Skating Past Caste Tensions: How a Documentary Captured the ‘Wings’ of Change in an Indian village
Photo credit: Divy Bhagia and Aayush Dudhiya
“It’s all about building counter-culture—and skateboarding is counter-culture.” Wheeled Wings directors Divy Bhagia and Aayush Dudhiya discuss the making of their short documentary, where skateboarding became the vehicle to break barriers of caste, gender, and education.
A remote Indian village. Arid topography. A young girl in saree. She’s wearing sports shoes. And she’s skateboarding.
This was a mood board sent to Divy Bhagia by his friend and filmmaker Aayush Dudhiya. “It was visually very interesting and it had a contrast to it,” says Bhagia, a 25-year-old filmmaker and a student of Development Communication at Gujarat University. “Skateboard bhi hai, sports shoes bhi hai, par upar se saree pehna hai (There is a skateboard and sports shoe, but she’s also wearing a saree).”
The story was no fiction; soon, Bhagia and Dudhiya would be on their way to document the everyday life in Janwaar, a remote village in north Madhya Pradesh.
The narrative backstory here may remind some of the recent Netflix original Skater Girl (2021) from this narrative backstory. Bhagia and Dudhiya’s 2020 short documentary Wheeled Wings, however, was different. The story was inspired by a German woman Ulrike Reinhard, an economist by profession, who attempted to bring a change in the socio-economic inequalities of a village in remote Madhya Pradesh. Her target: children. Her intervention: skateboarding.
“Untouchability was practiced till recent years in the village. The children weren’t allowed to mingle, leave alone playing with each other,” says Dudhiya… Caste lines run deep through the hearts of the people. It had become the status quo, the way of life.
Wheeled Wings is short (less than 13 minutes) yet impactful, and above all, raises several important questions, which the directors addressed in lengthy interviews with The Chakkar.
If you start your search for Janwaar, you’ll probably come across a couple of newspaper articles and a few videos of kids skateboarding in a village. “It was my final project for my Master’s in Documentary Production. I searched for some unique stories from India and came across Janwaar. It fascinated me,” says Dudhiya, a 24-year-old completing his masters in Virtual and Extended Realities from the University of the West of England Bristol.
This story immediately connected with Dudhiya. “But I was unsure of doing this project alone. I wanted someone with me to give me a second perspective. That’s when I contacted Divy and told him about the entire idea.” Dudhiya was still in Bristol when the discussions were going on. They had to finalise on the idea before coming to India to start shooting.
“I was initially sceptical of the idea. UK mein baite baite bol ra hai ki film banaenge (He’s in the UK and was saying that we’ll go on to make a film),” laughs Bhagia. But Bhagia was equally fascinated with the story line. It was visually very appealing and addressed important issues like caste, gender stereotypes, importance of education and most importantly, the need for sensitive interventions. He agreed, and the duo began finalising on the script.
Research was particularly a difficult task for the team. There was a dearth of content on Janwaar. The biggest resources were a couple of TED Talks by Reinhard herself. “We went over the TED Talks multiple times to make our own notes. We picked up keywords and started building our narratives around it,” says Bhagia. They also went through all possible videos of Janwaar online. “Even if a small channel on YouTube uploaded a mobile video, we would go through it to understand the setting of Janwaar. It gave us important cues on the terrain, where the houses were, what the village looked like, etc,” adds Bhagia. Once the story boarding was also completed, the documentary attained a visual narrative. And so, both of them, mid May 2018, decided to embark on a film making journey, that was to teach them some of the most important film making as well as life lessons.
“We reached Janwaar at night. We couldn’t see anything. There were no streetlights. But then we saw the skateboards and the nets and we were sure that we were in the right place,” says Dudhiya.
Sitting in the remote arid belt of central India, Janwaar hasn’t received modern India’s developmental privileges. Yet there was a social imbalance here, too. On one side of the village is the Yadav caste, privileged with the customary right to rear livestock and own properties. Naturally, this allowed the Yadavs access to better facilities like electricity, permanent houses with toilets and tractors. On the other side are the Adivasis, who are predominantly dependent on the forest for livelihood. Their position in the lower rungs of the socially constructed caste hierarchy means that they are not allowed to own any livestock. Through their meagre earnings, they live in housing structures without proper roofs and floors. Due to the lack electricity supply to this side of the village, the houses aren’t equipped with basic necessities like fans or lights.
