The changing face of the heroine in Hindi cinema: from armament to ornament
The Hindi film heroine has had a fairly interesting reign on the silver screen. Alternating from the progressive to the regressive role model, she has, like the chameleon, changed her image and attitude to adjust to the times and trends.
Her arduous journey began in the early ’30s. If Chandulal Shah’s Miss 1933 explored her freedom of choice, Homi Master’s Samaj Ki Bhool did a widow’s right to remarry. There were some films that lent her voice but only through borrowed identity. In Saher Ka Jadu, made in 1934, she arrives in the big city disguised as a man to look for her father who has fallen prey to urban vices. And in Hunterwali, dedicated to punishing the evildoer, she hides behind a mask while doing her good deeds. The strongest message among the films released at that time was in V. Shantaram’s Duniya Na Mane, applauding a young girl’s defiance to consummate marriage with an old widower. Came Independence, and the heroine slowly learnt to express herself. The bride in Aag, ’48 turns away from her disfigured groom on their wedding night. In 1949 she is a spirited woman loved by two men in Andaz.
Gradually the heroine developed a demeanour, a self-assurance that was unmistakable. The heroine symbolised the human conscience. The ethereal dream sequence in Raj Kapoor’s Awara, where she is sent to heaven and the hero to hell, and his final return to ‘Ghar aaya mera pardesi’ is an immortal memory for cinema goers.
Interestingly, the two extreme images of the woman, the fiery and the submissive, came in the same year, 1953. In Sohrab Modi’s Jhansi Ki Rani she was on the battlefield, fighting for freedom. In Bimal Roy’s Parineeta she surrenders her freedom for tradition! There were times she needed taming, as in Aaan in ’57 and times when she was mature beyond her years. Paro and Chandramukhi in Sarat Chandra’s Devdas are two extraordinary women while the hero is a weak man running away from responsibilities. The same is true of Ashok Kumar, undeserving of the beautiful Kalyani in Bandhini.
In years to come the heroine continued to play a range of roles. As Gulab the streetwalker in Pyaasa she is supportive of the hero when everyone lets him down. Kathputli in ’57 explored the perils of a professional woman, in this case a dancer. Madhumati in ’58 emphasised that the woman did not need a man to seek her revenge – she accomplished it as a ghost after death. In 1959, Guru Dutt’s Kagaz Ke Phool, about an actress involved with a married filmmaker, elaborated on how the relationship destroyed him while the actress went on to become a big star. The film marked a subtle beginning in the emergence of a woman who opted for career over love.
In a strange way, the Indian heroine was always a cross between our very own Sita and Draupadi from mythology. At times the suffering martyr who goes through a trial by fire to prove her chastity and at other times the daredevil who initiated the (battle of) Kurukshetra.
There were phases when she was bogged down by domesticity and failed to respond to her beloved’s fantasies, as Sandhya in Navrang or the self-respecting untouchable Nutan in Sujata, ’59. These were characters that evoked social consciousness. In Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Anuradha she was the neglected wife of a busy doctor. In K. Asif’s Mughal-e-Azam she challenged the emperor with ‘Jab pyaar kiya to darna kya’ which will remain an inspiration to suffering lovers for years to come.
At times the tragedienne and at times the seductress, at times defiant and at times diffident, but her dignity always remained untarnished. If at all her role was overstated, it was under extreme provocation. In Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam, the chhoti bahu, in a desperate bid to hold back her husband from going to his evening’s entertainment, takes to alcohol.
As the court dancer in Amrapali, ’66 she turns down an emperor because her love for her country is greater than her love for the king. And as the ailing widow deserted by her in-laws in Phool Aur Patthar she stands witness for a criminal, uncaring of the moral and social implications. They were women with a mind of their own even if their lives didn’t always end happily-ever-after. The wife in Bahurani and the courtesan of Mujhe Jeene Do, ’67 were women who survived compelling circumstances.
