the certification of films for public exhibition, not their censorship. This is evident from the long title of the Act, which reads, “An Act to make provision for the certification of cinematograph films for exhibition and for regulating exhibitions by means of cinematographs.”
Any person intending to publicly exhibit a film in India must apply to the CBFC for a certificate. According to Section 4, once a film is submitted, the Board examines it and classifies it into one of three categories: U (universal viewing), UA (parental guidance for children under 18) or A (restricted to adult audiences). There is also a fourth category - S - for films intended for specific professional or interest groups, though this is rarely used. Although, the Board’s primary job is to certify films, sub-section 2(iv) also empowers it to suggest cuts or modifications before granting certification. This power, however, is not unqualified. The Act requires the Board to give the filmmaker an opportunity to respond before imposing any such changes.
Section 5B prescribes the principles that must guide the Board while making certification decisions. These broadly mirror the reasonable restrictions on free speech under Article 19(2) of the Constitution. A film cannot be certified if, in the Board’s opinion, it undermines the sovereignty and integrity of India, threatens security, friendly relations with foreign States, disturbs public order, offends decency or morality, or involves defamation, contempt of court, or incitement to an offence. In addition, the Central government has issued further guidelines under Section 5B(2). These are wide-ranging and cover everything from preventing the glorification of violence and encouraging drug use to avoiding the degrading portrayal of women, children and marginalised groups. They also include broad, often subjective categories like vulgarity, obscenity and the nebulous idea of “human sensibilities”.
It is this breadth, combined with the absence of clear interpretative standards, that leaves the door wide open for subjective decision-making.
A key and persistent concern with the CBFC’s functioning throughout the years has been its tendency to act as a moral gatekeeper rather than a certifying authority. This is not a speculative allegation but one that finds express reflection in the Board’s own submissions before courts.
In its counter-affidavit in Crossword Entertainment Private Limited v. CBFC, where the filmmakers had challenged the cuts imposed on their film Mohalla Assi, the CBFC stated that the director lacked the “art of showing things” without using “vulgar and derogatory language.” It went on to suggest that unlike novelists, filmmakers have other tools to present ideas, and referenced Charlie Chaplin as an example of how strong messages can be conveyed without the use of words. The affidavit concluded with the assertion that the filmmaker was “seeking the blanket freedom of expression for his inability to be aesthetically provocative.”
The irony, of course, is that the Board’s own guidelines do not condition certification on aesthetic quality. The Cinematograph Act requires the CBFC to assess films against specific statutory criteria, not against subjective standards of artistic merit.
What compounds the problem is the selective application of these moral standards. Films containing objectifying item numbers, frequent alcohol consumption, explicit violence and coarse language have often secured certification with minimal difficulty. By contrast, films engaging with politically sensitive or socially uncomfortable themes - drug abuse in Punjab (Udta Punjab), women’s sexual agency (Lipstick Under My Burkha), or industrial disasters (Beyond Genocide) - have found themselves subjected to heightened scrutiny and disproportionate cuts.
The Board has responded to this charge of inconsistency in predictable terms. In the litigation surrounding Udta Punjab, the CBFC argued before the Bombay High Court that each film must be viewed in isolation and that prior decisions cannot bind its assessment. As the Board’s counsel put it:
“Merely because 34 movies with abusive words have been allowed to be viewed by the public in the past does not mean that the Board cannot take a decision of the present nature in another case. Every work must be seen and considered independently.”
That position, while legally defensible, only reinforces the wider concern: that the Board’s decisions often remain untethered from principle, leaving filmmakers at the mercy of subjective and shifting standards.
Thankfully, the judiciary has consistently acted as a check on the CBFC’s overreach. It has upheld the constitutional guarantee of free speech under Article 19(1)(a), defended artistic expression and routinely set aside irrational directions imposed by the Board. Some of the more prominent decisions in this regard include Bobby Art International v Om Pal Singh, concerning the movie Bandit Queen, where the Court refused to interfere with a certificate already granted on moral grounds; and Phantom Films Private Limited v. The Central Board of Certification, concerning Udta Punjab, where the Bombay High Court struck down extensive cuts imposed by the Board. In the case of Mohalla Assi, the Delhi High Court reinforced this judicial trend with some particularly instructive observations.
