I recently watched Musafir Cafe, an eight-episode Netflix series, and found myself thinking about something I have encountered repeatedly in a rather unexpected way: India’s soft power.
Over the years, in taxis, restaurants and conversations during travels abroad, I have been struck by how often people who know little about India nevertheless know—and sometimes love—our films, actors and songs. Those encounters have made me wonder what really draws people towards India.
Is it our ancient civilisation, monuments, crafts and classical traditions? Is it the more assertive cultural nationalism of recent years? Or is it something much less deliberate—the ability to tell stories that people elsewhere simply want to watch?
Musafir Cafe made me think that the answer may lie, at least partly, in the last of these.
What stayed with me about the series was not that it presented some grand idea of India, but precisely that it did not. It takes the familiar themes of love, separation, uncertainty and loss and places them in the lives of three young, urban, middle-class Indians. The treatment felt fresh to me because the India in the story was recognisably contemporary—less concerned with explaining itself and more interested in simply living its life.
It does not try to “represent India”.
It simply tells a story about Indians.
What particularly intrigued me was its reception beyond India. Since its Netflix release in July 2026, Musafir Cafe has found audiences well beyond its home market.
The numbers are interesting, but popularity alone is not soft power. The more meaningful question is what happens after the story has been watched: does it leave people curious about the society it came from, more familiar with its people, or simply entertained for an evening?
India has long understood the power of storytelling through cinema. Our films—with their romance, music, song and dance, humour and melodrama—have travelled far beyond our borders. Streaming platforms have now given Indian storytelling another remarkably powerful route to international audiences.
I have seen this cultural reach in much less measurable ways.
Over the years, in restaurants and taxis in different countries, conversations have unexpectedly turned to Indian films. A waiter would tell me about an Indian actor he liked; a cab driver would mention a Hindi film or song. Once, during a business trip to China, a young Chinese woman working as a translator surprised me by becoming animated when she spoke about her love for Indian cinema.
These were not encounters arranged by cultural diplomacy. They simply liked the films.
That, to me, is a more interesting measure of cultural influence than a ranking on a screen.
Perhaps something new is happening in the stories themselves. A younger generation of Indian storytellers is showing an India that is contemporary, urban, aspirational and sometimes conflicted. It is an India drawn from the lives they actually inhabit.
There is an interesting contrast with the success of Dhurandhar, a very different cinematic proposition: a patriotic, larger-than-life action fantasy centred on national power, heroism and adversaries.
Its success is a reminder that stories of courage, national confidence and heroism can resonate powerfully with audiences. Such films can also become part of the way a country sees itself and presents itself to others.
But Dhurandhar and Musafir Cafe offer very different windows into India. The former presents a heightened, heroic vision; the latter explores contemporary India through ordinary relationships and emotions.
One draws on the power of national mythology; the other on the universality of everyday life. Both can travel—but they create different kinds of engagement with India.
That distinction is important when we talk about soft power. The objective need not be to make everyone admire India. It is to create enough familiarity and curiosity that India becomes more than an abstraction.
A young person in Mumbai, Delhi or Bengaluru may be dealing with love, loneliness, relationships, parents, careers and the uncertainties of adulthood.
So may someone in Jakarta, Nairobi, Dubai or London.
The circumstances may be different. The emotions need not be.
And perhaps that is where India has an opportunity. Cinema, streaming series, music, food, fashion, literature, technology and digital culture can show an India that is neither a museum piece nor a political proposition, but a living, changing society.
There is a generational dimension to this that I find particularly interesting. Much of our public conversation naturally draws upon history, civilisation and identity. These remain important parts of the Indian story. But alongside them is an increasingly global cultural vocabulary, shaped by smartphones, streaming platforms, social media, travel and technology.
I would hesitate to describe this as a rejection of heritage. Many Indians seem perfectly comfortable carrying what they have inherited while absorbing influences from elsewhere. The result is an India that is perhaps more eclectic, more fluid and harder to fit into a single narrative.
That makes me wonder whether our public discourse is always keeping pace with the society around us. Not because all younger Indians think alike—they certainly do not—but because their aspirations and cultural references are changing rapidly.
They will shape India’s economy, culture and polity in ways that are difficult to predict.
I think back to those conversations abroad.
At the time, I thought of them simply as pleasant, unexpected conversations.
Looking back, I wonder if they were something more.
None of those people was trying to tell me what India was.
They were simply telling me what they loved about India.
Perhaps that is the kind of influence we should value most: not an India that asks to be admired, but an India that makes someone, somewhere, curious enough to say:
“Tell me more.”