The filmmakers with the children of Janwaar. Photo credit: Divy Bhagia and Aayush Dudhiya
“We experienced it first-hand,” says Dudhiya. “I lived in Karan’s house (a Yadav). while Divy lived in Arun’s house (an Adivasi). It was Ulrike’s idea, so that we could a build bond with both the communities.”
“There was no electricity in Arun’s house,” adds Bhagia. “So, in the summer afternoons, it would be so difficult to sit on the grounds. But this also gave us an idea on how lifestyles were different in different castes.”
While the physical division was evident, a more prominent division was omnipresent, something that was deeply ingrained in their minds. “Untouchability was practiced till recent years in the village. The children weren’t allowed to mingle, leave alone playing with each other,” says Dudhiya. This is also amplified by the respondents in the documentary. Caste lines run deep through the hearts of the people. It had become the status quo, the way of life.
“They would get jealous if we would sit on the mat peacefully in our homes,” an Adivasi in the village said. “They would abuse us. They would tell us that we are from the lower castes.” The upper castes didn’t want the status quo to be shattered. They wanted to control the Adivasis and extract labour from them. And that’s when Reinhard entered with her intervention—a disturbance to the status quo.
“There are no set rules to skateboarding. Other sports have their own rules like batting from one side or goalpost of this size. In skateboarding all you have to do is to learn to skateboard. Now you have that freedom and you can try whatever you want.”
“In her own economic terms, skateboarding was the external parameter that disturbed the equilibrium (the status quo established by caste system) in a simple demand and supply graph (the village and the community),” says Bhagia. “Now that the new parameter is added, the villagers will react and find a new equilibrium point, which could be better or worse.”
But as the documentary makes it self-explanatory, the village is heading towards a better ‘equilibrium’. “The kids today play together, eat together, study together and help each other without any barriers,” says Dudhiya, “This was something unimaginable three years back. As you see in the portion in Karan’s house (Karan’s parents talk to Reinhard about his education), the children from both castes are sitting together in the veranda of an upper caste house.”
This is where the documentary scores. We as viewers are given an experience of that very change. We see how the elder generation has suffered the caste oppression. We also hear how young children have ingrained the caste system by living through it. However, one also sees the same children playing with each, sitting together, talking and laughing.
But how, specifically, was skateboarding influential in bringing about this change? Why couldn’t it be any other sports or activities?
Reinhard’s answer was: “It’s all about building counter-culture—and skateboarding is counter-culture.”
To explain more, Bhagia jumps in, “There are no set rules to skateboarding. Other sports have their own rules like batting from one side or goalpost of this size. In skateboarding all you have to do is to learn to skateboard. Now you have that freedom and you can try whatever you want.”
The skateboard opened new possibilities. The curious children, breaking all barriers, started exploring new things.
“And now they couldn’t be confined,” adds Dudhiya. “The children went home and told their parents about mingling with other castes and genders. They started questioning things. That’s how the change began.” Children today go to an internet cafe in the nearby village, explore skating videos on YouTube, observe the movements and master them in their skate park. They have learnt to challenge themselves to achieve new heights every day.
In 2015, however, Reinhard arrived to Janwaar with a different idea altogether. She wanted to start a school here and make education accessible to all. Once she reached Janwaar, she realised that there was already a school and it was the teachers who were irregular. The caste system made it worse for the Adivasi children to access the schools. That’s when she decided to adapt an intervention that was practised in a village in Afghanistan—by the non-profit Skateistan—to Janwaar. With the help of her colleagues, she built the biggest skatepark in India and invited a few skateboarders from abroad to display the sport. The children started observing and imitating them and in no time were skateboarding through the village.
Capturing children’s interest and building a bond with them was important. Interestingly, the only other interaction with foreign nationals that the villagers remembered is about the British Raj in India. The villagers considered Reinhard to be yet another foreigner who was here to capture and control the village. Soon, they were proven wrong: she was there to open new doors and help them with the ‘wheeled wings’ of freedom. Once they accepted Reinhard, they had to follow a couple new rules: ‘No school, no skateboarding,’ and ‘Girls first.’
“Through Ulrike’s summer intervention, students are selected to be sent to schools in Indian cities or abroad for their higher education and she arranges for all their finances,” says Bhagia.
