P.K. Rosy: India is yet to catch up with this brave Dalit woman who broke new ground in theatre and cinema

P.K. Rosy represented in the International Film Festival of Kerala 2024's video (Screengrabs courtesy: IFFK on Instagram)

“Ahankararoopini” (embodiment of arrogance) ... “sinner” ... “prostitute” ... “the despicable one who subverted the Manusmriti” ... “yakshi” – these epithets in the Malayalam poet Kureepuzha Sreekumar’s Nadiyude Rathri (The Night of the Actress) encapsulate the sentiments of casteist members of the audience towards Malayalam cinema’s first woman actor, P.K. Rosy, at the premiere of her only film about a century back.

 

Rosy, who was Dalit, was the heroine of the silent film Vigathakumaran (The Lost Child), produced and directed by J.C. Daniel. According to multiple accounts of Vigathakumaran’s premiere in November 1928 (a year disputed by some), in Thiruvananthapuram in the then princely state of Travancore, upper-caste viewers were so enraged at a Dalit  portraying a Nair woman in the story, that they vandalised the theatre, and chased Rosy and Daniel away. A murderous mob later burnt down Rosy’s house, forcing her to flee Thiruvananthapuram.  

  

Sreekumar’s poignant poem, released in 2003, is a retelling of the events that led to her disappearance from the public eye.  

 

Barring some basic information uncovered by historians and journalists over the years, most matters related to Rosy are a mystery. Google dedicated a doodle to her in February 2023, to mark what was purportedly her 120^th birth anniversary. The date was perhaps taken from Wikipedia. However, the article that the online encyclopedia cites – an archival profile of Rosy by the journalist Jose Kadavil in Mathrubhumi newspaper – in fact does not specify a date of birth and speculates that her year of birth was 1903.  

 

But as the writer Vinu Abraham, author of Nashtanayika (The Lost Heroine), a fictionalised account of her life, told me when I interviewed him for this article: “Rosy’s year of birth and death are not known. If you take an A4-sized sheet of paper, you would be able to fill only half of it with the concrete information available about her.” 

 

Even the photograph currently in circulation as Rosy’s is of questionable authenticity. There is no surviving copy of Vigathakumaran left, and only one known still from the film remains, but it does not feature Rosy. 

 

The little that has come to light about Rosy though is so dramatic, tragic, yet inspiring and illuminative, especially for those studying the intersectionalities of caste and gender in early 20th century India, that she has gradually risen to the stature of an icon of Malayalam cinema. 

 

Drawing on several sources, it can be concluded that Rosy was born approximately in the first decade of the 20th century into a family belonging to the Pulaya caste in Thiruvananthapuram. Pulayas were considered ‘untouchables’ by upper castes.  

 

Was her name originally Rajamma or Rosamma? Was the screen name Rosy derived from Rosamma, or did Daniel pull it out of thin air when he decided to give his heroine an Anglicised name? Was her family already Christian when she was born, or did her parents become Christian after her birth? Was she Christian at all? Did she ever return to the land of her birth after leaving due to the violence surrounding Vigathakumaran? Most of Rosy’s biographical details are debated by experts due to conflicting testimonies by those who knew her or claimed to know her. However, the following points are widely agreed upon by scholars: that she earned her living as a grass-cutter before Vigathakumaran, that she was an established stage artiste before she met Daniel, and that she was a practitioner of Kakkarassi Kali, a folk theatre form.  

In Kanjiramkulam Sanal’s 2011 documentary Ithu Rosiyude Katha (This Is Rosy’s Story), Kavalloor Krishnan, who identified himself as Rosy’s relative, said that when he met her years after she left Thiruvananthapuram, she told him her maternal uncle was the person who encouraged her artistic inclinations.  

 

Women were not permitted on the Kakkarassi stage, and female parts were enacted by men in women’s costume, according to an essay by the Malayalam playwright and director Kavalam Narayana Panikkar in The Oxford Companion to Indian Theatre. Rosy tore down that wall of discrimination, becoming the first woman to act in Kakkarassi plays, as reported by the aforementioned Mathrubhumi article that relies on the research of the historian Kunnukuzhi S. Mani, who is widely credited as the first person to dig up information on her.   

