For nearly three years, one of India’s most anticipated political films remained trapped in a bureaucratic and legal limbo. When it finally reached audiences, it did so quietly, stripped of its original title, denied a theatrical release, and burdened by years of controversy. Barely forty-eight hours later, it disappeared again.
The story of Punjab ’95—eventually released on ZEE5 as Satluj—has now become far larger than the film itself. It has evolved into one of the most significant contemporary debates on censorship, artistic freedom and the State’s uneasy relationship with politically sensitive histories. At its centre, lies a profound constitutional question: Can a democracy allow uncomfortable truths to be told through cinema, particularly when those truths concern allegations of abuse by State institutions?
The controversy surrounding Satluj is not simply about certification by the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC), nor is it confined to questions of film regulation. It raises broader concerns about whether politically inconvenient narratives can find space in India’s public sphere at all. Over the course of three years, the film encountered repeated delays, demands for sweeping edits, multiple title changes, withdrawal from an international film festival, abandonment of its theatrical release, and finally, removal from an OTT platform within days of release. Each development added another layer to an increasingly troubling narrative about the shrinking space available for artistic engagement with contentious political history.
Ironically, the film itself tells the story of a man who dedicated his life to uncovering suppressed truths. That parallel has not gone unnoticed. Following the film’s removal from ZEE5, lead actor Diljit Dosanjh shared a still from the film on Instagram with a pointed message in Punjabi: “The same thing that happened to Satluj also happened to Shaheed Jaswant Singh Khalra.” Accompanied by the caption “I challenge the darkness,” the post transformed the controversy from a dispute over streaming rights into a larger commentary on memory, erasure and the continuing discomfort surrounding Khalra’s legacy. As reported by Hindustan Times, this marked Dosanjh’s first public response after the film’s abrupt removal, directly drawing a connection between the silencing of Khalra’s work in 1995 and what he perceived as the silencing of the film today. That comparison goes to the heart of why Satluj has generated such intense public debate.
Unlike fictional political dramas, Satluj is rooted in the life of a real human rights defender whose investigations forced India to confront one of the darkest chapters of Punjab’s insurgency years.
The story the film sought to tell
Originally conceived under the title Ghallughara, later renamed Punjab ’95, and finally released as Satluj, the film chronicles the life of Jaswant Singh Khalra, the Punjab-based human rights activist whose investigations into alleged enforced disappearances and secret cremations during the militancy period fundamentally altered public understanding of State violence in Punjab. Khalra was not a lawyer, journalist or politician.
He was a bank employee who gradually transformed into one of Punjab’s most influential human rights investigators after uncovering records revealing that thousands of unidentified bodies had been secretly cremated by the police without informing families or following legal procedure. By examining cremation registers and municipal records, Khalra alleged that security forces had carried out large-scale illegal cremations of persons who had disappeared during counter-insurgency operations. His work suggested that many of these individuals had never entered the criminal justice system at all.
These revelations that also attracted international attention and intensified demands for accountability during a period when allegations of fake encounters, custodial killings and enforced disappearances had already become the subject of sustained concern among domestic and international human rights organisations. Numerous media reports at the time documented Khalra’s efforts to compile documentary evidence of these alleged abuses and to bring them before judicial institutions and international forums. His investigations, however, came at an enormous personal cost.
[[On the disappearances in Punjab, the same subject that Khalra spent and gave his life working on, the Working Group (of the United Nations) on Enforced or Involuntary Disappearances, established in 1980, reported large numbers of enforced disappearances, attributing primary responsibility to the Punjab police. The Working Group also held that officers of the Punjab police acted with virtual impunity, disobeyed judicial orders, even ignored writs of habeas corpus and intimidated family members of disappeared persons so as to make them refrain from making complaints. The Group’s 1996/97 report also mentioned the disappearance of Jaswant Singh Khalra after he filed the petition regarding illegal cremations in the High Court, alleging that many of the cremated had been arrested by the Punjab police.[1]]]. Read Communalism Combat’s 2003 report on mass crimes violations here and here.
On September 6, 1995, Khalra was abducted outside his residence in Amritsar. According to findings that later emerged through criminal proceedings, he was illegally detained, tortured and murdered. His body was allegedly disposed of in the Harike canal after his killing. Following sustained litigation by his wife, Paramjit Kaur Khalra, the investigation was transferred to the Central Bureau of Investigation by the Supreme Court. Several Punjab Police officials were eventually convicted for Khalra’s abduction and murder, convictions that were later upheld through the judicial process. His death transformed him from a human rights investigator into one of the most enduring symbols of the struggle against impunity in India.
