The ‘choice’ of the filmic woman

In Indian and world culture in general (like in real life as well unarguably) and films in particular it is the representation of the male protagonist that holds sway till now. There have been debates based on statistical percentage of the number of films having a female protagonist which generally is no more than a quarter of the number otherwise. In a sense the male central character, the male supporting roles, the ‘male’ script writer and the ‘male’ director (‘male’ here is a state while male is a biological form) represent the power inherent. Hence any film with a female protagonist is looked upon as a remarkable particular incident whereas the ‘male’ representations are all ‘normal’ cause they represent the ‘whole’. This utter skew in a way colonises the definition of the ‘normal’ in the context of the film culture and re-establishes its power in the psyche of the general mass who are the consumers.  Whether this skew is due to the fact that most auteur is ‘male’ or is it because most audience is ‘male’ is a subject of deeper study.

In this context hence, the ‘choice’ of the female protagonist in the handful films where they exist becomes an object of conjecture. Interestingly, two Hindi films which were released almost at the same time have female protagonists and in both the director is male – Queen by Vikas Bahl and Gulaab Gang by Soumik Sen. Whereas Queen deals with an individual girl’s flight from her own cage to a different sensibility, Gulaab Gang represents the struggle and existence of a gang of women lead by a woman leader. People have raised questions about Rani (the protagonist in Queen)- her initial timid and meek existence and her sudden fluttering to ‘enlightenment’ once she reaches foreign shores. Critics writing in English language got angry – ‘Why is it that her understanding of her self and her opening up has to happen only when she is exposed to the West?’ many of them asked. Probably just the same way we critics adorn us in a ‘phoren’ language, damn it! People probably tend to get extra judgmental when a film gets rave reviews, is liked by many (who are not ‘critics’ for that matter) and more importantly does exceedingly well in the Box Office. There are justified eyebrows to be raised on filming Queen as almost a travel channel’s know-a-destination program.  But our question is more with the ‘choice’ that Rani had with her life. She was born and raised in a conservative surrounding in Delhi where the incidents of female harassment can make the Sensex look stupid. She had limited ‘choice’ but to take her burly brother as an escort – even for a date.  Yet Rani manages to fall in love with someone, gets engaged till finally on the eve of her marriage the groom backs off. What Rani decides hence, is to go to her honeymoon alone – a decision she takes pragmatically and more importantly, singlehandedly. This is indeed a unique idea which understandably didn’t go down well with many who turn the film down based on Rani’s first independent ‘choice’.  Just like in many cases an art form appeals cause it renders a string somewhere, resonates something similar in you, there are in many occasions as well when you don’t do something yourself ever, never believe as well in a circumstance in real life but in being patient with the reel-reality try an enjoy the ‘alternate’ aspect represented therein.  Without a job, without any planning and without an iota of confidence yet the oozing kindness and the milk of love in his heart made Apu (in Satyajit Ray’s Apur Sansar) decide to marry Aparna. We may choose to debate Apu’s ‘choice’ here but our myopia is not Apu’s limitation.  There is no intention to equate the Ray masterpiece with Queen the film, it is more with the ‘choice’ that Rani has before her and what she ‘knowingly’ embarks upon instead of being thrust upon her. Interestingly, it is her grandmother who eggs Rani on, to get up and get over her life. Noteworthy is the fact that Rani has no apparent longing of ‘breaking free’ from the shackles she has apparently been tied to for so long – this is how she is and she is ‘fine’ with it. It is her dream of going to Paris on a honeymoon and her fiancé’s to Amsterdam is why she sets out.  Repetitive and at times boring from a script perspective, we are made to go on hop-on hop-off tour of Paris before Rani settles down with Vijaylakshmi, a more ‘open’ girl she meets in Paris. Where Rani probably remains endearing is that she doesn’t emulate Vijaylakshmi cause Rani feels that is not something she can make over in such a short time, and probably she never ‘want’ to. Does Rani’s conservative patriarchal upbringing make her defensive against boozing and having causal sex in the hotel rooms – it can well be.  But just in the same sense Vijaylakshmi’s plunging neckline and cigarette wielding may not be the ‘definition’ of an independent woman. The question of the representation of the ‘independent woman’ is subjective across gender and across the strata the individual belongs to. The question of ‘choice’ is more palpable – Rani understands that the choices of life for Vijaylakshmi are different from the choices she has for her. There is no stepping over to the other’s territory and that is where the notion of ‘independence’ comes. It is more about leaving than encroaching, more about creating spaces for others and preserving the same for own. That is why, to me, when Rani returns with straightened hair and goes up to her fiancé’s house to hand him the ring he gave her or when she rejects his plea to talk over their relation in Amsterdam, it is no ultimate destination of the character of Rani. It is again a choice she makes for herself, to lead her life the way she wants to, back with her family.  Will she ever marry, will she exercise the confidence to be on her ‘own’ even more to the extents of Vijaylakshmi are inappropriate musings. She discovers that like everyone she also has wings – it was she who chose not to fly with them.

