It has been an agonizing August for Indian women. A medical student has been brutally silenced in Kolkata, leading to an outcry encapsulated by the phrase, “beti padhi par bachi nahin” (the daughter studied but could not survive). In another dismal episode, a champion wrestler was casually fat-shamed by a female Member of Parliament from the film industry for missing her weight category by a mere 100 grams.
However, on the silver screen, women seem to be finding their voices and standing up against injustice more readily. This shift was heralded when *Aattam* (The Play) clinched a spot on the podium at the National Awards. This gripping Malayalam drama by debutant Anand Ekarshi has shone a light on how even the safest and most supportive spaces can turn hostile for women when they speak up about bodily violations. Set against the seemingly progressive backdrop of theatre and cinema, the film unmasks men who practice gender sensitivity only when it suits them.
The announcement of *Aattam*’s award came just days before the Kerala government finally released the Justice Hema Committee report, four and a half years after its submission. The report lays bare the dark underbelly of the Malayalam film industry, revealing the rampant harassment and discrimination faced by women in Mollywood, all at the hands of a powerful lobby of male producers, directors, and actors. While the Kerala government took an inordinate amount of time to make the report public, it should be acknowledged that this is the first instance of an Indian government forming a committee to scrutinize the issues faced by women in the film industry. The cases and concerns raised in this report resonate across India. Bollywood actors have frequently spoken out about their experiences with gender discrimination and the notorious casting couch, but such complaints are often swept under the rug.
Curiously, the report gained public attention just as Christo Tomy’s *Ullozhukku* (Undercurrent) was making waves on a streaming platform and at the Kerala State Awards. Set in a flood-inundated village where the water becomes a metaphor for an emotional swell, this tender tale about love and companionship dismantles traditional notions of morality and guilt imposed on women by men. The narrative is driven by two powerhouse performers, Urvashi and Parvathy, who explore the complex relationships between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law after the man who connected their lives succumbs to cancer. With remarkable sensitivity, director Tomy delves into the control over a woman’s body before and after marriage while showing that the Christian community in Kerala is no less susceptible to notions of sectarianism and patriarchy.
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Taking the narrative of female bonds on screen a step further, Kiran Rao’s *Laapataa Ladies* was recently screened for Supreme Court judges. Like *Ullozhukku*, *Laapataa Ladies* addresses the unspoken, homespun rules for women, casting a light-hearted yet sharp lens on entrenched patriarchy. The film portrays Jaya, a resolute woman who, finding an opening in the ironclad constraints of tradition, escapes like a sheaf of grass from a crevice in rock. In a parallel storyline, Phool, a naive woman married into a patriarchal family, hides behind a dustbin labeled ‘use me’ when left behind on a railway platform, poignantly symbolizing her perceived disposability in society.
The metaphor of the dustbin recurs in Nithilan Swaminathan’s *Maharaja*, where a father uses it as an allegory in a police station to describe his missing daughter. The dustbin turns into a powerful narrative device for unearthing the monsters who have devastated his only hope. Despite the stark differences in genre and treatment, both *Laapataa Ladies* and *Maharaja* convey that interacting with the police could feel worse than being wronged. Both films depict protagonists who must bribe police officers just to set the system in motion.
While opinions on depicting violence in films might differ, the resilience demonstrated by female protagonists who tell their aggressors that they cannot be psychologically scarred or deterred in their ambitions, makes a robust impact.
This same defiance is present in Nikkhil Advani’s *Vedaa*, where a Dalit girl refuses to be halted by the self-proclaimed guardians of caste and morality. Despite featuring male saviors, the grit and determination of the female characters do not feel superficial.
In contrast to human monsters, Amar Kaushik’s sharp satire *Stree 2* addresses the supernatural. The film depicts demons who rise from the dead to institutionalize patriarchy by preying on women who dare to be ‘progressive,’ whether in their choice of education, love, or even their hairstyle. When Pankaj Tripathi, in his chaste Hindi, explains that the length of a braid doesn’t matter because even short-haired (*parkati*) women can halt the sexist creature in its tracks, viewers are reminded of a long-deceased socialist leader’s jibe at short-haired women in the context of the Women’s Reservation Bill back in 1997.
Indian cinema, with all its manifold stories and diverse representations, continues to reflect and influence the evolving portrayal of female protagonists, offering a ray of hope against the backdrop of real-world challenges.
