by Connie Haham
If Desai mothers represent warmth and abundant love, they are also the binding link to morality. In Suhaag, little Kishan is forced to drink whiskey. Amit, the street waif, accompanies the boy home. His mother, seeing her son drunk, slaps him—and then gives him a forgiving hug. Later, as an adult, Amit apologizes to this same woman for his own addiction to liquour, ‘If only I had had a mother to slap me, I wouldn’t have kept drinking till now.’ And only a mother will do. In Desh Premee the leper woman (Sharmila Tagore) who helps Raju (Amitabh Bachchan) escape from the police is actually his long-lost, but unrecognizable mother. He apologizes to the kind woman, ‘If I’d had a mother to watch after me, maybe I wouldn’t be in trouble with the law today.’
She replies, ‘But you had your father, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he answers, ‘but a mother is always a mother, right?’ to which she readily agrees.
One wonders about the reactions of women spectators to such mother figures. For those who are mothers, the role model—and adulation that accompanies it—could be attractive. Then again, it could be annoying. In the western world motherhood is a tarnished state. Since the advent of Freudian psychology, the image of the ‘mother’ has been irretrievably undermined. One psychologist appeased (in a matter of speaking) the readers of a popular U.S. women’s magazine by telling them not to worry about their roles as mothers. No matter what they did, they would be wrong, so they might as well relax! Hindi cinema as a general rule, and a Manmohan Desai film in particular, gives quite a different (and comforting?) message: So long as one is a mother—and not a stepmother—one can do no wrong.
If mothers are invariably good, their husbands are often weak, even bad. In Suhaag Vikram Singh (Amjad Khan) refuses to acknowledge his family, drives them from his palace, and later becomes a notorious criminal. Kishanlal (Pran) in Amar Akbar Anthony does not hesitate to gain wealth through smuggling when destiny offers the opportunity. The men in Chhalia (Rehman) and in Dharam-Veer (Pran) meanly doubt the fidelity of their wives whose faithfulness is beyond reproach. Desai’s preference for the goddesses and his disdain for Rama who sent his good wife Sita into exile, or for the womanizing Krishna, found expression in his regular portrayal of strong, good women on the one hand and far from perfect men on the other. He said:
…In my films I always talk about ‘Ma, sherovali.’ ...I’m not a devotee in the sense I’m…I’m a sinner, but I’m a great believer in the devi— Durga, Amba, Lakshmi. We have many gods and goddesses in our religion. I’m more for the goddesses than the gods. I feel a woman is a supreme creation. It is she who conceives, she who bears the child after nine months, she who takes care through hardship. She brings into the world a new life. That’s why you rarely find a bad woman in my films. I rate them very high. I respect them more than I would a man.
If men can neither be as good as women nor as fundamentally creative, they can participate vicariously in the uplifting state of motherhood. Prem (Shashi Kapoor) in Aa Gale Lag Jaa is as self-sacrificing and ever-present in his son’s life as any mother. In Amar Akbar Anthony the three dispersed children are adopted by men, not by couples. And in Dharam-Veer the hunter Joala (Pran) is injured immediately after the consummation of his marriage to the princess (Indrani Mukherjee); he goes into a coma for exactly nine months, waking precisely when his wife gives birth. His magic falcon catches his newborn son in mid-air and delivers it to the kind couple who have been caring for Joala. His ‘pregnancy’ over, however, Joala goes on his way, leaving the son he does not know is his, in the hands of the generous couple. Women have often conjectured that men envy their power to bear children. Here would seem to be proof of that envy, generously and unselfconsciously expressed.
the wife
Desai’s women could well be criticized from a feminist standpoint, at least in their roles as wives. Grammar is used to express submission, i.e., a wife is addressed with the informal ‘tum’ while she addresses her husband with the respectful ‘aap’ form for ‘you.’ Some mindful Indian women were enraged at the film Suhaag, particularly when Durga (Nirupa Roy) not only accepts her scoundrel husband back after years of absence but even refuses to allow him to apologize to her. Yet Durga is active and maintains her dignity throughout the film. After she is thrown out on the street where she must fend for herself, she is strong and capable of providing for herself and her son. Also, when she is first forced to leave her husband, she does not shrink silently out. She invokes heavenly justice, calling down a curse on him, ‘You’re sending me and the children out of here today, but one day destiny will be on the side of these children (twin boys), and you will come begging to them,’ a prophecy that we see fulfilled.