Gulaab Gang (mentioned henceforth as GG) on the contrary talks about a group of women in central India who fight for justice – both domestic and local. Inspired by a real life story but fictionalized heavily to suit the popular commercial demands, GG shows how the rural central Indian patriarchal phallic norms despise, abuse and victimize women to the worst possible sense one can think of. As opposed to Rani, Rajjo the leader of the gang is entering mid-aged though the glamour of Madhuri Dixit makes her immensely attractive. A general perception about popular Hindi cinema is that the women between mid 20s to mid 30s have more or less one identity to play – that of male desire (or ‘gaze’). It is mostly the recognizable woman who is either older or younger and mostly the older woman is the one who is expected to exude ‘power’ if portrayed as ‘independent’. And in majority of such cases the strong woman is portrayed as scary, de-sexualised and loud. To the director’s credit he represented a strong woman in Rajjo without these popular markers. Whether Rajjo comes out as independent or whether her ‘choices’ in stripping things off, burning the governmental organizations, killing dishonest officials and their aides at will can be termed sensible is a different question. GG follows the typical trope of commercial hindi cinema riding on the concept of the ‘superhero’ who brings order and justice to the downtrodden by taking the reigns of justice in his (in this case ‘her’) hands. So there are no surprises that what will follow on screen is bloodbath. Along with the gender inadequacies in rural India, the director also harped on the known issues of corruption and politicking and how Rajjo tries to fight down the menace. And in doing so the director pits Sumitra Devi, the shrewd and cunning woman politician against Rajjo. As if, to demean Rajjo’s struggle, pit her against a ‘woman’ – after all the bastions of patriarchy are safeguarded. Hence the so-called ‘choice’ of Rajjo gets curbed by the ‘choice’ of the director to play to the psyche of the Indian male who in the end needs to feel less threatened and relieved.  Quite interestingly, Sumitra Devi is also in the exterior a woman with ‘substance’, a cruel, deceitful person but who can cut to size the male around her. Both Rajjo and Sumitra, like Rani, are without a male partner. The symbol of the ‘independent’ woman without a family or a ‘home’ is again a clichéd representation since that helps the director to take away few of the real life complexities.

In this regard it becomes interesting and important to understand the ‘choice’ of the average woman to be decided by the ‘female’ mind and not necessarily by the way the ‘male’ director and his audience want her to be. Because it is time to dwell and ponder whether the ‘home’ of Rajjo, Sumitra and Rani is actually in a movement beyond the constraints imposed by the society and hence a deviation from the geographical definition of a physical ‘home’. It is farcical and squarely ironic as well because the supposedly independent women will then be ‘at home’ where the ‘home’ is not a metaphor for stability and sanctity. This notion of a safe, warm enclosure as ‘home’ being a patriarchal concept can be debated but till then the ‘independent’, ‘free-willed’ Rajjo and Rani will continue to fight within the confines of the script, struggle to have them drawn with a hue that has fair enough choices in the oeuvre for them to decide.

[Originally published in The Statesman on May 10, 2014]