  

Rosy was spotted on stage by the actor Johnson who introduced her to Daniel, a wealthy fellow resident of Thiruvananthapuram. Mumbai and Chennai were already thriving film production centres by the time Vigathakumaran was released in 1928. But the caste-related aggression in Thiruvananthapuram followed by the film’s financial failure and Daniel’s continuing obsession with cinema ultimately ruined him. It would be many decades before he was resurrected from oblivion through the efforts of the late historian and journalist Chelangatt Gopalakrishnan who began writing about him from the 1960s onwards. Daniel died in 1975. A Kerala state government award was instituted in his name in 1992, and he is now acknowledged as the Father of Malayalam Cinema. 

 

Before Daniel passed away, Gopalakrishnan managed to locate him in Agastheeswaram, a town in present-day Tamil Nadu, and interviewed him. However, neither Gopalakrishnan nor any of the other journalists and historians who have written about Rosy in passing or in depth, got to meet or speak to her. While the available details about her are sketchy as a result, there appears to be a consensus among their sources – Daniel being one – that after Vigathakumaran’s opening night mayhem, she escaped to Nagercoil either that very night or just days later, in a passing truck driven by a man called Keshava Pillai, who she later married. She is said to have gone by the name Rajamma – or Rajammal, according to some accounts – ever since. 

 

A great irony of this saga is that Rosamma/Rosy/Rajamma/Rajammal’s husband was a Nair, and the couple did not disclose her caste identity to his community, thus enabling her, as his wife, to live the rest of her life as a Nair, the very caste whose members reportedly turned violent and refused to accept her even playing one of them on screen. She is believed to have passed away in the 1980s (this date too is disputed). 

 

Kunnukuzhi S. Mani began writing about Rosy in the 1970s. It is perhaps a measure of the persistence of caste oppression in contemporary India that Rosy’s two surviving children, Nagappan and Padma, deny any knowledge of their mother’s caste identity, her acting background or the circumstances that ended her career. A 2013 article on The Big Indian Picture by journalist Meryl Mary Sebastian quoted Mani as saying that he once spoke to Nagappan who “lives as a Nair so he doesn’t talk about this too much. I have talked with him on phone. Then he had agreed to everything. But now he won’t talk. Because he says it causes family problems.” 

 

The same article quoted Rosy’s nephew Kavalloor Madhu as saying that Nagappan “has married into a big Nair family from Alappuzha. If he says that his mother was a Dalit, then the marriage would be in trouble. That is why he won’t talk about this. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with this.” 

 

For a programme to mark 100 years of Indian cinema in 2013, Asianet tracked down Padma in Madurai. In contrast to her brother, she lives in poverty. Padma told the TV channel that she knew nothing of her mother’s past before her marriage. 

The P.K. Rosy Film Society’s logo (Courtesy: Women in Cinema Collective on Facebook)

Though pan-India awareness of Rosy is a long way away, there have been efforts in Kerala in the 21st century to highlight the wrong that was done to her and to give her her due. Vinu Abraham, for instance, first got to know about Rosy “one evening at the International Film Festival of Kerala 2005, when I was handed a protest leaflet issued by a Dalit writers’ collective demanding a redressal of the injustice done to The Mother of Malayalam Cinema, the first heroine of Malayalam cinema, P.K.  Rosy, since she was pushed into oblivion by the forces that be, erased from mainstream history and film history, and her name is nowhere to be found”. The leaflet featured Kureepuzha Sreekumar’s poem that had been printed two years earlier in Kala Kaumudi magazine. Vinu’s quest for more information birthed Nashtanayika, which came out in 2008.  

 

In 2013, director Kamal released the Malayalam film Celluloid starring Prithviraj Sukumaran as Daniel, Mamta Mohandas as his wife Janet Daniel, the newcomer Chandni Geetha as Rosy and Sreenivasan as Chelangatt Gopalakrishnan. Though the opening credits of Celluloid stated that it is “based on Nashta Nayika, a novel by Sri Vinu Abraham”, the film ended on the words “a tribute to Dr J.C. Daniel.” This dichotomy was also evident in the narrative. 

 

Kamal faced some criticism in Kerala for marginalising Rosy after a point in the film and for viewing her through an upper-caste lens. When I asked him about this, he said though he considers Celluloid “as much a biopic of P.K. Rosy as it is a biopic of J.C. Daniel”, he ended her part in the film at the point at which she leaves Thiruvananthapuram because everything that is known about her after that is unconfirmed, and he did not want to risk errors in his film. “Because in later years, in the absence of other information, people will take this as the truth – that’s the way it is with cinema and books, they become reference material. Then if at some point the real story comes out, ours will be proven wrong.” While this sounds reasonable, it does not explain the near-erasure of Rosy even from the conversation in Vigathakumaran after she exited Thiruvananthapuram. 