In a strange way, the Indian heroine was always a cross between our very own Sita and Draupadi from mythology. At times the suffering martyr who goes through a trial by fire to prove her chastity and at other times the daredevil who initiated the (battle of) Kurukshetra
At the same time, for some strange reason, the heroine could never get out of the pati-parmeshwar (husband-is-Lord) mould. She removed her husband’s shoes and treated him like a deity. Her submission seemed to comply with the mood of society at the time. Her undisputed honour, of course, came in the role of a mother. Mehboob Khan’s Mother India was her acid test of endurance, sacrifice and of justice. And she passed it with flying colours.
A tangible contrast to the all-virtuous heroine was the vamp. Quite often a cabaret dancer, her presence was essentially to add glamour. Popularised by Cuckoo, perfected by Helen and followed by Bindu and Kalpana Iyer, once in a while the vamp traded places with the heroine. Mala Sinha in BR Chopra’s Gumraah was the wayward wife while the vamp, Shashikala was the husband’s confidante. These were rare examples.
Around this time, colour was creeping into cinema in more ways than the obvious. Shammi Kapoor, after Tumsa Nahin Dekha and Junglee, was being pitted against the trio, Raj-Dilip-Dev, as the rebel star. Kapoor refused to take cinema seriously. He wanted to have some fun and turned the ’60s into an acrobatic decade. The majority of films released during this phase (Ziddi, Love In Tokyo) concentrated on the hero wooing the heroine relentlessly. The era marked a strident beginning towards sexual harassment, no matter how harmless. Clones of songs like, ‘Lal chadi maidan khadi’ from Jaanwar, ’62 continued right up to ‘Khambe jaisi khadi hai’ from Dil, ‘90. To put it succinctly, the focus was shifting to the physical attributes of the leading lady and our songs bear testimony to how she was being gradually transformed into an object of sexual desire. And yet, not all the films made during this era were frivolous. Delving into the old format, some serious trends continued. Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Anupama and Suchitra Sen’s double-role starrer Mamta were serious statements on family relationships.
With the arrival of the king of romance, superstar Rajesh Khanna, the heroine had to re-emerge and prove an effective foil, a vivacious, saucy queen for the king. For quite a while she held her own despite the Khanna hysteria. But as Khanna’s popularity increased, the queen found herself slowly dwarfed in his awesome presence. Uncomfortable about being pushed into the background, she surprised viewers with the odd unconventional portrayal. Waheeda Rehman as Rosie, desperate to break marital chains to live openly with her lover in Guide, Nanda as the devious schemer in Ittefaq, ’69 and Hema Malini as the possessive mistress in Lal Patthar are some examples.
In the coming years, the heroine evolved an even more intriguing persona. She was the haunting ghost of Woh Kaun Thi, ’64, the wanton call-girl of Chetna, ’70, the widow who dared to love in Andaz, and the courtesan who dared to dream in Pakeezah, ’71.
After a while, the complexities became overbearing. The cinema goer craved for simple, uncomplicated real-life stories. Guddi, ’71, and Jaya Bhaduri’s girl next-door appeal came like morning dew. She epitomised middle-class sensibility: Uphaar, Piya Ka Ghar, Parichay, Koshish and Kora Kagaz explored common man concerns. In Anamika, however, even Jaya defied her image, deceiving the hero by faking amnesia on the grounds that all is fair in love.
The cycle of the Indian heroine, from armament to ornament, coincided with the advent of the Amitabh Bachchan phenomenon, in Zanjeer, ’73. As Bachchan steadily usurped Khanna’s crown, the queen found that she had no definite place beside the box-office shahenshah. She sang and danced, but only to provide relief from the relentless quest for revenge – And that too, only when the hero had the time. The heroine’s feelings became secondary. The Bachchan era saw the emergence of the ultimate glamour puss: Zeenat Aman, Parveen Babi and in later years, Kimi Katkar. They were sex symbols with hourglass figures who did all that the vamp did and perhaps more.
