MATCHBOX

Recent films on Indian women are a celebration of their multifaceted lives. I am drawn to some of these films showcased at film festivals in Mumbai, Trivandrum and Bhubaneswar because of their intersectional feminist approach towards representing women, their friendships and constant struggle to uphold families and relationships. In both my personal and professional capacities, I witness women’s lives in the margins and attempt to understand how the exigencies of a heteronormative society impinges on their personal freedom and expressions of identity. In these films, I was enamoured by the alternate feminist scope they offered by challenging and subverting traditional representations of subaltern lives across different parts of India. These films dwell upon the diverse identities and roles that women play in their society; these highlight their friendships and broken relationships with themselves and their family members but with the underlying messages on healing and repairing and standing our ground. 

Humans in the Loop (2024) by Aranya Sahay is about data labellers in rural Jharkhand. It challenged my views about the impact of technology and artificial intelligence, and its potential to be taught and trained to represent indigenous lives. The film is a nuanced portrayal of Nehma (Sonal Madhushankar), from the Oraon tribe and her 12-year-old daughter Dhaanu (Ridhima Singh) and infant Guntu. It challenges traditional narratives on tribal lives by focussing on the struggles and choices exercised by Adivasi women. What I found endearing about Nehma’s story was the agency she continued to exercise despite the consequences she had to face. She marries out of her tribe with her classmate who belonged to higher caste, which is considered as a Dhuku marriage. Later, when she opts to separate from this marriage and live an independent life, despite social ostracization she enlists herself to a job that provides her with financial freedom. Nehma’s hopeful attitude towards her customs and her connectedness with the forest is reflected in her parenting as well as professional life. In a rare instance, where Indian cinema is finding the balance between representing indigenous communities, single working mothers and young girls, it was refreshing that the film offers some hope while dealing with questions of training AI and reconnecting with nature. What I liked about this film was that at a time when there are growing concerns about connectivity and inclusion in the techno-utopian promises held out by digitalisation of employment, education and health service delivery, this film provides a nuanced take on how technology shapes and gets shaped by the lives of subaltern women. I found  the film presents an apolitical, timeless story about conflicts: between mother and child, a man and a woman, between humans and nature and the continuing resistance of humans (i.e. indigenous people) to technology. Just as the closing sequence—where a young Nehma listens for a heartbeat in a rock correct—humanises nature, the film humanises AI. 

In the past year, South Asian films are celebrating womanhood by showcasing films about love, friendships and portrayal of queer relationships. Some of these films deftly portrayed strong female protagonists who defy and resist societal and patriarchal norms through their everyday acts and struggles. Common among these films was the tender representations of independent women, as opposed to the ‘victimisation’ of women who exert their agency and choose to live life in their own terms, and underlining the importance of self-care and leisure as essential feminist concepts.

In gender studies and heterodox economics, discussions about women and labour begin with the concept of leisure and self-care. In showing the multifaceted lives that women inhabit within the household and outside of it, especially women from underrepresented or misrepresented communities, films get caught in the stereotypical tropes of showing women’s destitution, entrapment and sacrifices within a man’s world. Feminichi Fathima (2024) by Faasil K V, and Angammal (2024) by Vipin Radhakrishnan, subverts these predicaments very intelligently. Feminichi Fathima offers a tender exploration of how Fathima balances her time, labour and commitments while foregrounding her basic needs and aspirations. In the opening sequence, a top shot of Fathima and her three children lying in a small bed in coastal Kerala at night. The delicate balance as children snuggle upto each other to fit within a small mattress will soon be upturned as dawn arrives. The eldest son has wet the bed, and the bickering children need to be sent to school. Fathima rues the addition of one more task in her already crowded day: she must cook breakfast, send the two children to madrassa and the youngest to Anganwadi, there are clothes that need washing and the bed needs to be put to dry in the sun. A dog ends up climbing on the mattress and peeing its way to glory which adds to the woes, her husband Usthad, who is the local teacher/healer has ordered to throw away the mattress because it is now corrupted. No amount of washing will rinse this heavy bed of the djinn it now possesses. Moreover, she is continuously expected to hover around Usthad with routine things which he seems to be clueless about, such as turning on the fan, finding his slippers, getting his shawl and serving him mouthwatering dishes, and pouring water in a tumbler so that he can make the effort to put it in his lips. It is comical, real and satirical at the same time. In a second viewing of the film, this author counted the Usthad calling out to Fathima to turn the fan on four times, find his slippers two times, figuring out how to get water in the jug twice and fiddling with the pressure cooker to serve the rice on his plate but once. What struck me most about the film was the friendships that sustained Fathima and help her become financially independent. The closing sequence is the same top shot of the children and Fathima sleeping snugly in a newly acquired mattress, content now that balance is restored.