A film that was never intended to be fiction
Unlike many historical dramas that borrow loosely from real events, Punjab ’95 was conceived as a biographical account inspired by Khalra’s life and struggles. Produced by Ronnie Screwvala’s RSVP Movies in collaboration with MacGuffin Pictures and directed by Honey Trehan, the film cast Diljit Dosanjh in what he would later describe as one of the most meaningful roles of his career.
According to both Trehan and Dosanjh, the project was undertaken with the consent and involvement of Khalra’s family. Paramjit Kaur Khalra reportedly viewed the completed film and confirmed that the version eventually released was the same version the family had previously seen, reinforcing the filmmakers’ assertion that they had resisted attempts to dilute the substance of the narrative. As Trehan later told Variety, only the title changed; the filmmakers maintained that the content remained intact despite years of pressure.
Dosanjh repeatedly emphasised that it was Khalra’s sacrifice, rather than commercial considerations, that persuaded him to join the project. Before the OTT release, he described the film as a story of “conviction, courage and humanity” and remarked that opportunities to participate in narratives of such historical significance were rare.
Three years in limbo
Completed several years ago, the film was submitted to the Central Board of Film Certification in 2022 for theatrical release. What followed would become one of the most controversial certification disputes in recent Indian cinema.
According to the filmmakers, the CBFC initially sought an unprecedented 127 cuts, in addition to changes to the title and other modifications before certification could be granted. The scale of the proposed changes was extraordinary, particularly for a film based on documented historical events.
Detailed report may be read here.
The battle over Punjab ’95 did not end with the CBFC’s reported insistence on over a hundred cuts. If anything, that confrontation marked only the beginning of a prolonged struggle that would span multiple years, multiple titles, multiple release plans and multiple forums before culminating in an unprecedented removal from an OTT platform.
For most films, certification is an administrative hurdle preceding release. For Punjab ’95, certification itself became the site of contestation over who gets to narrate history—and under what conditions.
The filmmakers consistently maintained that the film sought neither to sensationalise Punjab’s militancy nor to reopen old political wounds. Rather, they argued that it was an attempt to document the life of a man whose investigations into alleged enforced disappearances had already been acknowledged through judicial proceedings and whose murder had resulted in criminal convictions. Yet despite drawing from documented events, the film remained caught in a prolonged impasse with the certification authorities.
The Changing of Names: From Ghallughara to Punjab ’95 to Satluj
Perhaps no aspect of the film’s journey illustrates the pressures surrounding politically sensitive storytelling more vividly than its repeated changes of title. The project was originally announced under the title Ghallughara, a deeply significant Punjabi word historically associated with the massacres of Sikhs in 1746, 1762 and, in contemporary political discourse, often invoked in relation to the violence of 1984. The title immediately situated the film within a broader historical memory of collective trauma.
However, when the film entered the certification process, the title reportedly became one of the points of objection. According to several media reports, including Times of India, the filmmakers were asked to abandon the original title. The project subsequently became Punjab ’95, directly referencing the year in which Jaswant Singh Khalra was abducted and killed. Even that proved insufficient. After years of delays, the filmmakers were ultimately unable to retain Punjab ’95 either.
When the film finally appeared before audiences in July 2026, it carried an entirely different name—Satluj, named after the river that flows through Punjab. The change was not a creative choice.
Director Honey Trehan candidly acknowledged this reality while speaking to Variety, explaining simply that they could not secure the previous title and therefore the film would release under the name Satluj. The statement itself reflected the unusual circumstances surrounding the production. Rarely does a filmmaker publicly acknowledge that a title central to the identity of a film had to be abandoned not because of artistic reconsideration but because it could not obtain approval.
The film that never reached Toronto
The obstacles facing Punjab ’95 were not confined to India. In September 2023, the film had been selected for a world premiere at the prestigious Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF), one of the world’s most important platforms for independent and political cinema. An international premiere would have introduced Khalra’s story to global audiences and placed the film within broader conversations on human rights and transitional justice. That premiere never happened. Just a day before its scheduled screening, the film was withdrawn from the festival.
Although no detailed official explanation was provided, Variety reported that sources attributed the withdrawal to political considerations, while several Indian publications subsequently highlighted the episode as another indication of the extraordinary pressures surrounding the project. The withdrawal immediately attracted attention because it departed from the normal dynamics of international film festivals.