More offensive than Durga’s attitude is the doormat behaviour of the wife (Indrani Mukherjee) in Bhai Ho To Aisa. The bad husband in Suhaag sends his wife away, but in so doing, leaves her free to live her life in peace. In Bhai Ho To Aisa Thakur (Shatrughan Sinha) keeps his wife by his side and causes her daily anguish. He forces her to give him her jewels, even her mangal sutra (a necklace, the symbol of marriage), to pay for his dancing girl. When Thakur resorts to physical violence on his wife, his younger brother (Jeetendra) jumps to her defense and strikes Thakur back. Rather than thanking her brother-in-law, however, she slaps him for raising a hand against her husband, a singular response that is, fortunately, not repeated in another Desai film. If the audience is made to understand what a bad example Thakur is setting, they are not led to believe that the wife’s response is less than ideal. Roopa (Hema Malini), the younger brother’s spunky girlfriend, serves to offset this image of total self-effacement a bit, but her gumption is not sufficient to subvert the message given by the wife who, despite the ill-treatment she has suffered, nevertheless, prays, Savitri-like, that a poisonous snake might kill her and spare her husband. Concerning Savitri, Desai said:
She was very good; I like her. My characters of the mother are based on her—pure, good, would fight for her husband. Savitri is the embodiment of the good woman who, they say, pleaded even with the God of Death to spare her husband’s life.
Such a vision of womanhood is probably partially a reflection of a present reality and a persistent myth, partially unconscious propaganda to female viewers, and partially plain and simple wishful thinking. It is this last motivating factor that would seem to unite the majority of male filmmakers worldwide and that is the only plausible explanation for their tendency to show aging men playing love interests to women 20 to 40 years their juniors, unaware of, or unconcerned by the reactions of many women spectators.
screen time
Generally, woman viewers feel as offended by the absence of women on screen as by their ill treatment there. Women rarely frequent pornographic films, nor do they tend to patronize womanless fight films. Being made to feel non-existent is demoralizing. Screen time counts. Hindi cinema is typical of a trend around the world to give men more visibility than woman. On American television, for which 1980s figures exist, men occupied, on average, three times as much air space as women. The 21st century has not improved matters; in Rosanna Arquette’s 2002 documentary Searching for Debra Winger, no-longer-young American actresses bemoan a lack of good scripts and long for 1930s and 40s when actresses like Barbara Stanwyck wielded real power in the industry.
Within Desai’s work the amount of footage for women varies. In the early films like Chhalia and Budtameez, both essentially love stories, Nutan and Sadhana share a reasonable portion of the limelight with Raj Kapoor and Shammi Kapoor respectively. In keeping with trends, later films saw reduced space for women. One gauge of the degree of woman orientation in any film could be the extent to which women characters are developed outside a romantic angle. Among Desai’s Amitabh starrers, Parvarish and Suhaag merit consideration in this respect. In Parvarish Shabana Azmi and Neetu Singh have several excellent scenes all to themselves. They are introduced to the audience not as objects of male desire, or even interest, but rather as professionals, as financially independent and highly compe
tent pickpockets. And they interact not only with the heroes but also, on their own terms, with many other characters. In contrast, Rati Agnihotri in Coolie has very few scenes in which she is not in playing opposite Amitabh Bachchan; this female dependence on the male lead is but one negative result of the increasing reliance on Bachchan in the later years of Desai’s career.
