There is a peculiar tendency—especially among more “Westernised” critics—to flatten Indian mainstream cinema into a moral checklist. If a film doesn’t align perfectly with contemporary ideological expectations, it is dismissed, and in that dismissal, nuance is often the first casualty. My recent conversation with a dear friend made this painfully clear. The subject: Karan Johar. Now, let me begin with honesty. I do not place Johar on a pedestal. In fact, I have my own reservations—particularly about his relative silence on queer issues despite his immense influence. But to reduce his work to “toxic portrayals of women” is not just reductive—it is intellectually lazy.

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai

Yes, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai is problematic. Johar himself has admitted this over the years—that the film’s transformation of Anjali from tomboy to “desirable woman” reflects the conditioning of that time. He has openly spoken about how his understanding of gender and femininity has evolved since. But here’s the problem: critics stop here. They freeze him in 1998, as though growth, reflection, and evolution are not part of an artist’s journey.

Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham

In Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, Kajol’s Anjali is often dismissed as loud, caricatured, “too much”. But look closer. She is unapologetically rooted in her identity, emotionally intelligent, and unafraid to challenge patriarchal authority. She enters a hyper-elite household and refuses to shrink. That is not weakness—it is resistance, expressed within the grammar of mainstream Indian cinema. Johar understands something many critics ignore: in Indian storytelling, strength is not always quiet. Sometimes, it is exuberant, messy, and deeply emotional.

Ae Dil Hai Mushkil

Ae Dil Hai Mushkil is often criticised for its “immature male protagonist”, and rightly so. But what is consistently missed is that the women are not written to accommodate him. Alizeh refuses romantic pressure and defines the relationship on her own terms, while Saba walks away from a younger man who cannot meet her emotionally. Johar does not reward the male gaze here—he exposes it. The film is not endorsing obsession; it is showing its futility. If anything, it offers one of the clearer portrayals in mainstream Hindi cinema of a woman saying, “I choose myself.”

Yet perhaps what unsettled audiences was not just the woman, but the man. Ranbir Kapoor’s Ayan is not written as the traditional Hindi film hero. He is emotionally excessive, vulnerable to the point of discomfort, and unable to accept rejection with dignity. In many ways, he occupies a space that mainstream cinema has historically reserved for women—the one who longs, who waits, who cannot let go. And Alizeh does something far more radical—she remains clear, self-contained, and unmoved by his persistence.

This inversion—of who desires and who decides—disturbs more than we admit. For decades, Indian audiences have been conditioned to believe that if a man loves deeply enough, he will eventually be rewarded. Here, he is not. He is simply left to live with rejection. And that discomfort is rarely interrogated honestly. Instead, it is redirected. The woman becomes “cold”. The film becomes “frustrating”. Because a man behaving with emotional vulnerability is often seen not as layered, but as weak—almost, as many would quietly put it, “like a woman”.

It is also telling how conversations around Ranbir Kapoor evolved after this phase, with a visible audience comfort towards more dominant, aggressive expressions of masculinity in films like Animal. To draw a direct line would be simplistic, but the contrast reveals something undeniable—what we reject in vulnerability, we often overcorrect in dominance.

Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani

In Rocky Aur Rani Kii Prem Kahaani, Rani is perhaps Johar’s most evolved female character. She is sexually autonomous, intellectually assertive, emotionally aware, and unapologetically modern. And yet, she exists within an Indian familial structure. This is where Western critique often fails. It looks for rebellion through rejection, while Indian narratives often explore rebellion through negotiation and transformation. Rani does not abandon tradition; she challenges it, bends it, and redefines her place within it. That is far more complex than simple defiance.

Across Johar’s filmography, a pattern emerges. His women choose, even when it hurts. They leave, even when they love. They define relationships rather than being defined by them. From unrequited love to extramarital dynamics, from age-gap relationships to emotional boundaries, his stories consistently centre female agency within commercial frameworks. And that last part matters, because Johar is not an indie filmmaker. He operates within a system where cinema must succeed financially to exist at all.

The word “toxic” has become dangerously overused. Everyone, to someone, is flawed—that is the nature of human storytelling. To call a character toxic because they are emotional, conflicted, or imperfect is to strip storytelling of its very essence. Johar’s women are not perfect. They are human. And in a landscape where women were historically ornamental, being human is revolutionary enough.

So why does this reading persist? Because for a long time, Indian audiences—men and women alike—have been conditioned to see women as emotional supporters, not emotional authorities. When a woman refuses, defines boundaries, or chooses herself, she disrupts expectation. And disruption is often misread as arrogance. A woman who does not accommodate is seen as difficult. A woman who does not reciprocate is seen as cold. And a woman who does not reward male persistence is seen as the problem. This is not just a failure of criticism; it is a reflection of conditioning.

Perhaps the issue isn’t that Johar writes weak women. Perhaps the discomfort lies in something deeper. His women do not always behave the way we want “ideal” women to behave. They love unwisely. They stay when they should leave. They leave when others expect them to stay. They are contradictory. They are real.

You don’t have to love Karan Johar. You don’t have to agree with his choices. But to dismiss his female characters as “toxic” is to overlook the quiet, consistent agency he has woven into mainstream Indian cinema—often in ways subtle enough to be missed, but strong enough to endure. And perhaps that says more about how we watch films than how he makes them.