 

Besides, the film’s limitations extend also to the scripting of known aspects of Rosy’s life. For one, though Celluloid showed Rosy as a Kakkarassi performer before Vigathakumaran, it did not celebrate her feats in the way it celebrated Daniel’s vision and sacrifices. At no point did it capture the strength and questioning mind it would have taken to be the pioneer she already was by the time she was cast in a screen role. Celluloid depicted Rosy as a gifted but docile youngster who is uplifted, so to speak, by Daniel. Logic, however, suggests that she must have been assertive, since she had already rebelled against norms, demanding more than what social conventions permitted, and that in Daniel she would have found an ally, not a saviour. 

 

Its flawed politics notwithstanding, Celluloid’s artistic merit on various fronts, its star-laden credits, hit music, box-office success and slew of awards, makes it the most high-profile representation of Rosy till date. Kamal’s film sealed her place in Kerala’s popular discourse.  

 

In 2019, the Kerala-based Women in Cinema Collective (WCC) – a rights body formed after the sexual assault of a Malayalam star two years earlier – set up the P.K. Rosy Film Society to promote cinema by women and “streepaksha chalachitra soundaryashasthram” (feminist cinema aesthetics). The award-winning film editor Bina Paul, a founder member of WCC, explains that Rosy’s legacy is “mostly symbolic, because we don’t know very much about what happened to her, but symbolic in a very importantly intersectional way between caste and gender. So for us as a women’s organisation, she is an important sign of the kind of struggles we’re looking at, and symbolic of the many ways in which marginalisations work.” 

 

The signature video of the International Film Festival of Kerala, an annual state government-run fiesta, was a tribute to Rosy in 2024.  

 

In neighbouring Tamil Nadu, producer-director Pa Ranjith’s Neelam Cultural Centre organises an annual film festival named after Rosy to showcase the best of cinema about and by Dalits and other marginalised and oppressed communities. The P.K. Rosy Film Festival 2025 concludes today. 

 

Such recognition is important, but true reparation would be to ensure consistent representation of Dalits and women in films and in the filmmaking profession in Kerala and across India. As of now, the truth is, that Indian cinema with Dalit lead characters is uncommon in the country, and Dalit stars – or at least, stars whose Dalit identity is publicly known – are rare. This brings up the question: if P.K. Rosy were born today, that too as dark-skinned as she was shown to be in Celluloid, could she possibly thrive as a heroine, considering that casteism and colourism still prevail in India? Kamal admits that this is unlikely in Malayalam cinema, adding: “If Rosy was around in the present day, I imagine she would have been playing supporting roles. She’s unlikely to have been playing central characters.” 

 

He confirms that Geetha who played Rosy in Celluloid was non-Dalit.

 

Not that Rosy would have stood a better chance in the rest of India. Hindi cinema, for one, has more or less erased Dalits and Adivasis from scripts. Marathi and Tamil are the country’s only film industries routinely telling stories centered around Dalit individuals and communities, including in commercial formats yielding box-office blockbusters, but here too, Dalit-themed mainstream cinema tends to spotlight men. 

  

Almost a century after a brave Dalit woman called P.K. Rosy broke new ground in theatre and in cinema, India is yet to catch up with her. 

 

Visuals courtesy: 

(1)    Women In Cinema Collective’s Facebook page

(2)    The International Film Festival of Kerala’s Instagram page

 

RELATED LINK: Read my profile of P.K. Rosy on BBC Hindi, published on March 1, 2025

https://www.bbc.com/hindi/articles/c30mm0n1v0zo

Director’s Cut with Nandita Das: “For too long, men have controlled all narratives, so I think my female gaze on men is important”

Nandita Das’ third film as a director, Zwigato, stars Kapil Sharma as Manas, a delivery person for an app-based service. Manas and his wife Pratima (Shahana Goswami) struggle to run their home on a meagre income dependent on the whims of algorithms and a faceless corporation. Zwigato was premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in 2022, from where it travelled to prestigious festivals in Busan, Kerala and elsewhere, before arriving in Indian theatres in March 2023. This week it dropped on Amazon Prime Video.

 

In my review published on Firstpost in 2022, I had written: 

 

“Zwigato might appear non-political in comparison with Nandita’s Hindi-Urdu-Gujarati Firaaq (2008), which was set shortly after the 2002 Gujarat riots began, and the Hindi-Urdu Manto (2018), a biopic of the Pakistani writer Saadat Hasan Manto, but that would be a superficial reading of this film. Below the surface of the seemingly placid tale it tells is…the roiling mud of India’s caste, class, religious and gender divisions.”

