There was a time when Hindi cinema could communicate rage, defiance, heartbreak, or moral collapse without resorting to explicit language. A pause, a look, a sharply written line, or even silence was enough to carry meaning. Today, that cinematic restraint appears to be steadily eroding, replaced by an increasing dependence on cuss words—as if communication itself risks sounding incomplete without them.

The latest case in point is the teaser of O’Romeo, where a cuss word is delivered by none other than Farida Jalal. The moment stands out not merely for the word used, but for who uses it. Jalal has, for decades, embodied emotional dignity and understated strength on screen. Seeing a veteran of her stature mouth an expletive instantly shifts the conversation from shock value to something deeper: how normalised profanity has become in contemporary Hindi cinema, and how even its most seasoned performers are now expected to adapt to this new tonal grammar.

Filmmakers often justify the rise of abusive language in the name of realism. The defence is familiar—“this is how people speak today.” There is some truth in that claim, particularly in stories rooted in specific social or geographical realities. But the question is no longer about inclusion; it is about excess. When profanity becomes a default setting rather than a deliberate choice, it stops serving the narrative and starts serving attention economics—designed to provoke reactions, trend online, and ensure instant recall.

What makes this shift more telling is that cuss words are no longer confined to characters from the margins—gangsters, rebels, or anti-heroes. They now surface in romantic dramas, family narratives, and supposedly light-hearted stories. The language has moved from being contextual to being cosmetic. It is no longer about who the character is, but about how “current” the film wants to sound.

Farida Jalal’s presence in such a moment also hints at an unspoken industry pressure. When senior actors—who once conveyed emotional depth through restraint—agree to such dialogue, it reflects a wider belief that subtlety may no longer be enough to hold audience attention. The underlying fear seems to be that without sharp, abrasive language, a scene risks being dismissed as dated or toothless.

Streaming platforms have undoubtedly played a role in this shift. Audiences exposed to global content are now desensitised to strong language, and Bollywood is responding to that conditioning. But reaction-driven storytelling comes at a cost. When every emotion is underlined with an expletive, the impact flattens. Loudness replaces depth, and shock replaces substance.

Ironically, some of Hindi cinema’s most enduring and powerful moments remain completely profanity-free. Their strength lies in writing, performance, and emotional honesty rather than verbal aggression. Which brings the debate full circle: is communication in Bollywood truly incomplete without cuss words, or has the industry simply lost faith in silence, nuance, and its own storytelling muscle?

The moment in O’Romeo may fade once the film releases, but it leaves behind a telling marker. It captures a phase where Hindi cinema is negotiating relevance through language—sometimes thoughtfully, often hastily. The real challenge ahead is not about avoiding cuss words altogether, but about remembering that they are tools, not crutches. When used without purpose, they reveal less about society and more about cinema’s growing impatience with subtlety.

Every time we casually say Bollywood, Tollywood, Sandalwood or Pollywood, we unknowingly accept a hierarchy we never consciously agreed to. A hierarchy where one cinema becomes the original—and the rest become variations. The irony becomes sharper when one looks at how Hollywood itself was born. The iconic HOLLYWOOD sign, today treated as a sacred symbol of global cinema, had nothing to do with filmmaking when it first appeared. In 1923, the sign was erected purely as an advertisement for a real-estate project. It originally read HOLLYWOODLAND, placed on Mount Lee in the Santa Monica Mountains to promote a housing development. The name Hollywood was conceived by real-estate developer H. J. Whitley, not by a filmmaker, studio, or cultural movement. It was only in 1949—decades later—that the sign was shortened to simply HOLLYWOOD, by which time the film industry had already clustered around the area.

In other words, what the world now treats as the gold standard of cinema began as a property marketing exercise. And yet, that accidental name went on to become a global benchmark—so powerful that industries across continents began attaching its suffix to their own identities. India followed suit.

Hindi cinema became Bollywood. Tamil cinema found itself labeled Kollywood. Telugu cinema became Tollywood. Over time, even fiercely regional industries—with their own languages, cultures, aesthetics, and histories—were packaged using the same borrowed ending. This wasn’t geography turning into identity, as it was in Hollywood. This was imitation turning into habit.

For years, the defence was convenience. The “wood” suffix helped foreign journalists, festival curators, and global audiences quickly place Indian films within a familiar mental framework. It worked as a shortcut—an introduction. But shortcuts are meant to be temporary.

India today produces the largest number of films in the world. It tells stories in more than twenty languages. Its cinematic traditions draw from ancient epics, folk theatre, literature, and lived social realities that predate cinema itself. And yet, we continue to describe this vast, plural ecosystem through the linguistic shadow of an American suburb named by a real-estate developer. No other major film culture does this.

French cinema doesn’t need “Pariswood” to feel global. Iranian cinema doesn’t borrow Western labels to assert seriousness. Korean cinema didn’t require a suffix to conquer the world—it arrived on its own terms, confident in its voice.

The continued use of “Bollywood” and its cousins does something subtle but damaging. It keeps Hollywood as the reference point. Budgets are compared against Hollywood. Scale is measured in Hollywood terms. Success is validated by proximity to Hollywood standards rather than by cultural depth or originality.

Calling it Indian cinema is not a rejection of the global—it is an assertion of self.

It acknowledges linguistic diversity without reducing it to gimmicks. It places our films within their own civilisational and cultural context. It invites the world to engage with Indian storytelling as itself, not as an offshoot or echo.

Interestingly, this transition has already begun. Serious film criticism, academic writing, international festivals, and even global streaming platforms increasingly refer to Indian cinema, Hindi cinema, Tamil cinema, Malayalam cinema. The “wood” labels survive mostly in trade gossip, marketing copy, and legacy habit.

In a recent development an event took place about Indian National Cine Academy (INCA), a newly formed body aims to bridge the gap between Bollywood and South film industry. The Indian National Cine Academy (INCA) is an umbrella film body which aims to unite 12 regional film industries, including Bollywood and the four South Indian film industries and aims to profess the use of borrowed name like bollywood, tollywood, etc. and call itself a united ‘Indian Film Industry’

Which leaves us with a simple, uncomfortable question. If Hollywood itself was born out of a real-estate billboard, why are we still living in its shadow?

Perhaps the strongest statement Indian cinema can make today isn’t through bigger box office numbers or global crossovers—but through something far quieter and far more confident:

Calling itself by its own name.