The villagers considered Reinhard to be yet another foreigner who was here to capture and control the village. Soon, they were proven wrong... Once they accepted Reinhard, they had to follow a couple new rules: ‘No school, no skateboarding,’ and ‘Girls first.’
One such conversation about Karan’s future schooling is seen in the third act of the documentary. It is here that the grey areas of ground reality sets in. While we see that the intervention has been largely successful in bridging the gap between the children of different castes and gender, the larger goal of schooling the children is still difficult. “Karan is the main breadwinner of the family,” says the child’s father. “We can’t send him to another city in this condition.” Karan’s father met with an accident which makes it difficult for him to look after the cattle.
“Similar fears are expressed by parents with girl children,” says Dudhiya. “They are scared about their child’s safety in cities. Also, the culture of marrying off the girls at a young age, hinders the hopes of educating the girl child beyond a certain age.” It is here that the documentary tells us that education is not easily accessible even if you have the opportunity. What many forget is the socio-economic condition of the households and the cost of losing one helping hand at home when one child goes to study. This is not just the reality of Karan or Janwaar, but of large number of lower-caste children who struggle to help their parents put food on their plates.
But Reinhard doesn’t give up that easily. She persuades the parents just like she explains to Karan’s father the advantages of having education and the improvements that could be made in the socio-economic conditions. “She is a very stern no-nonsense woman,” says Dudhiya. “She challenges and debates with the male members about the issues in the village.”
“Ulrike says that she isn’t the one who decides for the villagers,” Bhagia explains. “The village has to be self-sufficient and make the best decision for itself. So, ultimately the villagers will decide if they want to send their children to school or not. But when they see someone else’s child going and achieving something, they will also be interested. That’s how behavioural change will start.”
And the change is already visible. Children are today going to various schools like Prakriti’s experimental school in Delhi and even to Oxford University. The parents are slowly starting to agree. “We can’t expect change overnight,” Bhagia says. “Social structures like caste system are deep rooted and it might even take next 15-20 to change. Today the children have entered the veranda. When they become the authority in their houses, they will cross that as well. If the change is instant, it is not sustainable. And so, I’m all for it.”
While the on-ground conflicts of these community could be easily expressed in conversation, getting them on-camera would be a bigger challenge. Issues such as caste and oppression are extremely sensitive, and the conversations about it can be traumatising.
The complexity increases when the respondents are children. “We had kept a day for just mingling with the villagers and the children,” says Dudhiya “We didn’t shoot anything that day. This was important so that the villagers could get used to us before we shoot anything with them.”
“During our break time, we would sit with them and chat about our lives. The afternoons used to be too hot to do any work, so it was a time we would relax with the family and the children,” adds Bhagia. Such ice-breaker sessions helped the villagers to open up in front of camera as well. A comfort zone and a level of trust was already built around both Dudhiya and Bhagia with the families. They could now ask some difficult questions and the villagers felt more comfortable in answering them.
“We would gauge the situation,” says Dudhiya. “We would see how they were reacting to the questions and then move on. If we felt that any questions made them uncomfortable, we would immediately move to another discussion to give them some space.”
Though the villagers were used to visitors and camera crews approaching them, Reinhard did warn Dudhiya and Bhagia to avoid certain questions to certain people. “Some questions would raise certain traumatic memories and were very sensitive to certain families,” says Dudhiya. “We were careful to not create such a situation during the shoot. We didn’t want the situation at home to shatter after we left.” The trust factor at stake would also decide the villagers’ reception towards other outsiders, especially those that came with cameras.
As documentary filmmakers, to keep the reality intact without being biased is not an easy task. Highly-opiniated themselves, Dudhiya and Bhagia’s final work on Wheeled Wings kept it clear off their personal opinions. One such scene where the emotions could easily tilt to a side was the third act in Karan’s home, as mentioned above. Without well-balanced edits, a viewer could either root for Reinhard’s stance on education, or share Karan’s father’s concerns about the family’s livelihood. When the scene concludes, the viewer understands the complexity rather than develop a simple answer.
While Wheeled Wings wasn’t particularly created for mass distribution, the team promises that their upcoming projects will be so. “We want to monetise our films,” says Dudhiya… “We want a good distributor to come in and take it to a larger audience.”
“A documentary should never give an answer, it should raise more questions,” says Bhagia. “It should show, rather than tell. The audience should empathise with all the sides. I think if we empathise and show the reality, we can avoid biases.”
