Spoilers ahead…
Is Radhika Apte the best weeper on screen today? With other actresses, you hunt for a handkerchief to lend, a ladies’ room to usher them into. You worry about their makeup. With Apte, the emotion goes deeper, down to her core, and then it bursts out. You hunt for something to hold on to while glancing at seismograph readings. You worry about the sets. Apte had a spectacular breakdown in Kabali. The gangster drama got away with a U certificate, but she was so naked, her scenes warranted an A. The nudity in Leena Yadav’s Parched is more literal. Apte plays Lajjo, a housewife whose condition the movie’s subtitles describe through a word that could just as easily apply to the dusty, northwestern-India landscape: barren. And her tears come from being routinely beaten by her husband Manoj (Mahesh Balraj), an alcoholic whose abusiveness may stem from knowing that the problem lies with him. Apte weeps sometimes out of (the physical) pain, sometimes out of the unfairness of it all (when she thinks she’s given Manoj news that should make him happy), sometimes out of fear. To describe these variants of tears, you feel you need the kind of vocabulary the Inuit have, with their different words for snow.
After one such round of violence, Lajjo ends up at her friend Rani’s (Tannishtha Chatterjee) house – this time, her eyes are filled with remnants of tears just shed. Wordlessly, Lajjo removes her blouse. Rani sees the wounds, reaches for balm almost reflexively, and begins to apply it. Lajjo winces, then relaxes. And then, there’s a moment. But it isn’t Fire. It’s something more than friendship, but it’s also something less than a lesbian relationship. It’s just two women wanting to be touched nicely, sensitively, affectionately. The physicality isn’t an angry fuck-you to all men. It’s just a tired high-five between two women.
Throughout Parched, you hear echoes of older films, but Yadav shapes them into new sounds. There are bits that are reminiscent of Mirch Masala, but unlike the moustache-twirling subedar there, the monster isn’t just external. It lives inside Rani too, feeding on the patriarchy that has seeped into her. It rears its head when Rani sees that her young daughter-in-law, Janaki (Lehar Khan), has shorn off her hair. (A lice infestation, Janaki’s mother explains.) Instead of sympathising with the 15-year-old, Rani weeps at the ridicule she’s going to be subjected to once everyone gets a glimpse of Janaki. A little later, Rani dissuades the girl from reading. The surface stillness of Chatterjee’s performance conceals deep veins of (perhaps inadvertent, perhaps unthinking) cruelty – she makes you see that you don’t always need men to persecute women. And what about the time Rani’s best friend, a dancer and prostitute named Bijli (Surveen Chawla), barges into the gathering to wish the bride and groom (Gulab, played by Riddhi Sen)? The crowd goes silent. Then they begin to murmur. Rani doesn’t say anything to Bijli, but her stubborn refusal to meet her friend’s eyes and welcome her to the celebration is the same as a self-righteous man clutching Bijli’s hair and casting her out.
There are shades of Bazaar in Janaki being married off to Gulab when her heart beats for a boy back home. But unlike the helpless Supriya Pathak character there, Janaki comes with a hint of rebellion. Her shorn tresses aren’t really about lice. With her new look, she was hoping she’d be packed off home. The frank sex talk between women brings to mind Mandi – had Benegal made his film today, he’d surely have had a scene that demonstrated the pleasures a cell phone on vibrate mode can bring. But Parched is kinder to its women, and its sympathy isn’t an outsider’s.
We even have a scene that harks back to our myths about childless queens submitting to sages so successful in impregnation, after just one encounter, that you suspect their sperm were equipped with homing devices. It’s a silly scene, blatantly targeted at foreign art-house audiences who keep their chiropractors rich by trying out positions from the illustrated Kamasutra. I laughed at the cave setting, which all but comes with a sign at the entrance: Step this way for Tantric sex. I laughed harder on realising who was inside. (Adil Hussain isn’t the first name that springs to mind when you think acrobatic sperm-donor.) But I was strangely moved when Hussain knelt before Lajjo’s splayed-open legs and offered a prayer. The scene is, no doubt, mystical bunkum, but I’ve never seen another film that literally worships the place we all come from.
As contrast, we have Gulab. Sex, to him, is just the act. Maybe it isn’t even the act. It’s just proof that he can do it, that he’s a man. After his wedding night, he tells his mother, “Pati ka rasm nibha diya.” Translation: I’ve fulfilled a husband’s traditional duties. It’s depressing any way you look at it, whether in the implication that only the husband holds the key to a woman’s sex life (Rani hasn’t been touched by a man in the 15 years she’s been a widow; now ponder, a minute, over the lusty Beedi jalaile as the ring tone on her phone ), or in the generally accepted wisdom that this is all that’s expected of a man after marriage. Parched, unsurprisingly, makes the case that happiness is not to be found with men like Gulab. What’s surprising is that the good men – the stranger who keeps calling Rani, and doesn’t back off even when she declares she’s a 32-year-old widow; or the sympathetic Raju (Chandan Anand), who loves Bijli – are given the shaft too.