The Court held that films dealing with controversial issues necessarily have to portray what is controversial. Referring to Life is Beautiful, the Court observed that a filmmaker depicting the Second World War cannot be true to their conscience if the horrors of war are not adequately communicated. Similarly, on the question of creative choice, it observed that it is entirely for the filmmaker to choose the underlying theme and storyline, and no one can dictate how the film should be made or what its content should be. On the critique of political figures, it observed that those who hold important positions must have shoulders broad enough to accept, with grace, a critique of themselves.
However, while judicial intervention offers relief on paper, in reality, it is an option available only to filmmakers with the means to litigate. The cost of moving from one committee of the CBFC to another, and then to the High Court (and in some cases the Supreme Court) is prohibitive. Independent filmmakers, or those with limited budgets, often do not have the resources to fight such battles.
Even for those who can afford to litigate, the process itself is a punishment. The timeline for certification is tight, and delays, even procedural ones, can jeopardise release schedules and lead to significant financial losses. The ordeal of the makers of Udta Punjab is illustrative. Having applied for certification on May 10, 2016 for a release scheduled on June 17, 2016, the filmmakers spent weeks navigating between the Examining Committee and the Revising Committee, often without clear reasons being given or decisions being communicated within statutory timelines.
This is not an isolated experience. Filmmakers often find themselves in court on the very day their films are scheduled for release, still fighting for a certificate. For instance, the makers of JSK were before the High Court on June 27, the day the film was originally set to release, challenging the Board’s refusal to grant an appropriate certificate. Similarly, last year, the makers of Emergency approached the Bombay High Court after the Board’s refusal to certify the film, resulting in a delayed release beyond its schedule date of September 6, 2024. I had discussed the Board’s actions in that episode in this column earlier.
The consequence of such delays and procedural hurdles is predictable. Faced with mounting promotional expenses, fixed theatre bookings and the looming risk of missing release windows, most filmmakers—big or small—are left with little choice but to comply with the Board’s directions, however unreasonable they may seem. In short, process becomes punishment and compliance becomes the safer option.
The problem with the CBFC is not a recent phenomenon. It is structural and longstanding. For decades, the Board has operated with a censorial mindset, often stepping well beyond its statutory role. A striking example is the 1987 case concerning the documentary Beyond Genocide, on the Bhopal gas tragedy, where the CBFC objected to multiple elements including the use of the word “genocide” in the title.
This instinct to censor rather than certify has been flagged repeatedly by expert bodies tasked with reforming the CBFC. The 2013 Justice Mudgal Committee noted that the Board often misconstrues its role, choosing to cut and chop scenes - sometimes under political, religious, or social pressure - and occasionally objecting to content as innocuous as the use of the word “boyfriend” or a humorous reference to a political figure. The 2016 Shyam Benegal Committee was equally blunt in its diagnosis. It recommended that the CBFC restrict itself to categorisation, acting as a statutory warning system for audiences rather than a moral adjudicator of cinematic content. As the Committee put it:
“It is not for the CBFC to act as a moral compass…The CBFC categorization should be a sort of statutory warning for audiences of what to expect if they were to watch a particular film. Once the CBFC has issued this statutory warning, film viewing is a consensual act and up to the viewers of that category.”
Despite these recommendations, legislative reform has been slow and incomplete. The government’s recent amendments to the Cinematograph Act were presented as a transformative step. But in substance, they left untouched the core concern raised time and again by the courts: the need for promote artistic freedom and reduce censorship. What is required is a sharper statutory framework, one that limits the Board’s discretion, streamlines the certification process and ensures that filmmakers are not forced into prolonged litigation to secure the right to release their work.
Justice Sachdeva’s judgment on the release of Mohalla Assi offers a useful starting point. It reiterates that the power of cinema lies in its ability to provoke, critique and contribute to public discourse. The CBFC would do well to read it - not just as a judicial opinion, but as a statement of principle on what censorship in a constitutional democracy ought to mean.
Swapnil Tripathi is an Advocate and a DPhil (in Law) Student, University of Oxford. He tweets at S_Tripathi07.