In Suhaag Anu (Parveen Babi), a medical student—who apparently spends little time actually studying—arrives at Kishan’s (Shashi Kapoor) mother’s house, offering to do some small jobs in exchange for money to donate to a worthy cause. Ma (Nirupa Roy) at first says she has no work to be done. When Anu spots Kishan’s photo inside the house, however, and lets out an exclamation of recognition, the mother cleverly surmises that this must be the ‘sandalwali,’ the girl whose sandal Ma found in Kishan’s pocket the night before. In mock severity, to the sound track of light and teasing music, the mother grabs the now-reluctant girl, pulls her in, and brings out the ‘incriminating’ sandal. Anu tries to deny it is hers, but it is impossible to lie to Ma. Still harsh, Ma, moving into the traditional mother-in-law role, gives Anu housework to do. Kishan discovers Anu’s presence when she serves him his breakfast. His only thought is to have her disappear quickly from his life. But Ma sternly insists that he pay the girl while Ma gives her a coconut as a good omen and a sign of welcome. Suddenly assured that Ma is now on her side, that Kishan will soon be her husband, Anu lowers her eyes demurely as any good daughter-in-law should and, being unable to cover up with a sari—she is in a sun dress—she uses her hair to hide part of her face. In the outside world Kishan is strong; he is a policeman whose valour is beyond reproach. Inside the house, once his mother has given her blessing and has joined forces with this pretty, but independence-threatening young woman, he is utterly defenseless. These scenes are interesting for several reasons. The young woman is and is not in her traditional soon-to-be-wedded role. She and the future mother-in-law are assumed to be responsible for all cooking and cleaning. The mother-in-law’s authority remains unchallenged as she orders the daughter-in-law about. Yet the complicity that develops between them as they use their combined, if different, wiles to override Kishan’s wishes is a delightful subversion of male power. A top actress is rarely, if ever, paid as much as a correspondingly high-ranking actor. (Aishwarya Rai or Julia Roberts might be exceptions to the rule.) In this well-written sequence in Suhaag, though, we witness two actresses so in command and so perfectly attuned to each other that a highly paid male star, when he enters the scene, momentarily becomes the accessory.
Shashi Kapoor, however, was categorical, ‘The female is exploited in his (Desai’s) films. Like in Suhaag she is a silent sufferer. His films are hero-oriented. I think that is also one of his hidden fantasies, from childhood maybe, the man who can win!’
Or at least he can win in the outside world. In Satyajit Ray’s 1984 Ghaire Baire (The Home and the World), based on Tagore’s 1916 novel, we observe the contrasting female and male use of space. Though subtle, a similar spatial differentiation applies in Desai’s films. Desai’s magic—perhaps macho—time is occasionally suspended, particularly in interior scenes, for example in Chhalia when Shaanti (Nutan) sits in Chhalia’s hut mending clothes. In the romantic Aa Gale Lag Jaa Prem (Shashi Kapoor) is the care-giver who raises his child and thus, to some extent, moves into ‘woman time.’ Nurturing and domesticity involve a slowing of time. Setting the table or washing dishes become meaningful acts, during which emotions can be explored.
active heroines
Desai also shows women who win. An array of spunky heroines push men around, fight with them, make fools of them, combat alongside them, and defend themselves against them. Neetu Singh in Dharam-Veer has the perfect physique for her role as the gypsy girl. She is tough, and she knows how to look after her own interests. At the palace door she bluffs, exuding an air of confidence while demanding that the guard announce her presence to the prince inside. The guard, unconvinced, bars her passage. When the prince’s cousin (Ranjeet) arrives and insists that she be let in, she struts flauntingly past the guard, expressing with her whole body the attitude that Parveen Babi, as Anu, conveys by thumbing her nose at Kishan during the song ‘Kahin Bhi Le Chalo’ in Suhaag.
