Santosh echoes some of Indian cinema’s recent police procedurals. It resembles Article 15, Anubhav Sinha’s 2019 bold but flawed political thriller, in its exploration of an upper-caste cop investigating the rape and murder of a young Dalit woman in rural north India. It parallels T. J. Gnanavel’s 2021 Jai Bhim, in its searing indictment of police brutality and custodial violence.It also mirrors the feminist gaze of Reema Kagti and Ruchika Oberoi’s brilliant 2022 series, Dahaad, in its rendering of a female cop navigating a deeply patriarchal environment—and, more saliently, in its use of a “love jihad” conspiracy as a smokescreen, an obfuscation too easy to believe in today’s India. But what makes Santosh exceptional is how it blends these different dimensions into one robust film that eschews simplistic sermonizing. The debut feature of British-Indian documentary filmmaker Sandhya Suri, Santosh is an unflinching critique of intersecting structures of casteism, patriarchy, and Islamophobia in India. It is a subversive anti-police procedural that puts India’s carceral system on trial while remaining a gripping investigative thriller.Set in a fictional town in northern India, it follows the titular Santosh Saini (Shahana Goswami), a young widow grieving the death of her husband, Raman, a constable who was killed in communal riots in a nearby Muslim-majority town called Nehman.The film poignantly portrays Santosh’s pain—and powerlessness—without melodrama, aided by Goswami’s superb, no-frills performance. We see her scrub the blood off her late husband’s police uniform, weep in her mother’s lap, and sleep amid all her husband and her shared belongings.But Santosh doesn’t have the luxury of mourning in peace. As a widow, she’s now a burden no one wants to bear, not least her casually misogynistic in-laws. On top of that, Raman’s colleague informs her that she must vacate her government flat and isn’t entitled to much pension. Enter a government scheme that allows her to inherit her husband’s job as a constable, an opportunity Santosh gladly accepts.Shortly after beginning her new job, the rape and murder of Devika Pippal, a young Dalit woman, puts the police station under scrutiny for neglecting the case. To save face, Inspector Thakur (Nawal Shukla) is transferred and replaced by Geeta Sharma (Sunita Rajwar), a veteran female cop who takes a liking to Santosh and makes her second in command in the case.The story follows not only the case itself but also Santosh’s journey in adapting to the contours of the carceral system. Her struggles as a woman are central to the film. In one scene when Santosh investigates the case in civilian clothes, a man in a diner relentlessly stares at her. She eats her food quickly and frantically, seemingly to avoid this discomfiting situation. But in a quick reversal, Santosh spits out all the food she was chewing back on her plate, to evoke disgust in that man and defy his male gaze.This way, the film shows how becoming a police officer emboldens her to resist everyday sexism. For Santosh, this job is a chance to escape the oppression she would otherwise be doomed to. It gives her financial freedom, security, and respect. But the film is also strikingly perceptive in observing how Santosh herself gradually internalizes the rules of this system. Over time, Santosh realizes the power the uniform confers upon her, along with the license—and ample incentive—to abuse it. In the beginning, Santosh is naive and well-intentioned. She’s the one who brings Devika’s father into the police station and calls on Inspector Thakur to register a complaint for his missing daughter. We see her discomfort as Thakur humiliates this bereaved father, asking him about his caste, mocking his poverty, and refusing to take him seriously. She even intervenes, offering to write the missing person’s report for him.Scenes like this lay bare the systemic discrimination against Dalits by the police, cementing Suri’s larger critique of state oppression against minorities. They also foreshadow the horror to follow.Santosh soon finds that Devika had been in repeated contact with Saleem, a Muslim man who soon becomes the prime suspect in the case. This is where things begin to take a dark turn. For Santosh, investigating Saleem also feels personal. He has absconded to Nehman, the same town where her husband was killed in communal riots. Catching and punishing Saleem feels almost cathartic, a way to avenge and seek closure for her husband’s loss.By now, we have already seen Santosh slap someone for the first time, reflecting her inevitable embrace of violence and cruelty. While questioning a group of Muslim boys playing cricket, we see her derive pleasure from threatening and scaring one of them, even condescendingly calling him the Pakistani fast bowler, Shoaib Akhtar.The film also depicts how easily the police and local politicians jump to conclusions about Saleem, who is pronounced guilty from the beginning. He is beaten and tortured mercilessly as the cops hurl hateful anti-Muslim slurs while brutalizing him. Suri prolongs this into a deliberately lengthy and grueling scene to criticize pervasive custodial violence and the dangers of unchecked Islamophobia and confirmation bias. Eventually, the case is closed, but justice remains elusive. When Santosh finally finds out who is responsible for the rape and murder, the adrenaline that normally accompanies the realization of whodunnit gets clouded by the painfully anti-climatic nature of this revelation. It’s a chilling moment, where Santosh is powerless and can do nothing but grapple with the unfairness of the system and her own role in upholding it.In a particularly moving scene at the end, Santosh confronts her charismatic mentor, Geeta, for deliberately misleading her in the case and asks how she copes with perpetuating such injustice. Geeta’s response reflects her stone-cold cynicism and ruthless pragmatism, reminiscent of Colonel Jessep’s (Jack Nicholson) famous testimony rationalizing his actions in A Few Good Men (1992). But thanks to Suri’s layered writing and Rajwar’s excellent performance, Geeta comes off as less a villain and more a disillusioned product of dehumanizing structures that readily reduce certain lives to collateral damage.Santosh is ultimately a complex character study that doesn’t conform to a facile feminist empowerment narrative. It examines the irresistible temptation of power, using sweets, desserts, and gifts as an extended metaphor for the ample rewards offered in exchange for obedience.The film adeptly balances empathy towards Santosh while holding her accountable for her complicity: How long can she continue on this path until she one day becomes like Geeta? What is the alternative for someone like her, stuck between patriarchy and carcerality?Suri offers no easy answers, just a grim, densely detailed portrait of a broken system. The censor board’s ban on releasing it in India only reinforces Santosh’s message—and makes it even more urgent. How long can we continue to look away?Review: In Salman Khan's 'Sikandar', Confused Storytelling Overwhelms Star Power(At The Quint, we question everything. Play an active role in shaping our journalism by becoming a member today.)