In the driver’s seat: A toast to the Everyday Woman in Gulabo Sitabo
A still from Gulabo Sitabo (2020).
Gulabo Sitabo is the latest release from the oeuvre of writer-director duo Shoojit Sircar and Juhi Chaturvedi, featuring strong everyday women who are often underrepresented in the vast Hindi cinema ecosystem.
Just seven minutes into watching Gulabo Sitabo, I got the first glimpse of the fiery, self-assured and deeply ambitious Guddo (played to perfection by a radiant Srishti Shrivastava). She is in the final year of her undergrad degree and is looking forward to the prospects of having a full-time job, in a quest for self-dependence. The scene is particularly telling because it gives an insight into the socio-cultural milieu that she inhabits. The contrast between her background and her ambitions couldn’t have been more jarring.
Her brother, less educated than her, hints at her potential marriage, a chilling reminder of the unquestioned trajectory women are supposed to follow in our culture. An elementary education and a college degree (if you are very lucky) is considered sufficient enough to make the transition from a young girl to a young bride. After all, the societal belief goes that women need to be sufficiently educated just enough to help kids through homework in the early years of their life.
But Guddo doesn’t suffer any of that atavistic bickering. In no uncertain terms, she says, “Hamko koi shaadi byaah nahi karna hai. Sab befaltu ka naksah hai. Aaram se ham apne ghar mei baithe hain ijjat e, ham khane-rehne layak kama lenge.” (“I don’t want to get married. All this is just unnecessary fuss. I am respectfully sitting in my home and can earn to sustain myself.”) Her rebuttal was a moment of rejoice, as she shunned the Indian collective obsession with marriage—even when the obsession comes at the cost of debt and dowry.
This scene is only the tip of the iceberg, setting the tone for much more to follow. As the film progresses, I couldn’t help but crave more of Guddo on the screen, despite the film being frontlined by two fine male actors (Ayushmann Khurrana and Amitabh Bachchan). In narrating the quotidian squabble between a pesky landlord and an equally predatory tenant, the spotlight predominantly and understandably so, falls on the two leading men who are stunning in their metamorphosis.
Unfortunately, this everyday woman is also underrepresented in the vast Hindi cinema ecosystem. The quintessential Bollywood is either the docile, submissive, song and dance diva, a mere ancillary, whose only purpose is to add dollops of glamour to draw huge crowds; or she acts as the catalyst of change, a beautiful conduit, to inspire the ‘hero’ to achieve the greatness that he was meant for.
But the ingenuity of the film’s writing dictates a deft integration of the central with the marginal. In fact, the scenes that have stayed with me are the ones of this great integration. For instance, in a small and seemingly inconsequential scene, Guddo can be seen educating her brother on matters of archaeology while slightly nudging him to take his boards exams. She even reassures him that she would help him get through. The moment is seamless and unpretentious—a sequel of sorts to the one where Guddo expresses her intent to get a job—and it solidifies the film’s progressive position on women.
In a film’s male-dominated, high-decibel, and almost cantankerous atmosphere, we do meet some fascinating women. There is Guddo of course, who is luminous and lights up the screen every time she makes an appearance (In another powerful scene, she refuses to coy down to a lawyer’s intimidation. She is so sparkling and confident that he even appoints her his apprentice). But there is also an impatient girlfriend, desperate to take the plunge to her marriage, and eventually proceeds to do it, even if it means going to the altar without her lover. Towards the end of the film, you see this woman once more, and married now, and seemingly happier and richer.
And then there is the Begum (Farrukh Jaffer), the owner of Fatima Mahal. The ‘Mahal’ is the point of contention in the film, the subject of desire, and the repository of the past. Begum is a vivacious nonagenarian is unfazed by age. She has a full-time helper who dolls her up routinely, and she cares little about the chaos that engulfs the ramshackle haveli. The Begum has a colourful past: she once eloped with her lover in the heydays of her life, a memory which suddenly changes not only the course of her life but of all those who called Fatima Mahal their home. In the film, she dismisses her husband, seventeen years her junior, with a flick of her finger, chastises him with her overbearing authority, and keeps him under control. He lives off her inheritance and she bears no reverence for him, turning upside down the conventions of an archetypal Indian family. At one point she chides him, as if talking to a truant, saying, “Dibbe mei chute paise rakhe hai, unko le lijiye aur phir apni shakal kafi dinon tak hamei mat dikhaiyega.” (There is some change in the box, take it and don’t show me your face for really long”). He bows respectfully, taking the pittance she throws at him.
These atypical female characters are the trademark of films helmed by writer-director duo Shoojit Sircar and Juhi Chaturvedi, with Gulabo Sitabo being their fourth outing together. In their first, Vicky Donor, the duo created unforgettable characters in the form of the loquacious Dolly Ahluwalia and the very woke Biji—two women who are a complete hoot. Dolly runs the house on what she makes from her home-based beauty-parlour, while also ensuring the needs of everyone are met in the household. She is a motor-mouth and relishes her customary drink at the dawn of the day (something, we are told later, that helps her sleep better). And it is through Biji that we hear some of the most progressive lines in the film.