Raju tells Bijli she has beautiful eyes. She laughs. She’s not used to men who notice features above her chest. Surveen Chawla is fantastic. She uses her body marvellously, without a smidgen of self-consciousness, and the toughness she projects comes off more like a side-effect of the job rather than a congenital condition. Bijli, in other words, is not resigned to her fate. She doesn’t seem beyond hope. So will she say yes to Raju, who promises a life far away from competing with younger dancers for the privilege of pole-dancing in front of married men? That would mean a happy ending for Bijli. It would also mean she needs a man to achieve this happy ending. It was a little different in Pink. A white knight of a lawyer is one thing, a white knight of a husband quite another. The former is a supporter, the latter a saviour. Like Pink, Parched features a woman from the North East. (Meghalaya there, Manipur here.) The point is the same. Your roommates (or husband, in Parched) may not see you as “different,” but in the society beyond, it’s a very different reality.
We’ve had many films about women, but few that have so sensitively, so generously let them be women. Angry Indian Goddesses, of course – but that was an urban film, and the fiery, outspoken women were closer to the women we know. We’re used to scenes showing women gossiping in salons with cucumber slices over their eyes, but that’s not the same as seeing Rani, Bijli and Lajjo with mudpacks, bursting into giggles. We’ve seen urban women swear, but it’s different when the heroines of Parched decide it’s time cuss words incorporated male relationships: fatherfucker, for instance.
But Yadav doesn’t romanticise sisterhood. The terrain of these friendships is criss-crossed by invisible borders. Rani doesn’t like it when Bijli advises her about Gulab. (I thought I heard her mind go, “What do you know about raising a child, you fatherfucking whore!”) But these moods don’t fester, these fights don’t linger. Soon after, we get the emotional equivalent of make-up sex. We learn how Bijli and Rani met. What a weird beginning for a friendship. Your husband sleeps with someone, who brings him home because he’s too drunk. You sit up all night talking to the woman – because, really, who else is there to talk to?
I don’t know what someone rooted in this region will make of all the swirling mirror-work skirts and impromptu music sessions atop buses, but this exotica did not throw me out of the film. The music compensates. It’s not cliché. Instead of Maand and Kesariya balam wafting over the sands, we get hard-pounding rock. (I was startled when I first heard these cues, almost as startled as when I read that the cinematographer of this film was Russell Carpenter, who shot Titanic. With the budget of Parched, it would have been titled Catamaran.) I did not care for some of the overt symbolism – the veil and the breeze used as metaphors for captivity and freedom, or the equating of a demonic husband with a statue of Ravana during Dussehra. (It’s another toe-dip into our myths, but at least this time, there’s no Tantric sex.) But the film hits hard, and it hits home.
There’s a happy ending of sorts, but only when we zoom in on Rani, Bijli and Lajjo. Zoom out, and you’re still left with Champa (Sayani Gupta), who ran away from her in-laws’ and was forced to return even after revealing what her brother-in-law, her father-in-law were doing to her. You’re still left with the sad truth that the only time there was some sort of women’s movement in this village, it wasn’t to support Champa or Janaki, the way it was in Mirch Masala, but to get a dish antenna and TV sets to kill time when the men folk were away driving trucks. Yes, these women could end up watching empowering programmes. They could also end up watching Ekta Kapoor soaps.
KEY:
- Kabali = see here
- Fire = see here
- Mirch Masala = see here
- Bazaar = see here
- Mandi = see here
- Pink = see here
- Angry Indian Goddesses = see here
- Kesariya balam = see here
Copyright ©2016 Baradwaj Rangan. This article may not be reproduced in its entirety without permission. A link to this URL, instead, would be appreciated.
Vidya Murugan
September 29, 2016
“..empowering programmes.. Ekta Kapoor soaps”
In an odd sort of way, Ekta Kapoor soap women are quite empowered. They may work in the kitchen and go to bed dressed like it’s Diwali, but boy they can get NASTY. You don’t want to mess with those ladies😜
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uniquebluerose
September 30, 2016
BR sir….was waiting for this review……
1) I don’t think Raju really loves Bijli…he actually wants to be her pimp. He is just tired male who can’t take his boss and so decides starting his business with Bijlee whose charms he knows well is better….Bijlee refuses because it better to work for the known devil rather than Raju who also wanted to use her not love her…..I feel for a moment she was hoping he would love her!!!
2) In Bijlee’s introduction she says she was inspired by this mystic lover to love and run ways…she encourages Raju to runaway and lead a decent life but then its her two friends that too ladies who run ways with her!!!
3) I was sort of disappointed with the ending too…why this trying to compare with Dusshera ….a better ending that I could dream up was Manoj calling up the panchayat or at least some people and to prove Lajjo infidelity and gets caught regarding his own infertility…that would have been ….dunno nice in way – a man tongue tied in front of Panchayat and Lajjo walking away…..
4) As for Gulab….its hard not to be angry on him but may be he doesn’t know any other way to behave…..Janaki’s rebellion was nice twist but she gets her way in the end….