In Angammal, Geeta Kailasam plays the titular character who has lived her entire life without a blouse. Adapted from Perumal Murugan’s short story Kodithuni, a fiery matriarch in rural Tamil Nadu reevaluates her lifestyle when her son expects her to wear a blouse. The central conflict – a woman’s right to wear a garment of her choice, the associated shame and judgement of her community members, and the son’s demand for his mother to acknowledge and cave in to his expectations – gives the film its moral weight. Angamal, however, needs no saving. She is not waiting for a resolution; she takes what is rightfully hers. Adamant, violent but largely caring she fights and protects her family, at her own terms. The folk story narrated by Angamal to her granddaughter forebodes the passing of generations and inciting winds which wash away old thoughts, old figures and wild leaves leaving a fire in its trail to let new ideas, and fresh seeds to regenerate. 

Traditionally, films and television series have presented the matriarch who has the entire family following her order and commands. I was beholden to Angamal, this elderly woman who wears her allegorical sleeve on her heart, flirts with her love interest – sometimes by honking at him, by helping out his family and seeking him out during public gatherings. From an intersectional feminist lens, a concept developed by the Black American scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989, I found Angammal to be a genuine portrayal of a rural, elderly woman whose intersecting identities enhance her multifaceted personality – as a mother, as a strong friend, as a caring grandmother as well as the breadwinner of her family.

Contrastingly, in Second Chance (2024) by Subhadra Mahajan, we come across Nia (Dheera Johnson), a city girl who moves to her summer house in the Himalayan mountains, where she is nursing a broken heart and a womb in recovery. Nia forges a friendship with the caretakers’ family members – a 70-year-old Bhemi (Thakra Devi) and 8-year-old Sunny (a mischievous Kanav Thakur) – and embeds herself within the wide folds of their lives. This space and acceptance allow her to grow her own roots wide and long so that she can stand through the fiercest of storms. In a scene, where she is suffering from Retained products of conception (RPOC) Dheera is terrific in her performance. Conventionally, this event would have been dramatic, a highpoint from where the character will find redemption or revenge but in Subhadra’s capable writing the tonality and treatment are exceptional. The subtle tone of the film, the monochromatic cinematography diverges from the usual melodramatic portrayals of loss and grief. This film connected several chords within me, a city-bred woman who often seeks refuge in the peace and quiet of the mountain ranges. Without a signal on her phone, Nia prefers solitude. The film offers a silent, reflective pause to let Nia deal with her loss, form new connections and find new paths within and without. 

I was smitten throughout the film with its melancholic music, panoramic views of the ice-clad winter mountains and the earthly cinematography. As the end credits rolled, and Nia finds a new opening in her journey, one walks away with hope and aspirations to live life slowly, one moment at a time. It perhaps is a timely reminder, as Jenny Odell warns us in Saving Time: Discovering a Life Beyond the Clock – “As planet-bound animals, we live inside shortening and lengthening days; inside the weather where certain flowers and scents come back, atleast for now, to visit a year-older self. Sometimes time in not money but these things instead.” Second Chance is a feminist invitation to rewrite our own journeys beyond the capitalist demands on time, and invest in restoration of our own selves, damaged and burnt out.

Shambhala by Min Bahadur Rahman is an extension of this feminist invitation to love and to care. Directed by Min Bahadur Rahman, it is about a young woman, Pema, living in the mountains, waiting for her husband, Tashi to return from Lhasa. As she sets out on a journey to meet him and confront him about rumours and gossip, she experiences and realises a profound meaning of love, expectation and detachment. Set in amongst the indigenous mountainous communities living in Nepal, the story tells us that even in such communities, gossip, friendships and societal expectations from women are way too oppressive for women than men. While deeply retaining its philosophical and religious focus, the film expands Pema’s sense of forgiveness, her determination to dispel rumours and stand up for herself. A deeply moving and profound experience, the film foretells a unique narrative of companionship and polyamory without overtly sexualising women’s relationships with men in her family and her community. With a tender feminist gaze, this film upends the traditional heroic storytelling of indigenous mountain-dwellers lives. What I liked about this film is hidden under the contextual and societal norms about love it underscores the importance of self-love and compassion, which is strongly associated with women, but is also extended to the male characters that inhabit Pema’s life.

In a deeply polarised India, we remember women and communities who suffer losses and experience untold grief through our films. Despite powerful narratives and commendable technical capabilities, such independent films continue to struggle to find a wider audience and distribution channels. The success of these films at the festivals across India and globally indicate there are several such stories that can rekindle the hope and compassion of both filmmakers and the audience.