Diljit Dosanjh’s Global Rise from Sardaar Ji 3 Puts Spotlight on Nationalism and Identity
Diljit Dosanjh and the Politics of Stardom in Modi’s India
Diljit Dosanjh, one of India’s most celebrated singer-actors and arguably its most prominent global cultural figure, finds himself embroiled in a manufactured political storm. At the center of the controversy is the international release of his latest film, Sardaar Ji 3, which features Pakistani actress Hania Aamir in a supporting role. While the film was completed in February 2025, well before the April Pahalgam terror attack that tragically strained India-Pakistan relations, its post-attack release has become a flashpoint in India’s fraught cultural politics.
The Modi government, following the terror attack, swiftly imposed sweeping restrictions on Pakistani artists, enforced not only through policy but also reinforced by powerful film industry bodies like the Federation of Western India Cine Employees (FWICE). Despite these developments, the producers of Sardaar Ji 3 chose to proceed with the film’s overseas release on June 27, citing irrecoverable financial commitments. Dosanjh defended this decision as pragmatic and reasonable, noting that the production was completed before diplomatic relations deteriorated. Noted figures like Javed Akhtar and Imtiaz Ali echoed this defence, pointing out that artists cannot retroactively cancel completed creative projects based on future geopolitical developments.
Yet, the chorus of outrage from political operatives and media entities aligned with the ruling regime grew louder. FWICE accused Dosanjh of violating industry mandates and claimed that his actions undermined national security and sovereignty. Some factions even went as far as demanding his removal from high-profile projects such as Border 2, with fringe voices calling for the cancellation of his passport and Indian citizenship. Such demands reflect the increasingly intolerant environment that artists face in present-day India—a climate where dissent or even perceived deviation from majoritarian sentiment can provoke calls for professional and personal ruin.
Nationalism as a Gatekeeper of Artistic Legitimacy
What lies beneath the controversy is a deeper, more insidious shift: the transformation of nationalism from a broad civic sentiment into a gatekeeping mechanism for artistic legitimacy. In today’s India, the state and its allied cultural institutions have positioned themselves as arbiters of who qualifies as an “acceptable” national icon. For Dosanjh, this gatekeeping has come in the form of intense scrutiny over his identity, choices, and perceived loyalties.
This episode also illustrates how India’s nationalist discourse has grown increasingly unforgiving of ambiguity. The fact that Sardaar Ji 3 was produced before the diplomatic fallout with Pakistan has not mitigated criticism. Instead, Dosanjh’s global status, his refusal to cancel the film’s release, and his unapologetic embrace of Sikh and Punjabi identity are being recast as acts of insubordination.
The backlash from industry bodies like FWICE signals the entertainment sector’s submission to state-backed jingoism. In condemning Dosanjh’s actions, these institutions sidestep the fundamental question of artistic freedom and due process. They ignore that there are no legal grounds to punish an artist for completing and releasing a film that was lawfully produced. Instead, they engage in performative patriotism—proving loyalty through loud condemnation, rather than reasoned dialogue.
Dosanjh’s exclusion from industry events and threats to his professional career stand in sharp contrast to his recent proximity to the Indian establishment. Earlier this year, he met with Prime Minister Narendra Modi in a highly publicized event, where Modi hailed him as a beacon of tradition and talent. Only weeks prior, Dosanjh had delivered a crowd-stirring performance at the Ambani family’s opulent pre-wedding celebration, sharing the stage with Rihanna. His performances at Coachella and his record-breaking Dil-Luminati tour across North America and Europe have positioned him not just as a successful artist, but as a symbol of India’s global cultural reach.
That an artist celebrated by the government and business elite can so swiftly be vilified illustrates a dangerous contradiction in modern India: stardom is tolerated only when it aligns with dominant political narratives. Authenticity, particularly when it stems from a minority or regional identity, is seen as threatening when it resists assimilation into the homogenizing framework of Hindutva nationalism.
Cultural Identity, Diaspora Representation, and the Threat of Non-Conformity
Diljit Dosanjh’s artistic persona has never shied away from bold cultural signaling. Unlike many mainstream Indian celebrities who often mute their linguistic, regional, or religious heritage to project pan-Indian appeal, Dosanjh has foregrounded his Punjabi and Sikh identity across all stages—from his music and films to global public appearances.
This assertion of identity is not just symbolic. It is political. Dosanjh’s visibility as a global Sikh performer—turbaned, multilingual, culturally rooted—challenges the homogenizing tendencies of India’s majoritarian politics. In a system increasingly allergic to non-conformity, particularly when it is celebrated abroad, his success disrupts dominant narratives about what Indian success should look like.
