The bearings of western-style Feminism on the various subcultures of India have hitherto remained largely non-existent, the two entities belonging to alien realms and threatening (in the name of tradition) never to coincide. Art imitates life (or so the claim goes) and popular Hindi cinema is no exception, reflecting an underlying misogyny which, regrettably, forms the foundation of much of the collective Indian culture. But why? What is it about the female gender that has rendered it so hateful to the culture that women are routinely subject to the most unimaginable horrors, including rape, murder, infanticide, imposed illiteracy, infidelity, and the subjugation of spirit that goes under the name of 'dowry'? Rajkumar Santoshi's latest offering, "Lajja", asks the same plaintive question, linking the atrocities committed against women through three separate chapters/episodes which comprise the journey of shame endured by its protagonist, Vaidehi (Manisha Koirala).
Direction on Santoshi's part is not up to par with the level the story demands. He fails to achieve the necessary sensitivity in depicting the saga of sadness and confronts the issue of misogyny from the side, instead of head-on. Santoshi has recently said that he did not make the film for an international film festival, but rather for the masses of his country. Regrettably, the tackiness shows, and the film too often delves into the action-blood-gore genre that Santoshi specializes in. The film suffers from its jerky, episodic pace and its ending is rather too contrived.
The female cast is given much kinder and more rounded characterizations than their male counterparts. The protagonist is played sensitively by the luminescently beautiful Manisha Koirala who proves in Lajja that she is one of our time's more competent leading ladies, and given a proper role and set up, emerges with a truly commendable performance. One wonders how brilliantly she may have shone had the film been made by a director with the appropriate creative intention and appreciation of the issue at hand. Mahima Choudhary puts in a laudable performance and continues to show that she is an untapped talent. Cast as Janki, Madhuri Dixit performs with a never-before-seen fervor and felicity for what truly deserves the name of 'acting.' The role of a street smart performer who finds solace in alcohol and the promise of an unborn child stands as the greatest risk in her cannon of song-n-dance roles which have maintained her marquee status over the past decade. Which leaves the final and most disturbing performance in this would-be feminist saga, that of the ceaselessly talented Rekha. Lajja is Manisha Koirala's film, there can be no doubt about that, but it is Rekha who dominates the proceedings in a performance that digs into your bones and sends echoes of terror through the vestibules of your heart. Rekha dazzles as Ramdulari, foregoing vanity and complacency to deliver a performance that is so replete with authenticity and ingenuity that emotional nudity becomes the mantra of this portion of the film. Comparisons are indeed odious, especially when rendered opposite one of the world's great leading ladies, but in the gracious presence of this reigning screen legend the others fade in her shadow.
"Lajja" has none of the sophistication of proto-feminist dramas like "Zubeidaa", "Pinjar", or even the Hell-Queen celebration "Laadla": it fulfills its feministic goals in two early moments:the loud tirade in which Mahima berates her in-laws for their abuse of her father who has committed no other crime than given birth to a girl. She erupts, leaving the wedding procession in shambles. Seeing her father devastated, she begins to weep, blaming herself for the chaotic destruction in front of her. She bemoans, "Why did I say anything? I have ruined everything! It is all my fault!" Her grandmother, witnessing silently the abuse she bore, comforts her by saying, "Why are you crying? There is no reason for you to be crying. You are not at fault for anything. The fault is mine. The fault is of every woman who came before you, because if we had had the courage to say in our day what you have said today, there would have been no need for you to say anything today." In this scene the importance of the Feminist Legacy is laid plainly in sight through words.
The other, more subtle moment comes very early in the film when Vaidehi (Manisha) has fled from her abusive husband to the refuge of her parents' home in India. To viewers of western societies, it may seem perfectly reasonable (indeed, natural) that any abused woman would seek the protective guardianship of her parents; this, however, is a societal taboo in many eastern cultures, India among them. Once a woman has been married, the identity she assumes is that of her husband and his personal assets (family, business, children, etc.) For her to turn her back on these responsibilities is a grave social sin, one which truly has no equivalent for the western woman. She is thereafter regarded as tainted and as 'damaged goods', one whose value has been nullified entirely by her own actions and her refusal to submit to the role she has been given. She is not so much an individual as she is an emblem of familial honor. Her father rebukes her for her actions, concerned that his familial honor will be tarnished irreparably by the daughter he had already transferred to another man. His primary concern is that of the impending marriage of Vaidehi's younger sister, a prospect made far less likely with a divorced elder daughter in the same household. He tells her in no uncertain that she must return to the man to whom she lawfully belongs, however violent and sadistic he may be. He levies against her the age old adage that, "The honor of every home lies in the hands of its daughter." Quietly and pensively, she replies, "Yes, the honor of every home lies in the hands of its daughter. But there is no honor for the daughter herself."
