Subverting the “Fraud” of Patriarchy: A Review of Kiran Rao’s Laaapataa Ladies by Somrita Misra

 

 

 

As the lights dim and the screen comes alive and we are embarked on the journey of two “laapataa ladies” (Phool and Jaya), we hear the insightful words of Manju Maasi to Phool: Iss desh mein sadiyon se ladkiyon ke saath ek fraud chal raha hai. Aur uska naam hai bhale ghar ki beti”. These powerful words of an old stall owner in a railway station illustrate the core message that Rao seeks to drive home with the film: the message of challenging the vicious patriarchy which is an entrenched part of the Hindi hinterland culture. Set in the fictious Nirmal Pradesh in 2001, the film follows the stories of two village girls who are swapped during a train journey because of their veils. The veil, in the film, assumes metaphorical and literal significance. Literally, it constricts and confines the woman and metaphorically it invisibilizes the woman, depriving her of her identity and her selfhood. Satire runs through the humor in the film and paves the way for a social commentary on the deep-rooted evils of patriarchy. Gender discrimination is a way of life for the women in the film where prejudice is so ingrained that if a man does not take dowry, he is told that he is full of “khot” or defect. Without indulging in pedagogic feminine discourse or slogan-inducing speeches, Kiran Rao peels off the layers of injustice and addresses the plight of innocent girls like Phool and Jaya. 

     In the film we meet two couples, the very innocent and in-love Phool and Dipak and the mismatched Jaya and Pradeep. The beauty of the film lies in this dual depiction of both marriages and men: while on the one hand, we have the naive Phool who is loved and cherished by Dipak, a simple and wonderfully big-hearted man, on the other hand, we see the clever Jaya trapped in a loveless alliance with the nefariously greedy and sinister Pradeep. This is one feminist film where all men are not vilified ogres or monsters. Instead, the film very credibly shows us, through the character of Dipak, that men can be wonderful. Dipak is progressive and liberal in both thought and action. Frantic after he discovers the swapping of the wives, Dipak runs from police station to politicians to railway platforms in search of his beloved Phool, the girl who he barely knows yet has become strongly attached to. For Phool, hardly out of her teens, to be stranded on a strange railway platform without her husband and protector is the worst of all nightmares. Confused and bewildered, she runs into Chotu who takes her to the station master; further confusion ensues as Phool is unable to even name her own village let alone the village of her in-laws. All she does remember is that the village is named after a flower. Chotu, in a hilarious turn of events, proceeds to name flowers one by one: Champa, Chameli, Dhatura., finally conceding, Phulwari ka sab phool khatam ho gaya par ye Phoolkumari ka sasural nahi mila. Finally, Phool is taken by Chotu to Manju Massi’s stall at the station where she slowly evolves under the matriarch’s influence: it is Manu Massi who makes her understand the hypocrisy of values she has been reared under. Slowly, Phool begins to question the training she has been given, wondering why girls are not given any “mauka” or opportunities and why they are made “lachar” or victims. Manju Maasi shows Phool her own capabilities and makes her realize the value of earning her own money. 

     Juxtaposed with Phool is the resourceful and feisty Jaya, the girl who desires a degree in organic farming so that she can transform agricultural techniques in her region. Willing to go to any lengths to gain an education and stand on her own feet, Jaya sees her swapping as an escape from the despicable Pradeep. She sells her jewels for her admission fees; Kiran Rao poignantly underscores the tactics girls have to resort to in rural India to gain the basic right of being educated, of being self-reliant. Even as Phool evolves under the tutelage of Manju Massi, Jaya helps the women around her evolve. We see how she makes Dipak’s sister-in-law realize how talented an artist she is and convinces Dipak’s mother to cook her favorite dish (“Kamal Kakri ki sabzi”) for herself even if her husband and son do not like it. Interspersed with the protagonists is an ensemble cast of minor figures who are as endearing as the main characters: there is the character of Ravi Kishan, the policeman who is willing to take bribes to file FIRs but who refuses to let Pradeep manhandle Jaya. Then there is the indomitable Manju Massi who speaks some of the most profound truths in the film; in her imitable style, Manju Massi educates Phool about one of the greatest lessons of life: “Apne Saath Khush rehana bahut mushkil ka kaam hai par ek baar ye koi seekh le to koi tumhe dukh nahi phoucha sakta”.  