His appearance at the 2025 Met Gala was emblematic of this resistance. Wearing a traditional turban, kurta, tehmat, and carrying a gem-encrusted kirpan, Dosanjh declared on the global stage: “Main Hoon Punjab.” It was not merely a fashion statement. It was a cultural declaration—one that centered regional pride, Sikh symbolism, and historical continuity in a space traditionally dominated by Western aesthetics.
Diaspora communities in Canada, the UK, and the U.S.—where Sikh and Punjabi identities often feel marginalized—saw in Dosanjh a powerful reclamation of pride. His concerts sold out not just because of catchy tracks, but because of what he represented: the possibility of belonging without assimilation.
Yet, this same global assertion of a non-majoritarian Indian identity invites discomfort within India’s political mainstream. The very symbols that delight fans abroad—turbans, religious references, pride in Punjab—are reinterpreted as signs of defiance or separatism by a state increasingly suspicious of cultural plurality.
From Celebration to Suspicion—The Shift in Media and Establishment Attitudes
The transition from celebration to condemnation has been swift. Only months ago, Dosanjh’s name was on every marquee—from the Ambani wedding lineup to Modi’s carefully curated celebrity engagements. His photo with the Prime Minister, widely shared on social media, was framed as evidence of a new era of cultural diplomacy—where tradition met modernity, and Punjabi excellence was welcomed at the highest levels.
Yet, the moment Sardaar Ji 3 became entangled in the politics of Pakistan and post-terror rhetoric, these accolades were eclipsed by calls for punishment. What changed was not Dosanjh’s identity or actions—but the context in which they were interpreted.
In today’s India, context is weaponized. A film completed legally becomes subversive if it tangentially involves a Pakistani artist. A global Sikh icon becomes suspect if he fails to denounce a country at war with India. And a performer who once stood beside the Prime Minister is suddenly accused of betraying the nation if he values artistic integrity over political appeasement.
The media’s role in this transformation cannot be overstated. Primetime anchors labeled Dosanjh a sympathizer, questioned his nationalism, and speculated about hidden agendas. None of these allegations were grounded in fact. But in a news ecosystem where performance often replaces journalism, Dosanjh’s silence was spun as guilt, his global stature reframed as elitism, and his cultural pride repackaged as provocation.
This pattern—of quick adulation followed by rapid vilification—has become familiar in Modi-era India. Stars, artists, and intellectuals are often lauded as long as they reflect the state’s image of patriotism. Once they deviate—either by speaking out, remaining silent, or simply existing in defiance of majoritarian norms—they are subjected to coordinated campaigns of discrediting, boycotts, and worse.
The Film Industry’s Fragile Solidarity and Fear-Driven Compliance
One of the most alarming aspects of the Dosanjh controversy is the tepid response from the Indian film industry. With few exceptions—like Javed Akhtar and Imtiaz Ali—most filmmakers, producers, and stars have chosen silence. This absence of solidarity is telling.
It signals how fear and political pressure have become normalized within the creative ecosystem. In the past, the Indian film fraternity has stood up for its own—whether during the #MeToo movement, anti-censorship protests, or state overreach. Today, that instinct is blunted by an atmosphere of coercion. Many fear that defending Dosanjh might invite state retaliation or damage their own career prospects.
Film associations like FWICE, instead of protecting the creative community, have morphed into moral enforcers—issuing bans, blacklists, and demands for public contrition. Their rhetoric, often indistinguishable from political talking points, reflects a dangerous symbiosis between state ideology and cultural gatekeeping.
The result is a chilling message: artists who deviate from the state’s preferred image—be it through political views, cultural symbols, or cross-border collaborations—will be punished not only by politicians, but by their peers. In this environment, the industry ceases to be a space of imagination and expression. It becomes a site of surveillance and conformity.
For Dosanjh, who has achieved unprecedented global success without conforming to Bollywood’s norms, this represents a double exclusion. He is too autonomous for the film industry to control, and too influential for the state to ignore. That combination, in the current climate, makes him uniquely vulnerable.
Soft Power Versus Hard Borders—India’s Global Image Crisis
One of the great ironies of modern India is that while the government aggressively markets its cultural exports through summits, Bollywood spectacles, and diplomatic photo-ops, it simultaneously constrains the very artists it relies on for global visibility. Diljit Dosanjh’s predicament highlights this contradiction.