In their next, Piku, the duo strike again, creating in Piku the everyday woman who straddles multiple roles, sometimes irritably, sometimes like a breeze, but never shying away from the task at hand. She is the primary caregiver to a perpetually sulking father, has a career and a home to take care of, and straddles between tradition and modernity. She is in no rush to ‘settle down’, but she sure tends to her sexual needs. Most importantly, she is unapologetic.
Unfortunately, this everyday woman is also underrepresented in the vast and supposedly ever-evolving Hindi cinema ecosystem. The quintessential Bollywood heroine is repeatedly cast in two moulds. Either she is the docile, submissive, song and dance diva, a mere ancillary, whose only purpose is to add dollops of glamour to draw huge crowds. Or she acts as the catalyst of change, a beautiful conduit, to inspire the ‘hero’ to achieve the greatness that he was meant for. With the passing of time, there have been genuine attempts to make amends but they are far and few in between (Thappad, NH10). In fact, in embodying a strong female character, most directors fall prey to the trap of completely masculinising them, in the process adopting a one-dimensional approach in characterisation. She has to be the Durga incarnate to be taken seriously (Mardaani, Gangajal, Drishyam to name a few), but one who is often so invested in her work that her domestic life has to be in complete disarray. There is also the ‘fallen woman’ (Anarkali of Aarah, The Dirty Picture) who, even in her defiance, remains an outlier. These ‘fallen’ tropes seem to emphasise that tragedy always needs to be the back-story in a story about women’s empowerment.
It is then refreshing to see Gulabo Sitabo’s writer-director duo almost always strike the right note and create carefully-calibrated characters, oozing with depth. Chaturvedi, in her gaze, seems to understand the pulls and pressures of women, and she brings the same nuance while fleshing out her characters. Think of Professor Vidya Iyer in October: As a mother caught at the crossroads of grief, and life after grief (her only daughter is dying), her deep expressive eyes do most of the talking. She tries to let go while clutching on to what she once would have held dearly. She is measured and poised, even in her weakest moments. The intrigues and layers of her characters are hauntingly satisfying.
Chaturvedi’s oeuvre is dotted with strong characters, and some of them seem to be in conversation with each other. It would not be hard to imagine Piku and Guddo hitting it off really well together. Separated by a huge class divide, they are yet alike in many ways. They are both sexually frank, ambitious and headstrong. In some ways yet, Piku is who Guddo can aspire to become, once she transgresses the dread of drudgery that separates their worlds.
The best thing about Sircar’s cinematic ‘universe’ is that the Piku, Guddu, Dolly, and Biji are very much enmeshed in our culture. They embody the spirit of regular people you meet on an everyday basis. It could be the single mother who dons various hats, or the grandmother who has evolved with the times, shedding away the mindless traditions that once dictated her life. It could be your female boss who you want to emulate, or it could be you, finding your way out of the volley of challenges life throws at you. If actors can be expected to lift the burden of representing the heroic, the dramatic and the exotic, it is high time we celebrate extraordinary aspirations of the ordinary folk, that we acknowledge the flawed yet flawless woman raring to go.
The women of Gulabo Sitabo are undoubtedly the brightest meteors in a galaxy bathed in an all male aesthetic. Trading a theatrical release for an OTT platform, the film is remarkable in its ability to disrupt the trend most Indi-series are reveling in. Over the years, streaming shows like Sacred Games, Mirzapur, Pataal Lok, and more have garnered critical appraise and viewer’s attention have a starkly similar story to tell. They are a sojourn into the badlands, an exploration of our faultlines. The world they live is the one where expletives are exchanged at the drop of a hat, people killed in the blink of an eyelid, and corrupt deals finalised with impunity. There is chaos, there is intrigue, and there is thrill.
But these shows are also strikingly similar in the victimisation of women, in their marginalisation and their exploitation. They portray a flurry of women characters that are at the mercy of men in their life. The women in these shows are brimming with potential and even ambition, but are often presented without the gusto of Guddo or the zeal of Begum. They are happy to be eclipsed and trust the men in their lives to drive them home (Renu and Dolly in Pataal Lok; Subhadra, Jojo and others in Sacred Games; Beena, Guddu and Sweety in Mirzapur).
The women in Sircar’s films, however, don’t ride pillion; instead they hold the clutches of their life and steer the wheel in the direction they want to tread on—even if it means eloping with their lover at age 95!
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Harshita Murarka is a communications professional currently associated with a UK-based firm. She holds a Master’s in English Literature from the University of Delhi and a Master’s in Media and Communications from the London School of Economics and Political Science. She has an inclination towards arts, culture and Hindi cinema which leads to occasional stints in writing. You can find her on Instagram: @nectar_in_a_sieve and Twitter: @HarshitaMurarka.