     Heartfelt performances by the three debutantes and soulful music combine to make Laapataa Ladies a rare gem: a film that breaks the boundaries of stereotypes and entertains its viewers. Rich in color and rusticity, the film showcases the social culture of the Hindi heartland brilliantly. The film shows two faces of mutiny in women: in Jaya it is because of a genuinely bad husband while in Phool it is because of the circumstances she finds herself in. Yet, both women assert themselves in the midst of a crisis and that is where their triumph lies. The light-hearted touch in the film never lets it get bogged down by weighty preaching; instead, the film simply tells a story of two different women and through this story highlights the subjugation of women and the destruction of their dreams post marriage. Kiran Rao eschews any form of excess and in doing so drives her message home deeper. The evils of dowry, domestic violence and gender stereotypes are all touched upon by Rao without any fanfare or clamor. Ultimately, the” Laapataa Ladies” find themselves and in doing so rehabilitate not only their lives but also the lives of those around them. In a heartwarming scene, we see Manju Maasi eating the sweet made by Phool in sheer joy after Phool reaches her home. Jaya secures her own victory as she rides off to Dhera Dun for her farming degree with the blessings of Dipak and his family. The end of the film feels good because it shows us that emancipation for women is very much a real possibility and that to counter every chauvinistic Pradeep there is a loving and liberal Dipak. As Dipak says to Jaya at the end, “Sapnay dekhna kabhi galat nahi hota. 

 

Somrita Misra is Assistant Professor in the Department of English in Chanchal College, Malda, West Bengal. She is a Potterhead, a researcher in children’s literature and a thorough bibliophile.

Through the Maze of Memorialised Silences: A Reading of Avinash Arun Dhaware’s Three of Us (2022) by Aishwarya Dasgupta

 

Memory, as opposed to time (as it is commonly perceived to be), rarely follows the rules of linear progression. However, ironic though it might seem, it is through a walk down the labyrinthine ways of memory that one makes sense of time (as experienced in a purely subjective manner). Time, therefore is subjective for mortals, and it is through the experiences located in the coordinates of specific spatio-temporalities, that the mortal partakes of the pleasures of immortality. Memory preserves that which is lost forever, the moments that can never be physically reclaimed, the fossils of the yesteryears. Avinash Arun Dhaware’s labour of love Three of Us (2022) attempts to weave a tapestry narrating the tug of war between memory and oblivion.

          The story revolves around the plight of Shailaja, brilliantly portrayed by Shefali Shah, who is diagnosed with early-onset Dementia and her attempt to grapple with her changed circumstances through the tireless support of her husband Dipankar (Played by Swanand Kirkire). Before giving in to a sense of overwhelming despair in the wake of her incipient neurological condition, she wishes to travel to her “udgam” (or, source, a word which is quite significant in the context of the narrative) perhaps to excavate, reclaim, and remember (even though she knows it to be thwarted since the outset). Inextricably linked with her source is her childhood companion, the “Daga” to her “Mogambo” (as remarked by her English teacher), Pradeep Kamat; the lazy town of Vengurla tucked in a quaint corner along the Konkan coast; and a piece of her memory laced with trauma.

          The movie reveals itself like an onion, one layer at a time, and so does Shailaja’s character. However, we never quite reach to the bottom of her true self, it remains ever elusive. We meet her for the first time with a notepad and a pen, trying to note down important things, followed by her daily engagements at work and home. However, there is a lacuna, and the audience knows it from the very outset, just like the salt that is missing from the poha, just like the blank stares which often take her away to some far-off place. The blank stares, function as caesurae which punctuate, and perhaps embody the gaps and fissures of her memory, cracking up her sense and perception of self from within. Perhaps she is the old building that the men talk about in an offhanded manner, the one which Mr. Avchat refuses to abandon, the one which has its beams and ceilings woven of the fabric of memories, the building which threatens to crash under the weight of the past. Interestingly, the word ‘Dementia’ has been used only once. To be precise, almost after more than an hour into the film, the audience gets to hear the term for the first time. However, there are oblique and obvious references to the infliction spread out across the corpus of the film. Its omnipresence is felt in the way Shailaja yearns to come to terms with her memories as if for a last time, or perhaps the first time; the unresolved conflicts with loved ones, the unfinished promises, the unspoken apologies, the abandoned memories beckon her to return to her roots.

Visiting the school, the auteur makes the audience ponder over questions relating to architecture, time, and memory. Shailaja goes back to her childhood school, which takes her to friends and Pradeep Kamat, and eventually to the house where she lived during her brief stay in Vengurla. The classrooms appear constricted to their adult perspectives, they have long outgrown the childlike innocence. The photographs have faded, the houses have transformed appearances, some have been reduced to a ramshackle state, Shailaja forgets the steps midway while dancing. But, the well in the backyard remains, and the well remembers. Shailaja had buried its presence deep within her mind; she remembered the guava tree, but not the well. Space is a palimpsest, it never forgets, new scratches might overwrite the older scripts but the ones preceding always remain. The backyard was overgrown with weeds, it was slippery, one had to tread carefully to reach the end point where the well was, much like the mindscape of Shailaja, which was rotting with the infection of oblivion.