India’s soft power—its influence through culture, cinema, music, and diaspora engagement—relies on a creative class that is free to innovate, collaborate, and represent a multifaceted nation. Yet, the cultural gatekeeping seen in Dosanjh’s case signals that soft power must now conform to hard ideological lines.
Banning Pakistani artists may win short-term applause in hyper-nationalist circles, but it undermines the credibility of India’s claim to be a cultural bridge in South Asia. It signals to the world that creative partnerships are subject to political vendettas. It narrows the scope of India’s cultural diplomacy and damages the organic cross-border bonds that art naturally fosters.
Dosanjh, by collaborating with Hania Aamir before the April attack, did not violate any law or policy. His film’s overseas release was a logistical and financial necessity, not a political statement. But in the prevailing climate, his decision was reinterpreted through the lens of loyalty. This punitive reinterpretation is emblematic of a nation that wants to be seen as a beacon of global culture but behaves like a closed cultural state.
Visibility as a Minority—When Representation Invites Repression
Representation is a double-edged sword in authoritarian and majoritarian systems. On one hand, it offers a platform to challenge dominant narratives. On the other, it makes the visible subject to heightened scrutiny. Dosanjh’s prominence as a Sikh and Punjabi icon is not incidental to the backlash he faces—it is central.
Though no official document mentions his religion as a factor, the subtext is impossible to ignore. Dosanjh represents a kind of Indian identity that is confident, rooted in regional pride, and unapologetically non-Hindu. In a polity where the mainstream is increasingly aligned with Hindutva ideals, such identities, when not subdued or co-opted, are often seen as threats.
His refusal to dilute his Sikhism—be it through language, symbolism, or religious imagery—stands in contrast to the Bollywood playbook of conformism. And while BJP Sikh leaders have issued defensive statements, their purpose seems less about defending Dosanjh and more about distancing the party from overt bigotry.
To truly understand why Dosanjh is being targeted, one must ask: would the backlash have been the same if a Hindu superstar had released the same film under the same conditions? The likely answer exposes the fault lines of India’s cultural politics.
Artistic Integrity as Political Defiance
The Dosanjh affair reveals how artistic integrity itself has become a form of political resistance. In an era where cultural products are judged not only for content but for the context of their creators, to remain apolitical is no longer a neutral act. It is seen as either complicity or defiance.
Dosanjh has not made overt political statements against the government. He has not led protests, nor issued anti-state rhetoric. His crime is subtler: he has refused to play along with the narrative that all art must serve the state. By releasing a film made in good faith, refusing to issue a groveling apology, and continuing to assert his identity on global stages, Dosanjh has defied the cultural conformity expected in Modi’s India.
This resistance is not just symbolic. It has real consequences. His projects face cancellation. Industry insiders distance themselves. His fans are pressured to choose between national allegiance and cultural appreciation. This environment does not encourage free expression. It punishes it.
The Erosion of Constitutional Values in Cultural Spaces
India’s constitution guarantees freedom of expression, equality of citizenship, and freedom of profession. But in cultural spaces, these guarantees are increasingly hollowed out by mob pressure, political intimidation, and institutional complicity.
The case of Dosanjh underscores how rights on paper can be overridden by unwritten rules of majoritarian politics. No law forbids collaboration with Pakistani artists, especially in projects completed before official bans. No statute criminalizes global cultural expression. And yet, artists find themselves navigating an invisible web of dos and don’ts enforced by vigilante groups, media outrage, and politically co-opted unions.
When institutions like FWICE begin functioning as ideological police rather than professional bodies, they erode the very foundations of India’s democratic promise. The boundaries of what is permissible are no longer set by courts or legislation, but by televised anger and social media mobs.
This erosion does not stay confined to celebrity cases. It affects aspiring artists, students, producers, and writers who internalize the message: do not cross the line, or you will be next.
What the Dosanjh Affair Teaches Us About India’s Future
The controversy surrounding Diljit Dosanjh is not just a flashpoint. It is a mirror. It reflects the shrinking space for pluralism, the fear-driven recalibration of creative industries, and the deepening divide between cultural ambition and political acceptability.
It also offers a preview of the challenges India will face if it continues down this path. When global icons are targeted for outdated political reasons, it signals to the world that India is unsure of its identity. That it cannot tolerate complexity. That its rising soft power is built on shaky foundations.
If India truly wants to lead the 21st-century cultural world, it must reckon with the contradictions within. It must protect those who expand its imagination, not punish them. Dosanjh may be the subject of this moment’s outrage, but he is also the symbol of what India could be—confident, diverse, creative, and unafraid.