Films are occasionally withdrawn because of production delays, unresolved rights disputes or technical reasons. Here, however, the project had already been completed. The concern centred not on the film’s readiness but on its subject matter. The aborted TIFF premiere therefore became another episode in the film’s increasingly remarkable history—one in which institutional obstacles repeatedly emerged whenever the film appeared close to reaching public audiences.
Abandoning theatres
Following years of uncertainty, repeated certification disputes and prolonged delays, the producers eventually abandoned plans for a theatrical release altogether. This decision itself was significant. Unlike theatrical exhibition, films released directly on OTT platforms generally do not require prior certification under the existing regulatory framework governing streaming services. For many filmmakers working on politically contentious subjects, digital platforms have increasingly been viewed as an alternative avenue for audiences after theatrical certification becomes difficult.
It appeared that Punjab ’95 had finally found that route. Director Honey Trehan repeatedly emphasised that the version eventually released digitally represented the film as originally intended. Paramjit Kaur Khalra, the widow of Jaswant Singh Khalra, reportedly viewed the completed version and confirmed that the film remained unchanged in substance. Trehan similarly stated that the version released on ZEE5 was the same film that had been defended throughout the certification battle.
Diljit Dosanjh echoed those assertions. During interactions with audiences before the release, he stated that if even a single cut had been imposed on the film, he would not have promoted it. According to media reports, he maintained that the film audiences would eventually watch was identical to the version he had seen years earlier.
For the filmmakers, the digital release therefore represented something more than distribution. It represented vindication. After years of negotiations, delays and resistance, the film would finally be seen. Or so it appeared.
When Satluj eventually appeared on ZEE5 on July 3, 2026, there was little of the elaborate publicity normally associated with a major release featuring one of India’s biggest stars. Diljit Dosanjh’s films typically receive extensive promotional campaigns across television, digital media and live events. Yet Satluj arrived with remarkably subdued publicity.
Forty-Eight Hours Later: The film disappears again
If the release of Satluj appeared to mark the end of one of Indian cinema’s longest censorship battles, what followed instead transformed the controversy into something arguably even more troubling. The film became available on ZEE5 on July 3, 2026. Within two days, it was gone.
On July 5, viewers attempting to access the film in India found that it had been removed from the platform. No advance notice had been issued. No detailed explanation accompanied the decision. A film that had survived years of certification disputes, title changes and release delays had once again become inaccessible to Indian audiences. This time, however, the removal did not originate from the Central Board of Film Certification. It came after the film had already been released. That distinction is constitutionally significant.
For decades, debates around censorship in India have centred on the CBFC’s powers before a film reaches theatres. Satluj presents an altogether different phenomenon: a film that was already lawfully available for public viewing disappearing from a digital platform after release, without any publicly available legal order directing its removal.
The episode immediately raised difficult questions about the growing vulnerability of artistic expression in the digital age. If films can be withdrawn after release without transparent legal processes or publicly disclosed reasons, censorship itself begins to move beyond formal statutory mechanisms into a far more opaque domain.
ZEE5’s unusual statement
Soon after the removal, ZEE5 confirmed that Satluj would no longer be available to stream in India. Its statement, however, was remarkable not only for what it said, but also for what it omitted. The platform thanked audiences for the “overwhelming response” received during the brief period the film remained online and declared that it stood firmly behind both the film and its creators.
“At ZEE5, we stand firmly by Satluj and the creative vision behind it. We believe powerful storytelling has the ability to inspire, endure and leave a lasting impact. We remain committed to championing authentic and meaningful narratives.”
The platform further stated: “In light of the current developments, Satluj will be unavailable in India until further notice.”
It assured viewers that it was exploring “every appropriate avenue through due process” to restore the film and reiterated its commitment to artistic integrity and meaningful storytelling. Yet nowhere did the statement explain what those “current developments” were.
Satluj may have paused. But the conversation it started hasn’t.
Thank you for the incredible love.
We hope to bring it back soon.#Satluj pic.twitter.com/Ox3MZIBvlT— ZEE5Official (@ZEE5India) July 5, 2026
The ambiguity immediately became the central feature of the controversy. Neither the platform nor any government authority publicly disclosed what had changed between July 3, when the film was made available, and July 5, when it became unavailable. For a controversy that had already stretched across three years, the absence of transparency only intensified speculation.
Government sources and the ‘Anti-India’ explanation
Although no formal governmental order directing removal entered the public domain, reports published by NDTV cited official sources claiming that certain portions of the film could be misused by “anti-India forces.” According to those reports, the concern was not merely the subject matter itself but the possibility that specific scenes or narratives could allegedly be exploited by hostile actors. Sources also noted that while OTT platforms are not subject to prior certification requirements comparable to theatrical films, concerns had been raised regarding the content after its release. These reported explanations immediately generated fresh debate.