One didn’t realise when the rot set in but tediously the costumes and the roles lost character. So strong was the impact of the action hero that the heroine began fading into oblivion. The humiliation of total subjugation hurt. She made tentative forays to regain her lost identity. The mainstream had closed its doors to her, at least temporarily. So she sought a backdoor entry.
It was Shyam Benegal who was responsible for her reincarnation. First a seedling, Ankur, ’73 that blossomed in Nishant, ’75, then Manthan and finally Bhumika, ’76, were all stories about women who hit below the belt. Shabana Azmi, supported by her colleagues, Smita Patil and Deepti Naval, opened the doors to the woman of substance!
Mainstream cinema continued to project her as a mannequin draped in rainbow colours. If in Bobby she was the ultimate dream, in Satyam Shivam Sundaram by the same filmmaker, she was the ultimate fantasy. In keeping with her character traits, when she wasn’t the siren she was the submissive wife basking in her husband’s glory.
Again, it was middle-of-the-road cinema that freed her from subjugation. Gulzar’s Aandhi dispelled the myth that husband came before self. The heroine chose a career in politics over family. In Ek Baar Phir, ’80, she walked out of a loveless marriage and in Arth, ’82, her husband walked out on her to live with an actress. Arth was the first film depicting the heroine willing to live on her own, without the crutch of a husband, lover or religion.
Clearly, she was going through an identity crisis but it took her some time to admit this. It was BR Chopra who gave her the courage to expose her rapist in Insaaf Ka Tarazu, ’80 and it was Chopra again who said she could not be treated as a commodity in Nikaah, ’82. Lekh Tandon liberated her to an extent that she was ready to sell her womb in Doosri Dulhan, ’82 and Rakesh Roshan applauded as she avenged her killer in Khoon Bhari Maang, ’88. Her need to express and simultaneously to retreat continued and she did so in a familiar pattern. Jamini in Khandhar, ’84 is self-sufficient and dignified in pain; the protagonist Sonbai in Mirch Masala and Pratighaat, ’87 strike out violently at their oppressors.
Inspired by her courage, the mainstream heroine also dared to break out of the inhibitions imposed on her. She now enticed the hero with her unabashed body language, ‘Kaate nahin kat ti’ in Mr India, ’87 and became even more erotic as she heaved her bosom to ‘Dhak dhak’ in Beta, ’93. Moving with the times, the ’90s heroine was assertive, at times even over-stepping the lakshmanrekha (line in the sand, defining moral space) in her mutinous bargain for liberation. She was upfront and, for a change, having a little fun with ‘Choli ke peeche kya hai’ (Khalnayak) and ‘Sexy sexy mujhe log bole’ (Khuddar, ‘94). Her self image was determined by the changing social fabric. The exploited sister holding up a mirror to her family of parasites in Jeevan Dhara, ’82, the defiant daughter who barrages her alcoholic father in Daddy, ’91, the angry wife condemning her husband for wanting to play her deity in Mrityudand, ’97, were images of shifting equations.
The cinema goer needed to touch base with reality. He was filled with admiration for the Bandit Queen, ’94, intrigued by her overt sexuality in Aastha, ’97 and guilty about letting her down in Tamanna, ’97. He joined her in a crusade for power in Godmother, ’99 and saluted her search for identity in Astitva, 2000. Encouraged, she sought her lost self-esteem in Rajkumar Santoshi’s Lajja, only to end up defeated again in Chandni Bar, 2001.
The paradox somehow never seemed to end. The only time the heroine was able to break free of the shackles was when she revered tradition. Sooraj Barjatya’s Maine Pyar Kiya, ’90 and Hum Aapke Hain Koun, ’94, depicted the heroine as willing to sacrifice love for family honour and Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, ’96, included the elders in her dream.
Perhaps, therein lies the answer.
Archived from Communalism Combat, February 2005 Year 11 No.105, Cover Story 4