Civil Society, Diaspora Pushback, and the Fight for Cultural Freedom
The backlash against the treatment of Diljit Dosanjh has not been confined to India’s borders. From Canada to the United Kingdom, civil society organizations, diaspora associations, and even elected officials have raised their voices in protest. Sikh and Punjabi communities abroad see the attack on Dosanjh not just as censorship but as an assault on their collective identity. Petitions have been launched, international op-eds published, and legal consultations initiated to counter what they perceive as systemic harassment.
Cultural icons like Dosanjh are not merely entertainers for these communities—they are representatives of a broader diaspora struggle for visibility, dignity, and inclusion. For decades, Sikh identity in the West has faced stereotyping and marginalization. Dosanjh’s success was not just personal—it was symbolic. His humiliation, therefore, is felt personally by many who looked to him as a beacon of acceptance and pride.
Diaspora pushback is not simply about nationalism or pride—it is about the right to exist fully and freely in one’s culture, without forced erasure or politicization. By rejecting the narrative imposed by Indian political actors, the global Sikh and Punjabi communities are reinforcing a message: India’s culture is not monolithic, and it cannot be dictated by majoritarian fear.
Journalism, Intellectual Responsibility, and the Missing Voices
A striking feature of the Dosanjh episode is the near-total silence of India’s mainstream intellectual and journalistic class. While a few independent media platforms have critically examined the issue, most legacy outlets have chosen to either sensationalize or ignore it.
This reflects a broader collapse of public intellectual responsibility. In moments of moral clarity—when an artist is clearly being punished for his cultural choices—the absence of solidarity from writers, academics, and public thinkers is not just disappointing; it is dangerous.
When the role of journalism is reduced to echoing government talking points or stirring controversy without nuance, it ceases to be journalism. And when intellectuals fail to defend the principles they write books about—pluralism, tolerance, expression—their silence becomes complicity.
Dosanjh’s situation required more than music journalists and celebrity columnists. It required constitutionalists, cultural historians, legal experts, and civil society leaders to speak out. The fact that many didn’t reveals how deeply fear and fatigue have eroded India’s intellectual backbone.
The Judiciary’s Role and the Question of Legal Protection
While the Dosanjh affair has largely played out in the media and cultural sphere, there are critical legal dimensions that remain unaddressed. Could a legal challenge be mounted against bans imposed by industry bodies like FWICE? Could Dosanjh sue for defamation or workplace discrimination? Could courts step in to protect his freedom of profession?
In theory, yes. India’s constitution offers robust protection for free speech and creative expression. In practice, however, the judiciary has been slow—or unwilling—to intervene in cases of cultural suppression that are not framed as explicit legal violations.
This gap leaves artists in a legal limbo. Industry bodies wield vast informal power, but are rarely held accountable to the same constitutional standards that bind the state. Dosanjh’s case presents an opportunity for legal activism—to test the boundaries of constitutional protection in the cultural and professional domains. But that would require a court willing to assert its autonomy against powerful political and media narratives—a prospect that remains uncertain.
The Price of Authenticity in a Time of Conformism
What makes Dosanjh’s case particularly resonant is that he has never positioned himself as a political dissenter. He is not a radical firebrand or a provocateur. He is an artist who sings about love, Punjab, history, and community. His concerts are celebrations, not rallies. His lyrics speak of connection, not division.
Yet, it is precisely this authenticity that seems to threaten the cultural regime. By refusing to dilute his art for mainstream approval, by asserting a Sikh and Punjabi identity without apology or compromise, Dosanjh has become the accidental dissenter. And in Modi’s India, authenticity outside state-aligned narratives is an act of resistance.
The lesson here is chilling. It tells artists that their only path to security is silence, assimilation, and selective self-censorship. That the cost of being true to one’s language, history, or community may be professional ruin. That in order to survive, one must first erase the parts of oneself that make one whole.
This price is too high—not just for Dosanjh, but for Indian culture itself.
Reimagining National Identity Through Culture
The final lesson of the Dosanjh affair is about nationhood. Whose India is being defended when a Punjabi film made before a terror attack is banned? Whose security is being protected when an artist is demonized for working across borders? What version of nationalism demands such unrelenting loyalty from those it claims to represent?
If India is to thrive as a pluralistic democracy, its cultural nationalism must be decoupled from political orthodoxy. National identity must be large enough to include multiple languages, religions, regions, and voices. Diljit Dosanjh embodies such an identity—a rooted Indian who speaks to the world, not through mimicry, but through proud self-expression.