The phrase “anti-India forces” has increasingly appeared in public discourse surrounding politically sensitive expression. Yet its deployment in relation to a feature film based on documented historical events raised difficult questions.
- What precisely constituted the objectionable material?
- Which portions of the film were considered problematic?
- Did those portions depart from established judicial records?
- Had any competent authority examined whether the film incited violence or hatred?
No detailed answers were forthcoming. Instead, the controversy became characterised by broad assertions about national interest without corresponding public disclosure of the legal or factual basis for restricting access.
Restrictions on freedom of expression under Article 19(2) of the Constitution cannot ordinarily rest upon vague apprehensions alone. They must satisfy recognised constitutional grounds, such as sovereignty and integrity of India, public order, security of the State or incitement to an offence, and must also withstand judicial scrutiny regarding necessity and proportionality. Whether those standards were met in the case of Satluj remains impossible to evaluate because the reasons underlying the film’s removal have never been publicly articulated.
Diljit Dosanjh saw it coming
One of the most striking aspects of the controversy is that the film’s lead actor appeared to anticipate precisely what would happen. During an Instagram Live interaction with viewers shortly after the release, Diljit Dosanjh candidly admitted that he feared the film might not remain available for long.
“Today is Saturday. I feel it could be taken down by Monday. But no worries—you download it.”
The remark, widely reported by Hindustan Times, Times of India and other publications, initially appeared almost humorous. Within hours, it proved prophetic. After the removal, Dosanjh became considerably more direct. Posting a still from the film, he wrote:
“The same thing that happened to Satluj also happened to Shaheed Jaswant Singh Khalra.”
According to Dosanjh, the film recounting that struggle had itself become the subject of suppression. He later remarked that he had repeatedly wondered whether audiences would ever be allowed to watch the film at all, asking publicly: “Can’t we tell our own story?”
Beyond Satluj: What the controversy says about censorship in contemporary India
The removal of Satluj should not be viewed as an isolated controversy involving a single film, a streaming platform or a celebrated actor. Rather, it reflects a much broader transformation in how politically sensitive speech is regulated in India.
Traditionally, censorship in India has been associated with the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC). Under the Cinematograph Act, films intended for theatrical release require certification before they can be publicly exhibited. That certification process has always been contentious. Filmmakers have repeatedly criticised the CBFC for functioning not merely as a certifying body but as an authority empowered to determine what citizens should or should not watch.
Over the years, several judicial decisions, including the Supreme Court’s landmark judgment in S. Rangarajan v. P. Jagjivan Ram, have emphasised that freedom of expression cannot be curtailed merely because a section of society finds a work controversial or offensive. In Rangarajan, the Court famously observed that freedom of expression cannot be suppressed on account of threat of demonstration or violence, warning that doing so would amount to surrendering constitutional freedoms to those willing to intimidate or disrupt public order.
The Court’s reasoning was unequivocal. If a film does not fall within the limited restrictions recognised under Article 19(2) of the Constitution, the State has an obligation to protect its exhibition rather than prohibit it merely because some groups oppose it. That constitutional philosophy appears increasingly difficult to reconcile with the contemporary reality confronting politically sensitive artistic works.
From formal censorship to informal control
The Satluj controversy demonstrates how censorship itself appears to be evolving. The earlier model was comparatively straightforward. A filmmaker submitted a completed work to the CBFC. The Board either certified it, sought modifications or refused certification. Its decisions could then be challenged before appellate authorities and constitutional courts. There existed, at least formally, a transparent statutory process.
The controversy surrounding Satluj suggests something considerably more complex. After years of battling certification, the filmmakers shifted to an OTT platform, where prior certification is generally unnecessary. The assumption was that digital distribution would allow audiences to access the work without navigating the same regulatory obstacles applicable to theatrical releases. Instead, the film disappeared after release, without a publicly available legal order, without any transparent adjudicatory process or without detailed reasons.
That shift is significant because it signals a movement away from formal censorship towards what many scholars describe as informal or indirect censorship—a situation in which legal prohibitions are replaced by institutional pressure, regulatory uncertainty, commercial risk or opaque decision-making.
The consequence may ultimately be the same. The public is denied access to the work. The only difference is that responsibility becomes more difficult to locate. Was the removal voluntary or was it prompted by governmental communication? Did legal concerns emerge after release or were there political pressures? The public still does not know. In constitutional democracies, opacity itself is a problem. Restrictions upon expression derive legitimacy not merely from statutory authority but from transparency, accountability and the possibility of judicial review. When those elements disappear, censorship becomes considerably more difficult to challenge.
