Is 'Mardaani' a reel story or real life?

Rani Mukherjee's role in “Mardaani” has widened the fault lines dividing those who have labelled the Hindi crime drama film as feminist and others who believe that it irresponsibly endorses brute violence, bringing the focus on women's power. 

The film, which was released just over a week ago, is said to be doing better than expected after positive word-of-mouth communication and would help drive the box office collections. 

“Unfortunately, when we look around, the dominant narrative is more often than not patriarchal. At a very young, impressionable age girls are socialised into believing this is the norm,” says sociologist Dr Padma Velaskar of the Tata Institute of Social Sciences. “While one doesn’t want to generalise, but whether it's in the corporate office or the bhajiwali in the marketplace, one sees patriarchally powerful women. Society reinforces and celebrates these mardaani women even borrowing liberally from religious and cultural symbolism to do so.” 

On the screen at a Sion multiplex, Shivani (the senior inspector played by Rani Mukherjee) takes on the goons, breaks arms and a lot else to the accompaniment of Sanskrit shlokas that invoke the mother goddess. 

Kesarben Prajapati, 58, cheered the loudest. “Bh@dvon ko aisa sabak sikhati hai ne Rani Mukherjee ki bahu maza aavi,” says the local dai from Kambadevi Nagar chawl in Dharavi, as she lights up a beedi. 

She had booked reclining seats for the 6pm show. “I had heard such good things about the film that I wanted to watch it in style,” says the dai, who charges Rs1,000-1,500 a delivery. “Till the end of the world, we dais, barbers and funeral goods’ sellers will never go hungry.” 

She bought a tenement, raised her son and daughter and even got her married, almost single-handedly since losing her husband to alcohol in the 1970s. “Its a good thing he died when he did,” she says, a tinge of emotion welling up. “If he was around he wouldn’t have improved or let us get ahead in life.” 

She uses the masculine gender when talking about herself, her hands always on the hips, and spits and swears. “In the beginning I was coy and soft. But I realised that men only understand someone who walks and talks like them. I didn't realise how this became my second nature.”

In a different part of the city, men bring in the evening catch at the Ferry Wharf with the help of porters. Truck drivers wait sleepily for the baskets to be loaded for the markets in the suburbs like Malad and Bhandup. 

Arun Jadhav, 29, has dozed off. “Melya m@d@rch0d zoplays kai?” calls out fiery Vatsala Bhoye, the 48-year-old Koli matriarch, banging her bangle-laden hand on the door. “Will your father open the door to load the baskets?” 

Decked with jewellery that stands out against her bright turquoise sari on an elbow-length blouse, she rubs her finger against her tongue before flicking through a wad of notes to pay the porters. 

The men – fishermen, crew, porters, drivers – all seem to know who calls the shots. They simply go about like drones doing what queen bees like Bhoye order. 

Asked why she's aggressive with the men around she raises her voice further. “Have you ever seen a man work without a kick on his behind? If I try baba-puta they’ll sit on my head. It's best to keep them in their place from the start,” says the Bhandup gaon resident. 

But is it possible not to be like Shivani? Velaskar says society doesn't accept such women. “Society frowns on those who want to follow a gender-equal, non-patriarchal power structure. Not only are negative labels like ‘difficult’ used for women who choose that, but those who find such women threatening even go out of their way to thwart or limit their influence.”