 

(You can read the complete review here.)

 

To get Das’ take on some of the points raised in my review, I reached out to her for an interview, which I’m featuring here as part of Director’s Cut, an ongoing series that I began in 2016. In this series, I speak to a director after watching their new film, and dissect its script, production and politics with them. (Click here for my first Director’s Cut – it was published in June 2016. The interviewee was Anurag Kashyap.) 

 

Eight years since I started this series, unfortunately the norm in India continues to be that during a film’s promotional period, the crew and cast give a spate of interviews without previewing the film for the press they’re meeting. After the release, most of them become unavailable to journalists who, having watched the film, wish to ask specific questions. That’s because unlike generic Q&As, pointed questions can be challenging. 

 

Nandita Das does not shy away from the challenge of a conversation. In this in-depth interview, we discuss Zwigato, her body of work as a director, and her personal journey so far. Excerpts:  

 

Q: It’s interesting that you chose to set Zwigato in a location where we don’t often see Hindi cinema set. 

 

A: Yes, probably never. 

 

I’m half Odia, and Bhubaneswar is a lovely city, so I’ve always wondered why we haven’t shot there. It’s a quintessential 2-tier city because it’s got narrow lanes and ancient temples – you know, the old town. Then you have these big wide roads lined with trees, roundabouts, malls and high-rises. In some ways it represents our country, which has one foot in tradition and one in modernity. So, I thought, why not Bhubaneswar? 

 

For me, the language in the film is also very important when you shoot in a place. Depending on the class and region, people speak different languages. So just as in Firaaq I had Gujarati, in Zwigato I have Odia.  

 

Q: What drew you to the life of a deliveryman for an app-based service provider?

 

A: During the pandemic, we were all using apps, whether to get things delivered or book cabs. We were trapped in our phones. There was contactless delivery, even tipping was on the phone, so gig workers were invisible to us. 

 

The gig economy was almost seen as a saviour during the pandemic. They are such a big part of the new urban India, yet we were ignorant of the challenges these people face. They were used to a traditional work environment with co-workers and an employer you can talk to if there’s a problem. In a country like ours with low literacy levels, figuring out everything on an app, that too all by yourself, is tough. You feel isolated. The only thing linking you to other delivery persons is that they’re all wearing the same T-shirt. Imagine how challenging it is.

 

Actually this film was supposed to be a short film. I was putting an anthology together with four directors on what modern India is about, and this was the story I was working on. The anthology fell apart because two directors backed out when their other projects got greenlit. But Sameer Nair, who was to produce the anthology, said, ‘I really like your story. Why don’t you make it into a feature film?’ And I said, no, it’s a day’s story, I don’t think I’m invested enough, I don’t understand the world of incentives, algorithms, ratings, and I don’t think I’ll enjoy the research process. But I’m glad he nudged me to do it. When I started writing, I began developing the woman’s character. And the story also became about how we’ve normalised class, caste, religion and gender disparities.

 

When I started bringing out those layers, I began embracing it as a feature film. And it expanded into a four-day story, not just about this character, but also his family and the larger context in which they lived. 

 

Showing other working-class people like daily-wagers, construction workers, house help etc is almost a motif in Zwigato. They are so much a part of our lives. Like when Manas brings the groceries, immediately the woman of the house calls out to her house help to take the package inside. When he enters the cafe, someone’s cleaning the window. You see daily-wagers throughout the film waiting every day to be taken for work. In a way, gig work is a modern version of the daily-wager’s work. Both sets of people face the same worries. Both have no employee benefits. Both deal with everyday anxieties about their next meal.

 

Q: Zwigato is the least obviously political of your three films. With Firaaq and Manto, there was clarity that they are political…

A: I think it’s all a perception. I mean, Firaaq was probably the most political in that sense, but it still remains a human story. There is no direct blame game. I actually do not believe that serves a purpose in a film. I want to subliminally go into the subconscious of the viewer. You will not even be aware of it, but next time you see a delivery person, will you perhaps notice him a little more? Will you make the effort to go into your app and give him a 5-star rating?