Political sensitivity is not a constitutional ground for censorship
One feature unites many of the most controversial censorship disputes in independent India- they concern politically sensitive history. Films addressing communal violence, caste oppression, insurgency, police excesses, emergency-era abuses or governmental failures have repeatedly encountered resistance from one institution or another.
Yet the Constitution contains no exception permitting censorship merely because a subject is politically uncomfortable. Article 19(1)(a) guarantees every citizen the right to freedom of speech and expression. That freedom is undoubtedly subject to reasonable restrictions under Article 19(2). Those restrictions include sovereignty and integrity of India, security of the State, public order, decency, morality, contempt of court, defamation and incitement to offences.
Notice what does not appear in Article 19(2)- there is no constitutional category called political sensitivity. There is no ground permitting restrictions because historical events remain controversial. Nor does the Constitution authorise suppression because a work may embarrass governments, expose institutional failures or revisit contested episodes of national history. Democracies are expected to accommodate precisely such speech.
Indeed, constitutional protections become most meaningful when they shield expression that unsettles prevailing political narratives. Speech that is universally accepted rarely requires constitutional protection. It is controversial speech, provided it remains within constitutional limits, that tests the strength of democratic institutions.
The chilling effect on political cinema
The implications of the Satluj controversy extend far beyond this single production. Cinema is an extraordinarily resource-intensive medium. A politically sensitive feature film often requires years of research, substantial financial investment and the willingness of producers, distributors and actors to assume considerable commercial risk.
When filmmakers witness a project spending three years in certification disputes, reportedly facing over one hundred proposed cuts, undergoing repeated title changes, losing its theatrical release, withdrawing from an international film festival and finally disappearing from a streaming platform within forty-eight hours, the lesson extends beyond that individual case. The consequence is self-censorship.
Future filmmakers may decide that certain subjects are simply not worth pursuing. Producers may avoid financing projects concerning custodial violence, communal riots, insurgency, enforced disappearances or politically contentious episodes. Streaming platforms may hesitate before acquiring similarly sensitive content. Actors may decline participation. Writers may soften narratives before anyone even asks them to do so. This phenomenon, the suppression of expression not through direct prohibition but through anticipatory fear, is one of the most enduring concerns in free speech jurisprudence.
The Supreme Court has repeatedly recognised that vague or excessive restrictions create a “chilling effect” on expression, discouraging lawful speech because individuals cannot confidently predict where regulatory boundaries actually lie.
Whose history is remembered?
At its core, the controversy surrounding Satluj is ultimately about memory. Jaswant Singh Khalra dedicated his life to documenting disappearances that many families feared would never be officially acknowledged. His investigations attempted to preserve records that otherwise risked disappearing from public consciousness. The film sought to tell that story. Whether audiences agree with every creative choice made by the filmmakers is beside the point.
Democratic societies do not require unanimity regarding historical interpretation. They require the freedom to debate it. Cinema occupies a unique place within that process. Unlike academic writing or judicial decisions, films reach millions who may never otherwise encounter chapters of history.
The journey of Punjab ’95—from Ghallughara, to Punjab ’95, to Satluj—is no longer simply the story of a film. It is the story of the increasingly uncertain space occupied by politically sensitive artistic expression in contemporary India.
A project inspired by the life of a murdered human rights activist reportedly encountered years of certification disputes, demands for extensive alterations, repeated title changes, the cancellation of its international premiere, the abandonment of theatrical release, and finally, its removal from an OTT platform within two days of release. Whether each of those developments arose from formal regulatory decisions, institutional caution or broader political sensitivities, the cumulative effect is unmistakable.
The public conversation has shifted from the content of the film to the conditions under which difficult histories may be narrated at all. That shift should concern anyone committed to constitutional democracy. The measure of a democracy is not how comfortably it accommodates stories that reinforce official narratives. It is how confidently it allows the telling of stories that question power, revisit painful histories and compel institutions to confront uncomfortable truths. The legacy of Jaswant Singh Khalra reminds us that documenting history is often an act of courage. The journey of Satluj suggests that saying that history through cinema may require courage too.
[1] E/CN. 4/1996/38, Commission on Human Rights, Fifty-second session, Report of the Working Group on Enforced on Involuntary Disappearances, paras 236-240; E/CN. 4/1997/34, para 181—from Background Materials by Ram Narayan Kumar for the Conference at Boston in 2003
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