Rather than policing artists, India must learn to celebrate them in all their complexity. A truly confident nation does not fear its diverse voices—it amplifies them. The idea of India that Dosanjh represents is not the state-centric nationalism of power, but the people-centric nationalism of culture.
In defending him, we defend not just an individual but the possibility of a freer, braver, and more inclusive cultural future.
Institutional Culture Wars—The Role of Guilds, Boards, and Unions
The cultural gatekeeping around Diljit Dosanjh’s Sardaar Ji 3 didn’t emerge in isolation. It is part of a broader institutional culture war taking place across India’s creative economy. Guilds like FWICE and various film and TV associations are increasingly acting not as protectors of artists’ rights, but as political enforcers.
These organizations often lack transparency, operate with opaque governance, and remain vulnerable to influence from ruling political forces. In the Dosanjh case, FWICE’s language mimicked that of national security discourse—accusing him of endangering the country’s sovereignty. This kind of escalation reflects how institutions meant to serve artists have been repurposed to control them.
Such groups once protected workers, lobbied for rights, and created safety nets. Today, they issue bans and public condemnations faster than courts can intervene. This shift erodes trust and undermines collective bargaining, replacing solidarity with surveillance.
Reforming these bodies requires democratization—from internal elections to external oversight. Unless institutions realign with their foundational mission, artists will continue to be exposed to politicized punishment disguised as professional regulation.
Fan Culture and Public Agency in Political Controversies
Another underexplored dimension is the role of fans and public audiences in shaping the discourse around Dosanjh. In today’s digital landscape, fandom is no longer passive. It is active, organized, and political. From defending Dosanjh on social media to launching global campaigns in his support, his fan base has refused to accept the narrative of betrayal imposed by the media and government-linked institutions.
What’s remarkable is that these fans have not merely defended Dosanjh as an individual—they have reasserted the right to cultural plurality. Memes, videos, threads, and livestreams have emerged where fans dissect the injustice, contextualize the politics, and promote his values of inclusion and authenticity.
In doing so, they challenge the gatekeeping apparatus. They also reveal that cultural legitimacy today is as much shaped by audience agency as by elite endorsements. This democratization of influence is both a counterweight to top-down censorship and a reminder that artists are not alone.
Education, Arts Policy, and the Future of Creative Dissent
If India hopes to remain a cultural superpower, it must protect the freedom to dissent, especially within its creative institutions. That begins with rethinking how we train and educate the next generation of artists.
Current arts education in India is underfunded, overly conservative, and often disconnected from global discourse. Aspiring performers and writers are rarely encouraged to experiment with controversial themes or address issues of politics, identity, and marginalization. The result is a generation of artists groomed for obedience, not innovation.
We need public funding for independent art, mentorship programs outside of political affiliations, and education that emphasizes cultural rights as much as technique. Only then will artists feel empowered to express, explore, and resist.
Beyond Dosanjh—The Larger Pattern of Cultural Suppression
Dosanjh is not the first to face the brunt of India’s cultural conformity machine, nor will he be the last. What connects his experience to earlier cases—be it filmmakers like Anand Patwardhan, comedians like Munawar Faruqui, or writers like Arundhati Roy—is the pattern: target the artist, delegitimize their work, provoke outrage, and isolate them.
These are not isolated incidents. They are part of a systemic strategy to suppress critical voices by attacking credibility, professional viability, and public perception. The goal is not just censorship—it is deterrence. Make one example, and a thousand will stay silent.
By tracing these links, we move the conversation from sympathy for an individual to structural diagnosis. We begin to understand that cultural freedom in India is under attack not from a single ideology, but from an entrenched regime of fear, complicity, and strategic erasure.
Towards a New Cultural Constitutionalism
The time has come to treat cultural expression not as a luxury, but as a constitutional imperative. India’s democracy cannot survive without the ability of its people to reflect, critique, and create without fear.
Cultural constitutionalism is a framework that recognizes the arts as essential to the functioning of a pluralistic republic. It implies proactive legal protections, state support without interference, independent funding mechanisms, and robust protections against political retaliation.
This is not utopian. Countries around the world have enacted such policies—ensuring that artists, journalists, and academics can operate with dignity and autonomy. India, with its rich heritage and global aspirations, cannot afford to fall behind.
Dosanjh’s case must serve as a wake-up call—not just for fans or performers, but for legislators, educators, and civil society leaders. If we want a nation that celebrates its diversity, we must protect those who dare to express it.
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