While the documentary does try to look at different point-of-views, there were still some perspectives that I wished to hear—in particular, of a female skater. To understand skateboarding and its difficulties from a young woman’s perspective would have added a deeper layer of interesting complexity to the narrative. I would have also liked to hear an upper caste household’s view on this intervention. While I believe Karan’s was a special case given his father’s accident, the perspective of someone from a Yadav family would have been important, too.
And what about the village elders: Did they cultivate any interest in skateboarding? Did they wish to ride the boards, too?
Keeping the documentary tight, however was important, as the filmmakers edited the numerous strands down to its 12-13 minute length. “The sequence at Karan’s house was at least 20 minutes long,” says Dudhiya, “But I edited it in such a way that it looks continuous with two camera angles and still retains the essence of the scenario.”
Similarly, the filmmakers had nearly three-hour long interview with Reinhard, all of which didn’t make it to the film. “It was a challenge to maintain the narrative,” says Bhagia. “In fact, before Ulrike joined our shoot on the third day, we shot couple of interviews with a different perspective that we had built through our research. But after her interview, we understood that we had to slightly remodel our narrative because we were missing some key elements. That’s when our narrative got a new shape and a lot more meaning.”
A major role was also played by their mentor, the late Tim Tarrant from the University of West of England. “He was brutal,” says Dudhiya. “He would come and say what would work and what doesn’t. And I needed that. You have to be brutal because you can’t be emotionally attached to a footage. I learnt a lot in editing and building narrative from Tim.” In fact, it was Tarrant who asked them to add Karan’s sequence to narrative, which ended up being one of the strongest moments in the film.
Any analysis of the documentary can’t conclude without crediting the music. The background score was composed by Jerold Chu of University of Bristol. “After talking with Jerold and sharing the ideas, I thought he connected with my story,” says Dudhiya. “In fact, I approved the first draft he gave by the third week of editing. We played around with the music a little bit and it was there.”
Photo credit: Divy Bhagia and Aayush Dudhiya
The end credit song, however, was a composition by Indrajeet; he had composed the music for the village when he visited it. “We thought that ending the documentary on a high note with the song would be the best,” adds Dudhiya, leaving viewers humming the tune by the end.
Dudhya has the ambition for the story to reach out to more people. “Film festivals, the laurels and the awards come next,” he says.
Almost every filmmaker would want their content to reach a wider audience, to enjoy financial benefits of their success. It’s a task easier said than done, especially for a documentary such as Wheeled Wings made by independent filmmakers. While Wheeled Wings wasn’t particularly created for mass distribution, the team promises that their upcoming projects will be so.
“We want to monetise our films,” says Dudhiya. “It’s our effort, time and energy that goes into producing the content. We want a good distributor to come in and take it to a larger audience.”
When there is a producer to back it up and a distributor to take it to the audience, it also encourages enthusiastic filmmakers to foray into the unexplored genres and themes to create new content. Film festivals may provide some space for promotion, it all depends on the content to self-generate its hype. The content would have to go ‘viral’ on YouTube or other social media to start generating some basic revenue or even some reach.
“We won’t stop telling stories,” Dudhiya says. “We will keep exploring new possibilities while also looking to reach more audience. Till we find a good producer or distributor who has our same vision, we have the privilege to keep it to ourselves. But we are on the way to produce some interesting stories.”
In an interview about the Malayalam film The Great Indian Kitchen (released earlier this year), director Jeo Baby had said, “Nobody wanted to screen my film because of the controversial topic. It was finally NeeStream, a relatively small streaming platform who bought the rights of the movie.” The movie went on to become a huge success and was one of the most discussed movies of 2020; today, it is playing in nine OTT platforms and has sold the satellite rights as well.
We, the viewers, are the solution. We need to choose our content and show our support. For the producers, it’s a business, a numbers game. But when viewers begin supporting versatile and original content, a larger array of documentaries like Wheeled Wings will have a chance in the sun, and filmmakers like Bhagia and Dudhiya will be encouraged to stay creative.
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Deekshith R Pai is a freelance documentary photographer and writer, with a primary interest in the development sector especially communities, gender, livelihoods, and ecology. He is also a film enthusiast and loves analysing films through various social lenses. You can find him on Instagram: @dr.pai98 and Twitter: DRPai98.