Pradeep Kamat tries to make sense of her sudden appearance and shares the events with his wife Sarika, who is taken aback but pleasantly surprised. Handling the situation in a beautifully mature way, Sarika eggs him on to accompany her on her quest. Pradeep is a wonderfully real character, he is a man who sews, who loves, who cares, who listens, who writes, wo feels deeply, who understands, who promises, and keeps his promise. Like every real character, he has his share of trauma, and the way the filmmakers have navigated with the development of the character indeed deserves great accolades. Pradeep writes about time and the transience of memory, when he says in his poem “Udgam”, one must dwell on the present to become a part of the future. The voiceover narration takes over the audience while they witness the solitary figure of Shailaja walking across the shores of the wave-worn sea towards somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and the voice says, the crowd will follow where the fair goes.

During their conversation with their English teacher from school, a strange character comes up- the “Chudail Amma” (roughly translated into Witch Mother), whose presence was shrouded in mystery for everyone except Shailaja, who claims to have met her. The narrative meanders around a visit to a broken castle overgrown with wilderness where there are buildings without roof, skeletal structures, like the skeletal remains of Shailaja’s memory. Here, Pradeep and Shailaja gaze at each other with great fondness, their eyes meeting in dialogue that their hearts yearned to, but their lips could not pronounce. Alokananda Dasgupta’s curation of music culminates when Surdas’ words come to life in the voice of Pandit Kumar Gandharva: “Nain ghat ghatat na…” The song of the everlasting pang of separation, a yearning to be one, the ceaseless monsoon of the eyes. The film interestingly incorporates three songs on the love and separation between Radha and Krishna. Here, the “viraha”, might signify not just the romantic yearning for the beloved and the pain in his absence but also a yearning to return to one’s self, Shailaja’s quest to reach the destination she has been looking for, find her “udgam”, as she says to her husband. After a brief confrontation with her husband ending in a somewhat bitter note, Shailaja leaves for an address where she can get rid of her baggage, she finds herself in the hut of the witch.

This is where a great mystery shrouding the death of her sister Venu and her buried grief come to the fore. She confesses that she was responsible for the accidental death of Venu and is ridden with devastating sadness. Perhaps in her attempt to forget and deny the harrowing reality, she had suppressed it so deep within her mind that the darkness had taken roots elsewhere plaguing the very stream which was the source of her memory, slowly infecting and threatening to obliterate them. Sitting on the topmost tier of the ferris wheel, in the penultimate scene of the narrative, Shailaja requests Pradeep to remind her about their last memory of the fair. It was the last memory each had of the other, and it was a bitter one. Shailaja apologises. Pradeep thanks her for remembering. In an initial moment, she had remarked about her condition stating she cannot realise who is handling whom. May be, she was not in charge any more, or perhaps, the memory was in charge, it refused to be forgotten and claimed to resurface even if for the last time, so compelled her to visit Vengurla, a place she had conveniently ignored for the most part of her life. The final scene is therefore extremely interesting in the context of the narrative. Shailaja visits the well, she is not afraid and does not shy away from facing her darkest fears. She gazes deep and long and moves away from the scene. The enigmatic shot besides many other epiphanic moments elevate the film from a regular story into a masterpiece. The cinema ends with a note of the protagonist truly coming to terms with herself, despite everything.

The title of the story if taken to suggest the three characters of Shailaja, Dipankar and Pradeep might seem misplaced and quite misleading. The narrative is everything but a triangular love story as is obliquely hinted at by the title. It is a quest of a character to find her roots, and the diseased mind, seeking a panacea for her ailment. It is a journey of Shailaja; and Dipankar and Pradeep are her compatriots; they are very much present, but it is for and with her. However, one may also think of the title in a different way if it is taken to signify Shailaja’s past, present and future selves, the synthesis of the process of constant churning to become who she becomes. It is a story worth telling, worth hearing, and definitely worth keeping in one’s heart for a very long time, because in the end memory wins, it is preserved in the mute wells, broken walls, promises, and spaces that are palimpsests.

Aishwarya Das Gupta teaches in Calcutta Girls’ College. She is a weaver of words who loves to recede into her bubble of silent dreams. She is an avid reader, lover of cinema and creative arts and if left alone to her own devices, may be found lingering under the shady bough of a lonely tree.