It has been an agonizing August for Indian women. A medical student in Kolkata was brutally silenced, leading to an outcry symbolized by the poignant cry, “beti padhi par bachi nahin” (the daughter studied but could not survive). Simultaneously, a celebrated wrestler faced casual fat-shaming by a woman Member of Parliament from the film industry for missing her weight category by a mere 100 grams.
Contrarily, the month has been rewarding on screen for women who dared to stand against injustice. Illustrating women’s changing terms of engagement with society, Anand Ekarshi’s debut film, “Aattam” (The Play), emerged as a beacon at the National Awards. This gripping Malayalam drama reveals how even the safest and seemingly most progressive spaces can turn hostile when women speak out about violations of their bodies. Set in the domains of theatre and cinema, the film unmasked men who practice gender sensitivity only when it suits them.
The timing of this acclaim for “Aattam” is notable. It coincided with the Kerala government’s release of the Justice Hema Committee report, delayed by four-and-a-half years. Shining a light on the darker side of the Malayalam film industry, the report details rampant harassment and discrimination faced by women at the hands of a powerful lobby of male producers, directors, and actors. The significance of this report cannot be overstated. It marked the first instance of an Indian government forming a panel to study the issues faced by women in the film industry. Although the Kerala government took an inordinately long time to release the report, it deserves acknowledgment for this initiative. The cases and concerns highlighted resonate beyond Kerala, echoing across India. Bollywood, too, has long been haunted by suppressed complaints of gender discrimination and the daunting casting couch, though these issues often remain swept under the carpet.
As the report stirred public discourse, Christo Tomy’s “Ullozhukku” (Undercurrent) was burgeoning in popularity on streaming platforms and at the Kerala State Awards. This tender tale, set in a flood-ravaged village where rising waters symbolize emotional upheaval, is a poignant narrative about love and companionship defying conventional moral frameworks. The film features powerful performances by Urvashi and Parvathy, exploring the complex relationship between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law after the connecting link in their lives— the son/husband— succumbs to cancer.
. “Ullozhukku” probes who wields control over a woman’s body, both before and after marriage. It also sheds light on the ossified notions of sectarianism and patriarchy within Kerala’s Christian community.
Adding to the conversation about screen portrayals of female bonds, Kiran Rao’s “Laapataa Ladies” was recently screened for Supreme Court judges. Similar to “Ullozhukku,” this film delves into the rigid, homespun rules imposed on women, albeit with a light-hearted approach. Rao addresses the invisibilization of women, peeling away layers of entrenched patriarchy. When a determined Jaya finds an opening in the iron curtain of tradition, she escapes, metaphorically like a blade of grass sprouting from a rock crevice. In contrast, a naive Phool, enmeshed in patriarchal practices masked as cultural norms, hides behind a dustbin labeled “use me” when left behind on a railway platform.
This metaphor of the dustbin carries into another film, Nithilan Swaminathan’s “Maharaja.” Here, a father uses the dustbin metaphor in a police station to illustrate the plight of his missing daughter. The narrative device sharply critiques systemic indifference, revealing that dealing with the police can be worse than being robbed. Both “Laapataa Ladies” and “Maharaja” highlight that engaging with law enforcement often necessitates bribery to oil the bureaucratic machinery.
While debates about the portrayal of violence in cinema continue, one recurring theme is undeniable: the determination of female protagonists to confront and rise above their challenges leaves a lasting impression. This same sentiment is echoed in Nikkhil Advani’s “Vedaa,” where a Dalit girl refuses to be derailed by self-appointed arbiters of caste and morality. Though both films feature male saviors, the girls’ resilience doesn’t feel like a superficial trait.
In stark contrast to the human monsters, Amar Kaushik’s sharp satire “Stree 2” critiques the resurrection of literal and metaphorical demons who institutionalize patriarchy by preying on women who dare to challenge societal norms in education, love, and even haircuts. Pankaj Tripathi’s dialogue, in chaste Hindi, about the irrelevance of braid length as even ‘parkati’ (short-haired) women can halt the headless chauvinist, harks back to a 1997 socialist leader’s disparage of ‘parkati mahilayen’ in the context of the Women’s Reservation Bill.
In summary, through a series of impactful films, Indian cinema in 2024 is reimagining and renegotiating the portrayal of female protagonists. These cinematic narratives not only reflect societal issues but also suggest a progressive shift toward more nuanced and empowered roles for women on screen.