Direction on Santoshi's part is not up to par with the level the story demands. He fails to achieve the necessary sensitivity in depicting the saga of sadness and confronts the issue of misogyny from the side, instead of head-on. Santoshi has recently said that he did not make the film for an international film festival, but rather for the masses of his country. Regrettably, the tackiness shows, and the film too often delves into the action-blood-gore genre that Santoshi specializes in. The film suffers from its jerky, episodic pace and its ending is rather too contrived.
The female cast is given much kinder and more rounded characterizations than their male counterparts. The protagonist is played sensitively by the luminescently beautiful Manisha Koirala who proves in Lajja that she is one of our time's more competent leading ladies, and given a proper role and set up, emerges with a truly commendable performance. One wonders how brilliantly she may have shone had the film been made by a director with the appropriate creative intention and appreciation of the issue at hand. Mahima Choudhary puts in a laudable performance and continues to show that she is an untapped talent. Cast as Janki, Madhuri Dixit performs with a never-before-seen fervor and felicity for what truly deserves the name of 'acting.' The role of a street smart performer who finds solace in alcohol and the promise of an unborn child stands as the greatest risk in her cannon of song-n-dance roles which have maintained her marquee status over the past decade. Which leaves the final and most disturbing performance in this would-be feminist saga, that of the ceaselessly talented Rekha. Lajja is Manisha Koirala's film, there can be no doubt about that, but it is Rekha who dominates the proceedings in a performance that digs into your bones and sends echoes of terror through the vestibules of your heart. Rekha dazzles as Ramdulari, foregoing vanity and complacency to deliver a performance that is so replete with authenticity and ingenuity that emotional nudity becomes the mantra of this portion of the film. Comparisons are indeed odious, especially when rendered opposite one of the world's great leading ladies, but in the gracious presence of this reigning screen legend the others fade in her shadow.
"Lajja" has none of the sophistication of proto-feminist dramas like "Zubeidaa", "Pinjar", or even the Hell-Queen celebration "Laadla": it fulfills its feministic goals in two early moments:the loud tirade in which Mahima berates her in-laws for their abuse of her father who has committed no other crime than given birth to a girl. She erupts, leaving the wedding procession in shambles. Seeing her father devastated, she begins to weep, blaming herself for the chaotic destruction in front of her. She bemoans, "Why did I say anything? I have ruined everything! It is all my fault!" Her grandmother, witnessing silently the abuse she bore, comforts her by saying, "Why are you crying? There is no reason for you to be crying. You are not at fault for anything. The fault is mine. The fault is of every woman who came before you, because if we had had the courage to say in our day what you have said today, there would have been no need for you to say anything today." In this scene the importance of the Feminist Legacy is laid plainly in sight through words.
The other, more subtle moment comes very early in the film when Vaidehi (Manisha) has fled from her abusive husband to the refuge of her parents' home in India. To viewers of western societies, it may seem perfectly reasonable (indeed, natural) that any abused woman would seek the protective guardianship of her parents; this, however, is a societal taboo in many eastern cultures, India among them. Once a woman has been married, the identity she assumes is that of her husband and his personal assets (family, business, children, etc.) For her to turn her back on these responsibilities is a grave social sin, one which truly has no equivalent for the western woman. She is thereafter regarded as tainted and as 'damaged goods', one whose value has been nullified entirely by her own actions and her refusal to submit to the role she has been given. She is not so much an individual as she is an emblem of familial honor. Her father rebukes her for her actions, concerned that his familial honor will be tarnished irreparably by the daughter he had already transferred to another man. His primary concern is that of the impending marriage of Vaidehi's younger sister, a prospect made far less likely with a divorced elder daughter in the same household. He tells her in no uncertain that she must return to the man to whom she lawfully belongs, however violent and sadistic he may be. He levies against her the age old adage that, "The honor of every home lies in the hands of its daughter." Quietly and pensively, she replies, "Yes, the honor of every home lies in the hands of its daughter. But there is no honor for the daughter herself."