What Panchayat Gets Wrong About Rural Governance

In 'Panchayat', Phulera is portrayed as a homogenous space, implicitly upper caste and implicitly harmonious.

According to the Model Code of Conduct and the Central Civil Services Conduct Rules, public servants are expected to maintain strict political neutrality during elections. Yet in Panchayat, these characters are openly aligned with the sitting pradhan.

(Photo: Kamran Akhter/The Quint)

There is a story I often recall when thinking about how cinema should engage with society. Actor Dilip Kumar was once invited to lunch by Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru. During the conversation, a young Indira Gandhi asked him why his films frequently portrayed Indian villages as poor and troubled when films in the West highlighted wealth and modernity.

Dilip Kumar replied that cinema is the mirror of our society, and that when society improves, cinema will reflect that change.

As someone who studies and teaches public policy, who works closely with public institutions, and who carries lived memories of village life in Bihar, I find myself increasingly concerned with how popular media shapes our understanding of democracy and governance, particularly in the rural context.

It is with this lens that I watched the latest season of the web series Panchayat which focuses on the panchayat election in the fictional village of Phulera.

Rural Facade, Real Gaps

Like many others, I was drawn in by its simplicity, its humour, and its gentle pace. But the more I watched, the more uneasy I felt.

The show presents a rural India that is endearing but hollowed out, where deep structural issues are either invisibilised or subtly normalised.

One of the most troubling aspects is the erasure of caste and religion discourse from village life.

Anyone familiar with India’s villages understands that caste, class, and religion are not just social identities but a central axis of political life in India. It determines who contests elections, who controls land and resources, who speaks and who listens. Caste- and religion-based mobilisation is a fact of life in rural India, not a narrative device to be ignored. Yet in Phulera, the fictional village where Panchayat is set, caste and religion do not exist.

There are hardly any characters in leadership roles from marginalised caste or religion, truth be told, I don't remember one in the whole story. There is no mention of social exclusion or political assertion. The village is portrayed as a homogenous space, implicitly upper caste, implicitly from one religion, and implicitly harmonious.

This representation is not only inaccurate but deeply exclusionary. It renders invisible the lived experiences of millions of Indians whose political participation has been hard-won and who continue to navigate exclusion and violence. By erasing caste and religion discourse, the show presents a dangerously sanitised image of Indian democracy, where privilege is normalised and inequality disappears behind warm humour and nostalgia.

When Boundaries Blur

What troubled me just as deeply was the portrayal of government officials, particularly the village secretary and his assistant. According to the Model Code of Conduct and the Central Civil Services Conduct Rules, public servants are expected to maintain strict political neutrality during elections. This principle is not symbolic; it is fundamental to the functioning of a democratic bureaucracy. Yet in Panchayat, these characters are openly aligned with the sitting pradhan.

They participate in partisan strategy meetings, mock opposition candidates, and even coordinate with MPs as if it were routine village administration. In real life, such actions would invite disciplinary proceedings, especially during the electoral period.

But, in the series, these breaches are not only normalised, they are portrayed as acts of personal loyalty and community closeness.

What made it even more unsettling was how the show treats the opposition candidate’s husband, Bhushan, who repeatedly raises concerns about this bias. Rather than engaging seriously with his objections, the narrative reduces him to a source of ridicule. He is called names, laughed at, and repeatedly referred to as 'Banrakas', a term that literally means forest demon.

This kind of name-calling has historically been used to humiliate people from marginalised and tribal communities. To see it celebrated as comic relief, especially when it targets a character voicing legitimate concerns about governance, is deeply problematic.

Women's Political Representation

Another problematic aspect of the series that deserves mention is the portrayal of women’s personal and political representation.

The 73rd Constitutional Amendment was a landmark in Indian democratic reform. By reserving one-third of seats in local bodies for women, it created pathways for women to enter public life in spaces historically dominated by men. The amendment was not symbolic; it was a recognition of women's right to participate in decision-making, especially in rural governance.

Yet what emerged in practice was the phenomenon of the 'Pradhan Pati', where husbands of elected women representatives exercise actual power while the women themselves serve as mere figureheads. This issue has been acknowledged by government bodies, civil society organisations, and training institutes, all of which have attempted to curb the practice through capacity-building and legal safeguards.

In Panchayat, however, this troubling practice is not just shown; it is actively romanticised.

As two women contest the panchayat elections in fourth season, their husbands are seen handling office work, making decisions, and coordinating with officials, MLAs, and MPs.

The women remain largely confined to domestic roles, serving tea and preparing meals for political guests.

Even the character of the pradhan’s daughter, who could have been portrayed as an aspirational figure or a politically aware young woman, is reduced to a simplistic romantic arc.

She is shown struggling with her studies and pining for male attention, a depiction that aligns with an old patriarchal vision of rural femininity rather than the dynamic realities of young women in today’s villages.

While the issue of 'Pradhan Pati' was raised in one of the episodes in the earlier seasons, it appears nothing more than ceremonial if you look at the storyline in continuity.

Some readers may argue that the show simply reflects what is still wrong in our society. But I believe that representation must be accompanied by responsibility.

If a show highlights structural problems, it must also offer space for resistance, for agency, for critique. Panchayat does none of that.

Instead, it celebrates illegality, disguises and masks inequality, patriarchy, corruption, and beautifies dysfunction. Indeed, cinema reflects society, but when cinema still clings to regressive visions, the mirror turns into a mask. That mask not only hides the injustices of the present but also erases the hard-earned progress of those who struggle to make democracy meaningful.

(Sharique Hassan Manazir is Assistant Professor of Public Policy at the Kautilya School of Public Policy, Hyderabad. This is an opinion piece. All views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)