 

For me, everything is personal and political. Overtly political anyway is too didactic for me. None of my films were conscious choices in that sense. Firaaq happened because I felt compelled to tell that story after what happened in Gujarat. Manto happened because I read about him in 2012 during his centenary celebration. I felt a deep connect with him and his work. I also felt my father was very Manto-esque, so I felt like I know Manto. And Zwigato happened because of what I saw in the pandemic. Everything has been an organic response. It’s not like I said to myself, ‘Okay, which story should I tell?’ or ‘I do not want to make this as political as that one.’ If you look for it, Zwigato is about gender as well although...

 

Q: No, actually, that was my question: You talk about gender, class, religion and caste in Zwigato. It’s a political film despite not being obviously so…

 

A: That’s reflective of my own journey. Like I said earlier, I don’t want to make anything too obvious, because then it gets polarised. When something is more human, it touches your head and heart, without you consciously even knowing it. Also different people connect with different things. Some will notice the motifs of the working class more than others. Some people outside India may not understand the Babasaheb reference. But  I don’t think of anybody when I’m doing the film. I’m driven by my desire to tell the story that I feel needs to be told. 

For instance the way I approach gender. Both Zwigato and Manto have male protagonists, but the relationship with the woman is extremely important. While I want to create empathy for the protagonist – in these cases, the man – many a times I want to evoke greater empathy for the woman, because it’s still a patriarchal world and he’s still responding from that conditioning. I don’t want to over-simplify these complex matters, and make them simplistic. 

It’s easier to make a didactic, black-and-white film. Sometimes, when dealing with nuances, there is a fear that people won’t fully understand. Mainstream cinema is so dramatic that the audience is used to big twists and turns. But life is not so dramatic every day. Small losses of dignity and compromises that so many people have to make daily – these interest me. I don’t like to spoonfeed or manipulate emotions or feel the burden to please many people. A film has to reflect your own personal journey, and how you see things around yourself.

 

Q: Zwigato references the common phenomenon of housing complexes having separate lifts for household help. Many people who consider themselves liberal, vehemently argue that this is a class issue, not a caste issue. How would you address them?

 

A: If anyone says they don’t really care about caste, it’s because they are from the upper caste, and caste has not mattered to them in their life. How many people from a Dalit community were in the schools or colleges we went to, or are in our workspaces? Ask a person who is reminded of it every day. They will tell you about the discrimination they suffer. And most often, caste and class are deeply intertwined. When you are marginalised, you remain underprivileged on all accounts. Upward mobility is almost impossible. 

 

People often ask, ‘Oh, should we employ a Dalit or a woman even if they are not good enough?’ Everybody wants black-and-white answers. Meritocracy is at the cost of wanting to correct historical wrongs. That’s why we’re uncomfortable with affirmative action or don’t look harder for genuine representation. These are complex things and in a less-than-two-hour film, not all aspects of society can be shown with the same depth, but there are layers for those who are open to ‘seeing’ it. So in the film, when a woman asks Pratima, Shahana’s character, to take the other lift, ‘Voh service lift,’ I’m just holding up a mirror to everyday discrimination that we’ve normalised. Anyone who’s felt disturbed by it in real life will notice it in the film. Someone who hasn’t spotted it yet in real life might do so after seeing this film. But that scene will also make sense to those who view it only on the surface. 

Q: You spoke of the fear that people may not understand a point you are trying to make. Was this scene in Zwigato one of those moments?

 

A: Sometimes people ask, ‘I understood, but will others understand it?’ When one believes in subtlety and nuance, there is always a possibility that some may not get it. But I’m not here to explain every little thing and undermine the audience. Also, I have to be true to my context, and if some don’t see it, then so be it. That’s a challenge filmmakers like us will always face. But then that’s the kind of cinema we like to watch and make. 

 

When I watch a Malayalam or Spanish or Japanese film, I may not get 100 per cent of every nuance, but if there is a universality of emotions, it will move me. Then it doesn’t matter whether or not you understand every reference. That’s why we say, the more local a film is, the more global it is. You have to be honest to your context, and it’s almost magical how people actually get it. At festivals in Africa, Russia, Korea etc, where people may know less about our socio-economic culture, the post-screening Q&A always reveals to me that they understand the layers with far more depth than even those who may be more familiar with the context. 

 

I don’t let the fear of not being fully understood overshadow my creative choices. It’s just the nature of the beast, if you want to be true to your context. Like some asked, ‘Why do you have Odia in Zwigato, and not just Hindi?’ But why would two Odia people talk in Hindi?! If a third person comes, who is Hindi-speaking like my main characters, then they will. And that’s what happens in the film. It makes the place look more authentic. It will be good if we all make the effort to know about different parts of India and not try to homogenise it. And thanks to OTTs, we’re anyway learning to read subtitles.

