#dil se

Taabeez Banaa Ke Pahnoo Use, Aayat Ki Tarah Mil Jaaye Kahin, Gulposh Kabhi Itraye Kahin, Mehke To Nazar Aa Jaye Kahin, Mera Nagma Wahi Mera Kalma Wahi, Yaar Misaale Os Chale Panv Ke Tale Firdaus Chale, Kabhi Daal Daal Kabhi Paat Paat Main Hawa Pe Dhoondho Uske Nishaan, Chal Chaiyya Chaiyya Chaiyya Chaiyya

Dil Se (1998)

Arjun Rampal & Deepika Padukone

Music : A R Rahman - Lyrics : Gulzar

At 13 years old, this was the SRK film that made me cry the most. The romance felt raw, dark and flawed. It wasn’t sugar-coated. Manisha Koirala, without heavy make-up and in her quiet, haunted presence, felt almost ethereal to me. I was moved by the politics of the film, by the songs, by what I thought was a brave message about war and terrorism.

Twenty years later, I have changed and grown a lot. I am a 34-year-old woman, an activist, and a much more critical viewer. So when my husband suggested we rewatch it, I was both curious and slightly apprehensive. There’s always that fear of ruining a beloved 90s memory. But I also believe that what makes you uncomfortable is often what makes you grow.

So here is my rewatch recap of Dil Se.

1. The Romance

Let’s start with the obvious. Aman is deeply problematic.

He stalks Meghna. He refuses to take no for an answer. He forces proximity. Today we would clearly call him a red flag. And rewatching those scenes as an adult was uncomfortable in ways they weren’t when I was 13.

But at the same time, in the context of 90s mainstream Hindi cinema, this wasn’t the typical bubbly romance either. It was darker, more obsessive, almost feverish. It mixed sexual desire, forbidden attraction, anger, and emotional chaos. It felt dangerous.

Still, what becomes clear on rewatch is that Dil Se is not really about romance. The romance is a vehicle. The real heart of the film is political.

2. The Assamese Politics

Showing Assam in mainstream Hindi cinema in the 90s was rare, and maybe revolutionary. It brought a marginalised region and its insurgency into national cinematic space. And honestly, even today, with Hindutva politics at its peak, such a portrayal would still be considered bold.

But the film is also politically flawed.

The revolutionaries are constantly accompanied by anxious, almost tribalised background music that signals fear. Their presence is coded as threatening. We see Meghna’s trauma through flashbacks, but we do not get real contextualisation of the political violence in the region. The Indian state remains vague, almost abstract. Structural oppression is aestheticised rather than interrogated.

And then there are the strange visual parallels drawn between Assamese insurgents and Muslims. When Meghna’s group comes to Delhi, they stay in Purani Dilli, a deeply politicised space. When Aman is dragged through the old city, we see the mosque in the background. When their hideout explodes, Urdu writing is visible on the walls.

As a child, I was confused if Meghna was Muslim or not.

Looking back, I see how the film subtly blends insurgency with Muslim-coded imagery. In a country where Muslims are routinely framed as the internal enemy, that visual association is not neutral.

3. The Framing of “Terrorism”

The film uses the word “terrorism” without fully unpacking it.

Meghna is traumatised. She has witnessed state violence, she has seen her community crushed, and yet, her anger is never fully politicised. It is emotionalised, romanticised and even aestheticised.

We are shown her pain, but not the structures behind it. The violence she endured becomes a backdrop for tragic love rather than a sustained critique of nationalism.

The film dares to show insurgency. But it does not dare to fundamentally question the nation-state.

And as a 33-year-old activist, that tension is impossible to ignore.

4. The Male Gaze and Meghna’s Silence

As a teenager, I saw Meghna as mysterious and powerful. Now I see how much of her character is filtered through Aman’s obsession.

We rarely access her interiority outside of his desire. She is silent, traumatised and distant. Beautiful in her pain, but also flattened by it.

Her political conviction is constantly intertwined with romantic tragedy. As if a woman cannot be radical without being broken. As if resistance must ultimately dissolve into love or death.

That final explosion is filmed as both martyrdom and romantic climax. It is haunting. It is poetic. It is cinematic.

5. The Music is still peak

If there is one thing that survived my activist rewatch intact, it is the soundtrack.

“Chaiyya Chaiyya” remains iconic. The train, the choreography, the audacity. “Dil Se Re” still captures that passion and "Satrangi re" represents the obsessive, consuming kind of love that feels like it could swallow you whole.

The music carries emotional layers that the script sometimes cannot hold politically.

Maybe that is why the film still works.

◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟⠀ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟ ͜ ◞ ྀི◟

So Do I Still Love It?

Yes. But differently.

At 13, I loved it for its intensity.

At 33, I love it for the discomfort.

It is flawed. Politically incomplete. Romantically problematic. But it attempted something bold within mainstream Hindi cinema of the 90s. It tried to bring insurgency, trauma, nationalism and desire into the same frame.

Rewatching Dil Se did not ruin my teenage memory. It complicated it.