It has been an agonising August for Indian women. A medical student has been brutally silenced in Kolkata, leading to an outcry, termed “beti padhi par bachi nahin” (the daughter studied but could not survive). In another deplorable incident, a champion wrestler was casually fat-shamed by a woman MP from the film industry for missing her weight category by a mere 100 grams.
Mercifully, on the silver screen, the month has been somewhat redemptive for women who stood up against injustice. The renegotiation of women’s engagement with society became a prominent theme when “Aattam” (The Play) made it to the podium at the National Awards. This riveting Malayalam drama by debutant Anand Ekarshi showcases how even the seemingly safest and friendliest of environments can turn hostile for women when they speak up about the violation of their bodies. Set in the ostensibly progressive world of theatre and cinema, the film unmasks men who practice gender sensitivity only when it suits them.
The triumph of “Aattam” at the National Awards came just days before the Kerala government finally published the Justice Hema Committee report, a sprawling four-and-a-half years after it was initially submitted. Exposing the dark underbelly of the Malayalam film industry, the report reveals rampant harassment and discrimination faced by women in Mollywood, perpetrated by a powerful lobby of male producers, directors, and actors. While the release of the report was long overdue, it is significant as it marks the first time an Indian government has formed a panel to investigate the issues faced by women in the film industry. The report’s cases and concerns resonate across India, where Bollywood actors have long spoken about their experiences with gender discrimination and the pervasive casting couch, only to have their complaints swept under the rug.
Interestingly, the report gained public attention while Christo Tomy’s “Ullozhukku” (Undercurrent) was making waves on a streaming platform and garnering accolades at the Kerala State Awards. Set in a flood-stricken village where the rising water serves as a metaphor for emotional turmoil, this tender tale about love and companionship buries conventions of morality and guilt that men impose on women, much like it buries a dead body. The film, led by powerhouse performers Urvashi and Parvathy, is a rare exploration of the relationships between women in a mainstream space. Director Tomy navigates the complex ties between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law—after the connecting link in their lives is lost to cancer—with remarkable sensitivity, questioning who controls a woman’s body before and after marriage. The film also illuminates that the Christian community in Kerala is not immune to sectarianism and patriarchy.
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The conversation around women’s relationships on screen is furthered by Kiran Rao’s “Laapataa Ladies,” which was recently screened for Supreme Court judges. Like “Ullozhukku,” this film addresses homespun rules cast in stone for women, albeit with a lighter touch. Rao skillfully peels back the layers of an unjust society, addressing the invisibilisation of women entrenched in patriarchy. A resolute Jaya finds an escape through a small opening in this iron curtain, much like a sheaf of grass emerging from a rock of tradition. Meanwhile, the naive Phool, entrapped by patriarchal norms in the guise of culture, hides behind a huge dustbin labeled ‘use me’ after being left behind on a railway platform.
The metaphor of the dustbin finds another life in Nithilan Swaminathan’s “Maharaja.” In this film, a father uses it in a police station to describe his missing daughter, turning it into a potent narrative device to expose the monsters that ravaged his only hope. Although the genres and treatment differ markedly, both “Laapataa Ladies” and “Maharaja” highlight that seeking help from the police can feel worse than being robbed. In both films, the protagonists have to grease the palms of police officers to set the system into motion.
Opinions may differ on the depiction of violence in cinema, but the resolute courage of female characters—unwilling to be psychologically scarred or stalled in their ambitions—leaves a strong impression. This same theme is prevalent in Nikkhil Advani’s “Vedaa,” where a Dalit girl defies the self-appointed custodians of caste and morality.
While both films feature male saviors, the determination of the female protagonists feels authentic. In contrast to these real-life monsters dressed in human skin, Amar Kaushik’s sharp satire “Stree 2” portrays literal demons who rise from the dead to perpetuate patriarchy, preying on women who dare to be progressive in their choices of education, love, and even haircuts.
As Pankaj Tripathi’s character cryptically points out in “Stree 2,” “The length of a braid doesn’t matter because even parkati (short-haired) women can stop the Sarkata (headless) male chauvinist in his tracks,” one is reminded of a late socialist leader’s jibe at parkati mahilayen (short-haired women) during the debate on the Women’s Reservation Bill back in 1997.
The portrayal of female protagonists in Indian cinema appears to be undergoing a transformative change, reflecting broader societal shifts. While real-world incidents cast a long shadow of despair, the silver screen provides a glimmer of hope, showcasing women who are not just survivors but powerful agents of change.
