Why Indian screenwriters are terrified of writing romance
The rom-com isn’t dead. We killed it—on purpose, out of fear.
Last year, I watched a roomful of writers dismiss a perfectly crafted love story because it had “too much sincerity.” The feedback? “It feels dated. Where’s the irony?” This happens in every writers’ room in Mumbai, Bangalore, and Delhi. We’ve collectively decided that earnestness is embarrassing, that vulnerability reads as weakness, and that a character admitting they want love is somehow less intelligent than one who’s too cool to care. The result is a generation of screenwriters who can write a car chase, a heist, a murder mystery—anything except two people falling in love without apologizing for it.
But here’s where it gets weird: the audience doesn’t agree with us.
The data doesn’t lie, but we’re not listening
Saiyaara crossed ₹500 crores. Sarvam Maaya hit ₹100 crores. When Life Gives You Tangerines has us binge-watching Korean television like it’s water. Indie films like Dude and With Love are building devoted followings. Meanwhile, we’re sitting in coffee shops convinced the rom-com is dead, scrolling past a dozen box office hits that prove otherwise.
The disconnect is almost comedic. We’ve engineered an entire industry around the assumption that audiences want cynicism, detachment, and irony. Meanwhile, audiences are literally spending billions of viewing minutes on content that asks the simple question: “What if two people could just be happy together?” The genre isn’t dying. Our confidence in it is.
What’s fascinating is that the audience hasn’t rejected romance—they’ve rejected “our fear of it”. They’re not rejecting the genre; they’re rejecting our apology for the genre. Every time we cut away from a sincere moment with a joke, every time we undercut emotion with snark, every time we treat vulnerability like a liability—we’re not being smart. We’re being defensive.
Technology killed serendipity, so we killed sincerity
The structural problem is real, though. Write a “missed connection” today and someone asks: “Why didn’t they just text?” Show someone discovering a person organically at a coffee shop and the audience wonders: “Why didn’t he just check her Instagram first?” We’ve optimized friction out of modern life, and rom-coms are built on friction.
GPS has killed the happy accident. Instagram has eliminated mystery. We audit people before we meet them. The “chance encounter” that used to anchor romantic narratives feels anachronistic now. A character saying “I don’t know much about them” reads as careless, not romantic. We’ve moved from a world where people unravel gradually to one where they’re fully disclosed before the first conversation.
So what happens to romance when serendipity dies? It becomes internal. And internal conflict is terrifying to write because it requires vulnerability—the one thing modern screenwriters have trained themselves to avoid.
Cynicism disguised as intelligence
In the writers’ room, we’ve created a hierarchy of emotions. Anger is sophisticated. Ambition is respectable. But longing? Wanting to be chosen? Believing in a happy ending? That’s “too much,” “too earnest,” “cringe.”
We mistake detachment for intelligence. We believe being ironic makes us look evolved, while sincerity makes us look naive. It’s a defense mechanism dressed up as taste. The moment someone proposes a genuine emotional beat, the room fills with skepticism. “Will that play with audiences?” Translation: “Will I look stupid for caring about this?” We’ve internalized a shame around sentiment so completely that we actually believe our cynicism is smarter than someone else’s hope.
But here’s what Korean television understood before we did: sincerity is brave. Spending six episodes building to a hand-hold isn’t primitive storytelling; it’s the opposite. It’s trusting your audience to “feel” rather than demanding they “react”. And audiences are starving for it. We see a K-Drama with a chaste kiss in episode 12 and think, “That would never work here.” Then it does. It works brilliantly. Because in a world this fractured, in a timeline this chaotic, the promise of genuine connection isn’t outdated—it’s radical.
The actual cost of this fear
What we’re doing is narrowing the emotional range of Indian cinema. We’re creating a generation of characters who are afraid to want anything that matters. They can want power, money, revenge—those are acceptable. But wanting to be loved? That’s relegated to the “B-plot,” the thing that happens while the “real” story unfolds around it.
This has real consequences. We’re telling a generation of viewers that their desire for connection is less sophisticated than their desire for dominance. We’re suggesting that emotional honesty is less intelligent than emotional distance. And we’re losing money while we do it, because audiences are literally choosing foreign content over ours to satisfy the hunger we refuse to acknowledge.
The Indian market has always had tremendous capacity for romance. We grew up on films where love was the entire story. Somewhere between globalization and irony, we decided that was embarrassing. So we buried it under cynicism, defended it with intellectualism, and then wondered why the audience went somewhere else to find it.
What it actually takes to write romance now
Writing a rom-com in 2024 requires something harder than technical skill: it requires admitting that despite being a modern professional who understands spreadsheets and ROI, you still want someone to run through an airport for you. You still believe in serendipity. You still think a happy ending matters.
That’s not naive. That’s courageous. And that’s exactly what the genre needs.
The writers’ block so many of us feel isn’t structural. It’s emotional. We know how to build plots; we’re paralyzed by the prospect of actually “feeling” something on the page. We’re so afraid of the “cringe” label that we’ve forgotten what real stakes look like. Real stakes in romance aren’t the grand gesture—they’re the vulnerability. They’re the risk of wanting something and being rejected. They’re the decision to believe in someone despite evidence that belief might be foolish.
And audiences understand that. They’ve always understood that. We’re the ones who’ve decided it’s beneath us.
The verdict
The rom-com isn’t dead. The genre is exactly as alive as we’re brave enough to make it. Every data point, every box office number, every billion viewing minutes on K-Drama platforms is screaming the same thing: Stop apologizing for sincerity. Stop treating vulnerability like a liability. Stop mistaking detachment for intelligence.
We didn’t kill the rom-com because audiences rejected it. We’re killing it because we rejected ourselves. And until we find the courage to write characters who want to be loved without irony, who believe in happy endings without shame, who risk looking stupid in the service of something genuine—we’re going to keep losing this battle to writers from Seoul who never learned to be afraid.
Frequently asked questions
Why are Indian rom-coms struggling at the box office?
They’re not—successful ones like Saiyaara and Sarvam Maaya are crossing ₹100+ crores. The real problem is that screenwriters are too cynical to write them, so fewer quality rom-coms get made compared to action films.
What’s the difference between Korean and Indian romance writing?
Korean writers trust sincerity and build emotional stakes gradually—a hand-hold can sustain six episodes. Indian writers often undercut genuine moments with irony because they fear appearing “dated” or “cringe” to industry gatekeepers.
How has technology actually changed romantic storytelling?
GPS eliminated missed connections, Instagram eliminated mystery, and instant communication removed the friction that used to drive plot. Now the only viable conflict is internal—psychological vulnerability instead of circumstantial obstacles.
Are audiences actually watching romance content online?
Yes, billions of viewing minutes are spent on K-Dramas and romance-focused indie content globally. Audiences clearly want emotional, sincere storytelling—they’re just getting it from sources other than mainstream Indian cinema.
Can rom-coms work in the digital age?
Yes, but they require writers brave enough to make internal conflict compelling and sincere emotion the centerpiece. The structure changes, but the emotional hunger audiences have for connection remains constant.
