“I am not a Marathi speaker. I have travelled all the way from Juhu to Dadar to watch this film. I came to watch it only for Dilip Prabhavalkar, and I salute you, sir.”
A reel of an impromptu speech by a youngster in front of some of the actors in the movie at the Plaza cinema hall has gone viral. And, the film he had watched before his salute is doing all the rounds.
The distance between Juhu – an upmarket suburb right next to the Sea Face – and Dadar – a predominantly middle-class suburb – may be only 13km by road, but in terms of lifestyle, it is poles apart. When the classes have been drawn towards the masses, one can imagine that the work of art must have had an impact across society, beyond language barriers and the financial status of an individual.
No wonder then that Dashavatar, the Marathi film released on September 12, has emerged as a massive blockbuster. More importantly, it has managed to attract an audience, not only from the typically cynical Marathi-speaking audience that usually prefers to watch commercial Hindi cinema instead of the local-language cinema in theatres, but also from the non-Marathi-speaking community.
Director Subodh Khanolkar with actor Dilip Prabhavalkar.
| Photo Credit:
SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT
“A good story always attracts an audience beyond the language barrier. If the story is universal, the language doesn’t really matter,” Subodh Khanolkar, the writer, director, and co-producer of the film, tells The Hindu.
“We were very confident that a father-son bond has a universal appeal, so does a social issue, and more importantly, folk art. Once we could weave in all these facets into the story, I was sure it would break the language barrier.”
In the 21st century, Marathi cinema has undergone a remarkable transformation. Once considered a regional medium catering largely to Maharashtrian audiences, several films have successfully cut across linguistic and cultural boundaries. From Sairat (2016), which resonated with viewers across India and overseas, to Court (2014), which drew acclaim on the international festival circuit, Marathi films have increasingly demonstrated their ability to tell stories of universal appeal while retaining a strong cultural core. Still, despite the critical acclaim, barring Sairat, no other Marathi film has been able to breach the Rs. 100-crore collection barrier.
In this landscape, Dashavatar, though deeply rooted in the traditions of Konkan, stands out as a work that has connected with audiences beyond the boundaries of Maharashtra.
What sets Dashavatar apart is its blend of a very local folk art with themes that strike a chord universally. Comparisons have often been drawn between this Marathi film and Kantara (2022), the Kannada blockbuster. Both films draw heavily on folk traditions — Dashavatar from the coastal Konkan’s ritual theatre form that enacts the ten incarnations of Vishnu, and Kantara from the Bhoota Kola traditions of Tulu Nadu. Both works rely on the rhythm of local festivals, rituals, and the belief systems embedded in the soil of their respective regions.
Yet, to call Dashavatar a direct inspiration for Kantara would be an overstatement. Their similarities lie in their shared respect for tradition and their ability to weave ritualistic practices into cinematic storytelling. But the differences are just as striking. While Kantara employs spectacle, action, and a strong undercurrent of land politics, Dashavatar leans into nostalgia, cultural memory, and the generational transmission of faith and performance. The films may share a spiritual intensity, but their thematic approaches diverge.
“The southern coastal peninsula is designed in such a way that there are many cultural similarities across the region. They have local deities and folk art that have a lot of parallels,” says Khanolkar. “In Konkan, we have Dashavatar, in coastal Karnataka, it’s Yakshagana, and in Kerala, we have Mohiniyattam. So even after Kantara was released, we knew that we had to tell our story in our own way.”
For Khanolkar, the film’s journey is intimately personal. He recalls narrating the story to his wife, Anvita, in 2021. They were returning from Kelus, his maternal ancestral village in Sindhudurg district, after celebrating its centenary. “It was on the way back, after the village festivities, that I told Anvita about this story that had been forming in my mind,” Khanolkar says.
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Weeks earlier, he and his partners in Ocean Film Company — Sujay Hande and Omkar Kate — were also shooting a documentary on the same house. The discussions around that project slowly planted the seeds of Dashavatar.
Khanolkar remembers vividly the courtyard performances of Dashavatar in Kelus and the fervent Hanuman Jayanti celebrations when he would spend his summer holidays at his aajol (maternal grandparents’ home). Both these visual and emotional memories found their way into the film’s scenes.
“When you see a ritual with the same intensity in childhood and then again as an adult, it stays with you. That sense of awe, of being part of something larger, is what I wanted to bring on screen,” he reflects.
Mahesh Manjrekar in ‘Dashavatar’.
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Zee Movies Marathi/YouTube
Casting, in this sense, became central to the film’s authenticity. The decision to cast veteran actor Dilip Prabhavalkar in the lead role was not only a cinematic choice but also a generational bridge. For the audience beyond Maharashtra, Prabhavalkar – now an octogenarian – is known largely for his National Award-winning portrayal of Mahatma Gandhi in Lage Raho Munna Bhai (2006).
But for those who grew up in Maharashtra during the 1980s and 1990s, Prabhavalkar was a familiar face and voice. His work as a satirical cricket writer, as the author of a popular children’s series, his newspaper columns, and versatility as an actor on stage, television, and films had made him a household name.
But in Dashavatar, the significance of Prabhavalkar’s casting went beyond recognition. It was about continuity. The film has ensured that Prabhavalkar’s legacy will be easier to pass on to the generation that grew up following him on various platforms, to Gen Z or Gen Now.
Khanolkar clarifies that he never developed the story with Prabhavalkar in mind. But once the story was ready, everyone in the Ocean family was sure of one thing. “We had decided, very clearly, that if he said no, we would not do it in Marathi,” says Khanolkar. “The cultural rootedness required only him. Without him, it would not have been the same film.”
However, Khanolkar, who had predominantly been a television serial writer, did not know Prabhavalkar, a candid and approachable person. “He took some convincing,” Khanolkar admits. “Once he was on board, the screenplay was tweaked to suit his posture, physicality, and ease of performance. His familiarity with the Konkan region and fluency with the Malvani accent added layers of authenticity we could not have imagined with anyone else.”
A still from ‘Dashavatar’.
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SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT
The result is a work that combines the intimacy of memory with the sweep of tradition. Dashavatar is not just about reviving a ritual or presenting folklore on screen. It is about reimagining cultural memory for an audience that may no longer witness these performances first-hand. In doing so, it aligns with a broader trend in Indian cinema, where films grounded in regional traditions are finding resonance beyond their home states.
Marathi cinema, through films like Dashavatar, reminds us that cultural specificity does not limit appeal—it enhances it. The folk performance of Konkan may seem distant to someone in Delhi or Bengaluru, yet the emotions it evokes — of faith, community, belonging — are universal. Much like Kantara did for Kannada cinema, Dashavatar for Marathi cinema underscores the timeless power of rooted storytelling.
The fact remains that the social issue of land mining, resulting in Konkan’s ecological and environmental degeneration, could have been handled in a much more sensitive manner than oversimplifying it in the climax. But, Khanolkar says he didn’t mind it, rather “it was intentional in a quest to reach out to a far wider audience”.
Dashavatar stands as proof that a deeply local story can become a deeply human one. For Khanolkar and his collaborators, it was a way of giving it back to their roots. As they say, the more personal the story, the more universal it gets!