It has been an agonising August for Indian women. A medical student was brutally silenced in Kolkata, leading to an outcry that echoed the sentiment “beti padhi par bachi nahin” (the daughter studied but could not survive). In another disheartening incident, a champion wrestler was casually fat-shamed by a woman Member of Parliament from the film industry for missing her weight category by a mere 100 grams.
However, on the screen, the month has yielded rewarding narratives for women standing up against injustice. A profound shift in how women are renegotiating their terms of engagement with society became evident when “Aattam” (The Play) clinched a spot on the podium at the National Awards. This gripping Malayalam drama, directed by debutant Anand Ekarshi, starkly portrays how even the seemingly safest and friendliest spaces can turn hostile for women who dare to speak about the violation of their bodies. Set against the backdrop of theatre and cinema—an ostensibly progressive realm—the film unmasks men who practice gender sensitivity selectively, according to their personal interests.
The announcement of the award came just days before the Kerala government finally released the Justice Hema Committee report, a long-awaited document submitted four-and-a-half years ago. This report unearths the dark underbelly of the glittering Malayalam film industry, exposing rampant harassment and discrimination faced by women at the hands of a powerful lobby comprising male producers, directors, and actors. Although the Kerala government took an inordinate amount of time to make the report public, it marks the first instance where a government in India has formed a panel to specifically study issues faced by women in the film industry. The cases and concerns highlighted in the report resonate across India. Over the years, Bollywood actors have frequently spoken out about their experiences of gender discrimination and the pervasive issue of the casting couch, but these complaints are often swept under the rug.
The report came under public scrutiny coincidentally when Christo Tomy’s “Ullozhukku” (Undercurrent) was gaining traction on a streaming platform and at the Kerala State Awards. Set in a flooded village where the rising water becomes a metaphor for emotional turmoil, this tender tale about love and companionship challenges conventional notions of morality and guilt that men often impose on women. Featuring powerhouse performers like Urvashi and Parvathy, “Ullozhukku” is a rare mainstream exploration of relationships between women. Director Tomy delicately navigates the complex ties between a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law after the connecting link in their lives succumbs to cancer, investigating who controls a woman’s body before and after marriage.
. The film also sheds light on the fact that the Christian community in Kerala is not immune to entrenched notions of sectarianism and patriarchy.
Adding to the evolving narrative of bonds between women on screen, Kiran Rao’s “Laapataa Ladies” was recently screened for Supreme Court judges. Similar to “Ullozhukku”, this film deals with ingrained societal rules for women but employs a lighter touch. By peeling back the layers of an unjust society, Kiran addresses the invisibilization of women, lifting the veil on entrenched patriarchy. When a resolute Jaya finds an opening in the iron curtain, she escapes like a sheaf of grass from a crevice in the rock of tradition. In a parallel storyline, a naive Phool, married into a patriarchal structure under the guise of cultural norms, finds herself left behind on a railway platform, hiding behind a large dustbin marked “use me” in bold letters.
The dustbin motif reappears in Nithilan Swaminathan’s “Maharaja”, where a father uses it as a metaphor in a police station to describe his missing daughter. It serves as a potent narrative device for uncovering the monsters who ravaged his only hope. Though the genres and treatments of “Lapaata Ladies” and “Maharaja” are markedly different, both films illustrate that going to the police station can be worse than being robbed, requiring the protagonist to grease the palms of police officers to set the system in motion.
Divergent views may arise on the depiction of violence in these films, but the resilient message remains clear: the girls, despite their suffering, refuse to be psychologically scarred or deterred from their ambitions. This same resilient emotion resonates in Nikkhil Advani’s “Vedaa”, where a Dalit girl stands strong against self-appointed custodians of caste and morality.
Though both “Vedaa” and “Maharaja” feature male saviors, the determination of the female characters feels authentic and not merely cosmetic.
In stark contrast to the real-world monsters dressed in human skin, Amar Kaushik’s sharp satire “Stree 2” addresses demons that rise from the dead to institutionalize patriarchy by preying on women who dare to be ‘progressive’ in terms of their education, love life, and even haircuts. When Pankaj Tripathi, speaking in chaste Hindi, asserts that the length of a braid doesn’t matter because even short-haired women can thwart the Sarkata (headless) male chauvinist, it brings to mind a late socialist leader’s jibe at short-haired women in the context of the 1997 Women’s Reservation Bill.
In a month where real-life stories of sorrow and injustice for women have made headlines, Indian cinema has stepped up to reflect, challenge, and explore deeper stories of female resilience and empowerment.