Surprisingly one of my Male colleague says ultimately what happened to Gulab was not right…. Janaki should not have done that ….means cut her hair….she should refused marriage (as if she had choice) or have accepted the reality and with long hair pleased Gulab and taken all his shit….
5) Apte acting was superb…..just the way she lays down for “sage in the cake” ….biting her lips and and her legs held tight as if ready for an onslaught of pain…omg….it was touching
6) I so much wished they had shown the man who calls Rani on phone….
7) The Kishen and girl from Meghalaya seemed to just passive opposers to whatever wrong that was happening…..
8) All she does is grumble and all Kishen does is look hapless and helpless….
Gulab and his gang are so delusional misguided and filled with crap and hatred that…to destroy Kishen Gulab spoils his own mothers work….Sad
and yes even I thought as much about “Beedi Jalaile” ringtone…..
BTW BRji didn’t you feel the movie has a few mass dialogues
Rani says to Gulab: “Be a human first, then be a man”…clap whistle calp
Bijli says: “If men come to me its my fault and ……is everything my fault”
a few more but i don’t remember…..
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olemisstarana
September 30, 2016
Ah, finally a movie I can comment on, thanks Netflix!
I don’t, however, have much to add except the fact that I did double take when I saw that Ajay Devgan (Devgn? Devgun???) produced this venture AND Leena Yadav made the tone deaf Shabd and Teen Patti (which I was never motivated to watch). This hits different beats throughout. It’s all in the acting, I guess… what a cast of incredible women.
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Anu Warrier
September 30, 2016
@BR: Thanks for the review; I have been hearing good things about this movie, but Leena Yadav’s name as director put me off – her Shabd was a ghastly travesty of a remake (from the original Malayalam – but then, if you put Sanjay Dutt in the place of Bharat Gopi, Zayed Khan [Zayed Khan!] for Nedumudi Venu, and Ash for Sri Vidya, what else can you expect>?).
I really, really like what I’ve seen of Radhika Apte’s work. So now this is a must see.
@olemiss: On Netflix, is it? Now I know what I’m going to watch this weekend. Thankoo! 🙂
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Honest Raj (formerly 'V'enkatesh)
October 1, 2016
I was under the impression that the film’s going to be just another Fire, but seems like it bears a thematic resemblance to Rihaee.
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Deepak Jeswal
October 1, 2016
@olemiss – Doesn’t seem to be on Netflix India. I tried searching yesterday
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olemisstarana
October 1, 2016
@Deepak Jeswal: Netflix US… I didn’t even know Netflix had hit Indian shores actually.
@uniquebluerose: “5) Apte acting was superb…..just the way she lays down for “sage in the cake” ….biting her lips and and her legs held tight as if ready for an onslaught of pain…omg….it was touching”
Sage in the cake… bwahahahahahahahhahaha. I know I know, but thanks for the laugh. 😀
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Sifter
October 1, 2016
Had read a couple of reviews early this week and they more-or-less slammed the movie. Good to read your review with your very different perspective.
I don’t understand the snark about ‘Fire’ though.
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Anu Warrier
October 2, 2016
Sifter, I don’t know about BR, but I hated Fire with a flaming passion. It was so manipulative, that relationship, and so exploitative, and I hate that it’s held up as some sort of ‘feminist’ movie.
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brangan
October 2, 2016
Anu Warrier: I didn’t hate Fire, but I don’t care much for it. In its own overheated way, I find Mrityudand does a much better job handling many of the same issues. Plus, it has Keh do ek baar sajna 🙂
My favourite Deepa Mehta movie is Earth. It’s that Aamir Khan thing again, where — somehow — things just come together in a way they don’t in the films these directors do without him. Plus, what a magnificent Rahman score.
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Anu Warrier
October 2, 2016
BR, I agree with everything you wrote – about Mrityudand being better than Fire, about Earth being my favourite as well, (I think it Mehta’s best), about something coming together in Aamir’s movies, and certainly about Keh do ik baar sajna 🙂
I hated Fire for its pretentiousness, for its ‘Look how forward we are – we showed Lesbianism!‘, for its pretence that it wasn’t deliberate that the characters were named Radha and Sita, for its setting itself up as some sort of a fight for feminist freedom… oh, how do I count the ways? Poppycock! 🙂
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Deepak Jeswal
October 3, 2016
@olemiss. Oh ok. Yep, Netflix came here a few months back. But the library is as yet very weak one. Esp in Hindi film section. Hope they are able to get more rights.
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Sifter
October 3, 2016
@Anu Warrier- Hated Fire with flaming passion. Do count the ways… elaborately if I may add, because I am curious
Agreed with the pretentious bits, although, I think it was made with the world audience in mind. They do love all this ‘deep’ connections with our mythology, lol. I did also think the elder brother’s character of perfecting the ‘bramacharyam’ was loosely based on the allegations about Gandhi.
@BR- Keh do ek baar sajna—what’s not to like?
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