Picture this scene from 2022: I'm on a road trip with friends, all self-proclaimed cinephiles, with every Shah Rukh Khan dialogue and Rahman tune on their lips. So, I toss them - what I think is a softball question: "Name one Indian screenwriter other than Salim-Javed." What follows is a confused jumble of lyricist and director names. A dozen film buffs and no one could name a single dedicated screenwriter. If that doesn't tell you about how the Indian film industry treats its writers, buckle up – for it gets worse, much worse.
Consider this: in the 112 years since Indian cinema first flickered to life with Dadasaheb Phalke's "Raja Harishchandra," not one screenwriter has received a single paisa in royalties. Don’t rub your eyes, you read that right. Not one writer. Not even India’s only famous screenwriting duo of Salim-Javed, whose "Sholay" continues to rake in more money yearly today than when it was first released 50 years ago.
It is true that screenwriters globally get the short end of the stick, but India's is a particularly stark case in point. In 2023, Hollywood screenwriters successfully went on strike for better compensation and protections against AI, while Indian writers are still fighting for basic rights like royalty that their Western counterparts secured in the 1950s.
To understand the absurdity in this, let's hop over to the West for a moment. Back in 1933, when Tinseltown was still finding its feet around an estate called Hollywoodland, writers formed their union - the Screen Writers Guild. Their first battle – getting credit for their work. Once that battle was won, they set their sights on something bigger: residuals (cinema-speak for royalties). By 1953, they had succeeded and, over the decades, added TV, VCR, VCD, DVD, Blu-Ray, and now OTT platforms to their residual streams.
India, meanwhile, is a tragedy in three acts. Screenwriter and teacher extraordinaire, and champion of writers' rights, Anjum Rajabali, shared a telling encounter from the late 1990s. When he casually mentioned "royalty" to a major producer, the response was breathtakingly feudal: "You write for us. For that, we give you money. The deal is done. Why do you need royalty on top of that?" What essayed next from his mouth was even more shocking. The producer proudly declared, "When I pay you, I purchase your mind."
The resistance to writers' rights has been nothing short of theatrical (hysterical, if it didn’t hit close home). When amendments for writers’ protection were proposed, a leading Bollywood producer dramatically declared that the film industry would shut down. Facepalm, yes! Yet, the Oscar for overreaction goes to a South Indian film industry representative who, as Anjum narrates, standing before government ministers, announced that if the royalty clause was enforced, producers would "commit suicide en masse." Yes, it’s true that Indian cinema sells ‘melodrama’, but haven’t the producers heard: never get high on your own supply?
This "Enduring Feudal Attitude," as Anjum calls it, has been the biggest obstacle to progress. However, a breakthrough was reached in 2012, thanks to Javed Akhtar's efforts as a Rajya Sabha MP. The Copyright Act 1957 was amended to make writers' royalty rights non-assignable – meaning they couldn't be signed away to anyone except legal heirs or copyright societies. Before this, every producer's agreement included a clause waiving off residual rights, a practice that continued illegally even after the amendment. I know; I've signed such agreements myself.
Progress continued at a snail's pace. While the Indian Performing Right Society (IPRS) began collecting royalties for lyricists and musicians, screenwriters had to wait. The Screenwriters Rights Association of India (SRAI) was registered in 2014 but didn't receive government recognition until 2024. Here's a delicious irony: In Mumbai, SRA stands for Slum Rehabilitation Authority. That the writers' association shares a similar acronym seems like the universe's commentary on where producers think writers belong.
But SRAI's formation is more than just progress – it's revolutionary. The scope of their mission is staggering when you consider India produces the largest number of feature films and TV shows globally. We're talking about an industry that produces over 1,800 films annually across various languages, generates thousands of hours of television content, and has seen an explosion of OTT platforms, each producing dozens of original series.
The numbers are mind-boggling. A successful Hindi film can be dubbed into multiple languages, aired countless times on television, streamed millions of times, and even remade in other languages. Take "Sholay" – it's been colourised, referenced, parodied, and remade multiple times. Its dialogues appear in advertisements, its scenes are recreated in other films, and its story has influenced countless later works. Every time that happens, the producers mint money. Yet, the writers who created this cultural phenomenon never saw a rupee from these numerous reuses.
SRAI is starting methodically. They're beginning negotiations with hotels, restaurants, and event organisers – venues that regularly screen films or use film content for commercial purposes. Their next targets include airlines (think about all those in-flight entertainment systems), tourist buses, satellite networks (with their 24/7 movie channels), and OTT platforms. They're even working on international agreements to collect royalties worldwide.
Consider this: When you're watching a movie on your long-haul flight, the airline has paid someone for that right. When a restaurant plays a film song, there's a licensing fee involved. When a film gets dubbed into another language, someone's making money. The question is: shouldn't some of that money go to the people who created the content in the first place?
Some still echo that producer's argument: "Why should writers get special treatment when cinematographers and set designers don't get royalties?" This fundamentally misunderstands the difference between technical and intellectual work. As Hemingway famously said, "Writing is easy; all you do is open a white sheet of paper and bleed on it."
We writers sit in darkened rooms, facing dimly lit screens, pouring our hearts onto digital pages. When Sonakshi Sinha tells Salman Khan in "Dabangg," "Thappad se darr nahin lagta saahab, pyaar se lagta hai," that line emerged from someone's actual experience with heartbreak. When Sunny Deol thunders, "Tareekh pe tareekh, tareekh pe tareekh milti gayi My Lord, par insaaf nahi mila," it captures the frustration of millions facing a system where 2.64 crore cases remain pending while judges take summer vacations like school kids.
We screenwriters are emotional alchemists, transforming national pain into catharsis through the visions of directors like Dutt, Ray, Ghatak, Desai, Chopra, and Rajamouli. Our words become national memories, even as our names fade into obscurity. We're the invisible architects of cultural moments, the unsung poets of the silver screen.
And honestly? We're okay with the forgetting part. Quote our lines without knowing our names – that's fine. But do remember that the lines were crafted by writers who shaped our collective consciousness while often struggling to make ends meet. All we ask for is enough dignity to keep creating, to keep bleeding onto those white pages. SRAI represents not just hope for financial fairness but recognition of the fundamental truth that stories shape society and that perhaps, finally, the people who make us laugh, cry, and think might receive their fair share of the joy they create.
We screenwriters like to walk in the rain so you don’t see our tears. Our pain becomes your entertainment; our heartbreak turns into your favourite love story, and our rage transforms into that dialogue you quote in your Instagram caption. For decades, we've written India's collective dreams while warring our private storms. But now, with SRAI, maybe – just maybe – we can finally step out of the rain. Maybe we can show you our tears, not of frustration or despair, but of joy, as we finally take our rightful place in the story we've spent 112 years helping to tell. Maybe it's time for the invisible storytellers to finally be seen, not through our pain, but through our triumph.
