There are films that entertain, and then there are films that shake you. Deepak Rauniyar’s Rajagunj (Pooja, Sir) belongs to the latter category—a slow-burning, politically charged drama that dares to dissect Nepal’s entrenched caste and gender hierarchies. Set against the volatile backdrop of the 2015 Madhesh Uprising, the film blends personal narratives with historical reckoning, capturing a moment of national crisis through the eyes of those caught in its crossfire.
After a celebrated festival run—including premieres at the Venice Film Festival, the Busan International Film Festival, and the Mumbai Film Festival—the film finally arrives in Nepali theaters from Friday, ready to confront audiences with its unvarnished truths.
I had the opportunity to watch the uncensored version of the film during its premiere screening on Wednesday, two days ago. This review is based on that experience.
A story of politics, power and discrimination
At the film’s center is Inspector Pooja Thapa (Asha Magrati), a queer policewoman determined to prove herself in an institution rife with misogyny and discrimination. Pooja, who prefers to be addressed as “Pooja Sir,” is sent from Kathmandu to Janakpur, a border town engulfed in protests, to investigate the kidnapping of two light-skinned boys. The case, seemingly apolitical on the surface, quickly intertwines with the larger movement against state-sponsored violence and systemic discrimination against Madhesis, the dark-skinned population of Nepal’s southern plains.
Pooja has spent years watching her colleagues get promoted while she remains sidelined. Her own batchmate, Madan (Dayahang Rai), has already climbed the ranks, while she continues to be overlooked. As a woman in the police force, she must work twice as hard for half the recognition. The film brilliantly captures this frustration—not just in Pooja’s journey but in nearly every character. Everyone wants to be someone else, believing that fitting into the system is the only way to survive.
Partnering with her is Mamata Gupta (Nikita Chandak), a police inspector who carries her own battle scars from the system. Chandak, best known for being crowned Miss Nepal 2017, brings a quiet yet powerful intensity to her role. In one of the film’s most charged exchanges, Mamata bitterly tells Pooja how easy it is for someone like her—light-skinned, Nepali-speaking, and from the hills—to rise through the ranks, while Madhesis like Mamata must struggle for even the smallest recognition.
Madan, played by Dayahang Rai, is now a Superintendent of Police, adding another layer to the film’s exploration of privilege and power. As a Janajati officer, he navigates his own set of societal biases while attempting to keep the escalating protests from turning into outright war. His own promotion—while Pooja remains stuck in her rank—further reinforces the film’s central theme: No matter how competent, some people must work harder to be acknowledged, while others rise more easily through the system.
Then there’s Amar (Bijay Baral), a police constable, who was born in Madhesh but does not speak the local language. His character is a reflection of the deep-rooted disconnect that even Madhesi-born officials experience when working within the system. He is an outsider in his own homeland, embodying the struggle of assimilation versus authenticity.
Censorship and unspoken truths
No discussion of Rajagunj (Pooja, Sir) is complete without addressing the controversy surrounding its censorship. A pivotal scene—a news broadcast of former Prime Minister KP Sharma Oli’s now-infamous 2015 remark during the protests—was ordered to be removed. At the time, when police violence had left over 54 people dead, Oli dismissed the loss of life by saying, “Dui-char wata aap jharda kehi hudaina” (“A few falling mangoes don’t make a difference”). The words, etched into the memory of Madhesi protesters, encapsulated the state’s apathy.
The removal of this moment does not erase its impact. If anything, it underscores the very silencing that the film seeks to challenge. By centering the narrative around a crime story—rather than a straightforward retelling of the protests—Rauniyar smartly sidesteps direct state intervention while making his critique unmistakable.
Speaking during the premiere, an emotional Rauniyar shed tears over the censorship, lamenting that the heart of the movie had been forcefully excised. “That line was not just a dialogue—it was history,” he said. “Erasing it does not erase what happened.” His frustration was evident: The very system he sought to critique had once again exerted its control, ensuring that even in fiction, the wounds of Madhesh remain unspoken.
Why watch?
One of the most compelling reasons to watch Rajagunj (Pooja, Sir) is Asha Magrati’s unrelenting dedication to the role of Pooja, despite immense personal struggles. In 2022, during the preparation for the film, Magrati was diagnosed with three types of cancer. What followed was a grueling year of treatment, and yet, despite the severe toll it took on her physically and emotionally, she continued to give everything to the character.
Filming under the scorching heat of Janakpur, battling side effects from her cancer treatment, and facing physical exhaustion from hormone therapy, Magrati embodied a character who, in her own words, “had to be strong, no matter what.” That resilience resonates in every frame. Her commitment to the role and the film, despite overwhelming odds, is nothing short of inspiring.
This is the cinema at its most potent—flawed, fearless, and impossible to ignore. It is a film that deserves to be seen not just for its artistic merit but for the strength and determination of its creators.
It’s that perseverance—both in front of and behind the camera—that makes Rajagunj (Pooja, Sir) a must-watch. The challenges faced by Rauniyar and Magrati, particularly in raising funds and securing support while dealing with personal and professional setbacks, lend the film a rawness that adds weight to its portrayal of resistance.
While Rajagunj (Pooja, Sir) is a remarkable achievement, it is not without its minor flaws. Some characters, particularly the antagonists, feel underdeveloped. The film’s villain, a powerful parliamentarian’s wife from the Pahadi community, accused of a brutal act of gendered violence, remains more of a symbol than a fully realized character, making her role in the story feel slightly one-dimensional.
Yet, these flaws do little to diminish the film’s urgency. The cinematography, with its dust-laden frames and intimate close-ups, draws viewers deep into the Madhesi heartland. The use of multiple languages—Nepali, Maithili, Hindi, and other regional dialects—adds authenticity to the film’s exploration of Nepal’s fractured identity.
A must-watch for Nepal and beyond
Rajagunj (Pooja, Sir) is not just a film—it is a mirror held up to Nepali society. It forces its audience to confront uncomfortable truths about race, caste, and belonging, themes that resonate far beyond Nepal’s borders. As it finally makes its way to cinema halls in Nepal, one can only hope that it sparks the conversations it was meant to ignite.
This is cinema at its most potent—flawed, fearless, and impossible to ignore. It is a film that deserves to be seen not just for its artistic merit but for the strength and determination of its creators, particularly Asha Magrati, who faced overwhelming odds to bring this project to life. The hardships she and Rauniyar endured in making this film are woven into every scene, and that effort makes it all the more impactful.
Rajagunj (Pooja, Sir) deserves to be watched—not just for its story, but for the courage behind its making.
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