In a country in which feminists regularly rail against the status of women, one might wonder about these active heroines. The women who cannot be kept down are, after all, not uncommon in Hindi cinema. A recent example is the striking seeker of justice played by Raveena Tandon in Madhur Bhandarkar’s Satta (2002). Manmohan Desai gave us especially active heroines. He was not a passive person, and he was not interested in passivity in the characters he brought to screen or even, for that matter, in characters from the epics. Sita, the one to whom things happen, held little attraction for Desai. Likewise, Draupadi had no special merit. ‘She’s no heroine!” he said. ‘She did nothing. She was stripped by the Kauravas and, Lord Krishna, who supports her, gave her a sari from the air.’ Savitri, he appreciated not only for her fidelity to her husband and her penchant for placing her husband’s needs before her own but also for her fighting spirit. Other precedents for these active women role models exist in Indian history, myth, legend, and literature. As Desai said:
Good and courageous mother figures are ever present; yes, we respect women in our country. Our ex-prime minister has been a woman, and a great prime minister, Mrs. Indira Gandhi. And you see from our scriptures, the great Shivaji warrior, he had a mother Jigabai; she encouraged him, taught him to become a warrior. The same thing: we have Rani Padmini of Chittore. She, along with other Rajput women, they committed sati rather than fall in the hands of the invaders, the Mughal invaders.
To Desai’s list might be added the fighting queens, Razia Sultana, Rani Durgavati, Rani of Jhansi, Noor Jahan, and Chand Bibi, who courageously protected their subjects and territories. The limelight in which Phoolan Devi, the late notorious/famous woman dacoit-cum-politician, found herself can perhaps be attributed to the resonance she gave to the battling heroines of the past. Cinema history gives us another model. The Greco-Welsh, Australian-born Fearless Nadia, was greatly appreciated for her physical daring in her stunt films at Wadia Movietone (e.g. Hunterwali in 1935, Diamond Queen in 1940). It is possible that courage in any form exercises a consistently strong appeal and that it is gender blind. At the end of Mahesh Bhatt’s Arth (1983), Pooja (Shabana Azmi), earlier the victim of her husband’s philandering, takes a bold stand by refusing to accept him back when he returns, humbled and repentant. ‘If I had done the same thing,’ she asks him, ‘would you have taken me back?’ Her words hit him like a sword fighter’s ‘Touché!’ and the audience in Bombay, particularly the male members, responded with wild applause. The line works again in a more recent film Kuch Naa Kaho (by Rohan Sippy, 2003) in which Namrata (Aishwarya Rai) finally stands up to her bullying husband.
Manmohan Desai’s young women are not only courageous. They are also feisty, often showing the sort of anarchic spirit that is the essence of Desai’s comedy. A nice heroine would not trap a man into marrying her, but Anu (Parveen Babi) in Suhaag and the gypsy girl (Neetu Singh) in Dharam-Veer do precisely that. And in Parvarish the heroines flout society’s rules by going brazenly to the hero’s parents to ask for their sons’ hands in marriage. ‘That’s just a spoof,’ Desai said. ‘Normally, it’s the boys who are supposed to go to the girls’ parents and ask the parents. I just had a little change, just a little bit of variation, so that I don’t get bogged down with the same angle in every film.’ A surprising source of inspiration for his tomboy heroines was a comic strip character:
The heroine, I’d rather fashion on this one: Modesty Blaise. I’m very fascinated by Modesty Blaise and Willy Garvin. Every day you get their comic strip in the paper. She’s a terrific character. I’m dying to make a film. It’s action based. She and Willy Garvin are partners, but the best thing is they are so much together, but they don’t sleep with each other. He has a lot of affairs with other women. She sleeps with other m
en. But they are like a team. They work together to solve all the cases. They fight all the bad men. She’s a great fighter, a great expert in karate, in everything. So is Willy Garvin, and they’re always together, but they never make love together. They’re friends. A fabulous character. I believe, I’m not sure, in the West somebody did make a film on Modesty Blaise and Willy Garvin.4 But I would like to make it in India, if I could just find a good angle, an emotional angle to that character. But the only thing is that in our films we can’t have a hero and heroine not in love with each other and sleeping around with others. That’s where the image of Savitri comes in. She’s not supposed to touch any other man.