 

Q: You’ve neither demonised the upper classes nor deified the disadvantaged in Zwigato. You’ve not romanticised Manas or made him flawless. But filmmakers tend to do that. 

 

A: That is when you want to make films simplistic, and don’t want to push the audience to deal with ambiguities, for fear of losing them. But to be a true mirror to society, you have to explore the grey areas of life and relationships. I want to invoke empathy for the struggles of my protagonist, but he could also be not-sensitive to his wife – after all, he comes from a patriarchal context. Yet, they basically have a good relationship. They care for and love each other. All of this can co-exist, as it does in life. I enjoy the challenge of showing such complexities in a way that is felt and even understood without dumbing things down for the audience. 

 

For me, it’s not interesting to take the easier route of saying this is good or this is bad. Who, after all, is the villain in Zwigato? The company? The consumer? Society at large? It’s a bit of many things, right? And that’s the complexity you want to bring in: that we are all complicit. I want to show a mirror to all of us, to our prejudices, our fears, and shed light on people who are hidden in plain sight. 

 

Q: You’ve made three feature films so far, and the women in them are very important. All filmmakers say, ‘I must make a film that comes naturally to me.’ When will a film that comes naturally to you have a female protagonist?

 

A: The one I am working on! It’s a relationship film, so the man and the woman, both are important. But it does sort of lean towards the woman a little more and I am not apologetic about it. If the reality is skewed, then its representation also has to be.

 

But like I said, everything has been organic for me. Firaaq did not have any male protagonist. It was an ensemble cast and all the women, whether it was Deepti Naval’s or Shahana’s or Amruta’s or Tisca’s character, were all layered, vulnerable and at the same time strong characters. No less than any male characters. The second one was because it was Manto. His gender, or even his nationality and religion, were just a context. I’ve already explained my personal connect with him, and also how Zwigato organically happened. I write only when I clearly know what I want to communicate. 

 

Also, for too long, men have controlled all narratives, as to how men and women should be portrayed, so I think my female gaze on men is important.

 

(Minor spoilers ahead)

 

And just because I’m a woman director, I don’t have to make only a certain kind of film. My life experiences must be impacting my writing or how I visualise a film. It is all that I see and internalise. For instance, when Pratima goes out to earn for the first time, at the age of 35, she’s experiencing that mixed feeling that women have when they step out of the house, both the excitement and the fear of the unknown, and Manas says, “Haan haan, pata hai, tum humse zyaada kamaaogi’ – where does that come from?  

 

(Spoiler alert ends)

 

Besides, not every woman-centric film is necessarily feminist or has a female gaze. We have enough examples of that – let’s not name them! Some have been touted as feminist, but they really aren’t. I think my instinctive and inherent gaze is that of a woman and it is bound to be on, not just women, but men, children, stories, everything around us. 

 

Q: Okay, but I did not bring up the fact that you’re a woman director. I’ll repeat the question. When I ask filmmakers – and of course most Indian filmmakers are men – why their protagonists are always men, they get defensive and say, ‘Shouldn’t I write the stories that come naturally to me?’ My response always is: would you ask yourself why the stories that come naturally to you are stories of men? With regard to yourself, you make an interesting point, which is that a female gaze on men is important. I take that. But could I still ask, setting aside Firaaq, why is it the stories that have come to you naturally…

 

A: But I’ve only made three films! 

 

Q: Yes, of course, but I’m going to give you a hard time. C’mon! (we both laugh)

 

A: But I’m just saying, Anna, I’ve only done three films… 

 

Q: I totally get that, but still...

 

A: …of which one-third is an ensemble... 

 

Q: Yes, so let’s set Firaaq aside, but…

 

A: ...and in both Manto and this one, the women characters are very layered. 

 

Q: We’re setting Firaaq aside. The women in Manto and Zwigato are important, and I realise some filmmakers would make the same story with women unimportant or erased. I respect that, but I still wondered. Manto was a writer. This world is full of fantastic women writers, some of whom I’m sure you love. A whole new dynamic would have come in if the delivery person in Zwigato was a woman…

 

A: But there aren’t that many. I wasn’t trying to make a unique...

 

Q: …so why is it the stories that came naturally to you in both cases were stories of men?

 

A: Because I didn’t look at it as: this person is a man! It is only after Zwigato, for the first time I felt, filmmaking is what I want to do. What I’m saying is that for me to make that conscious choice is a recent turn in my journey. When you talk to other filmmakers, they’re professional filmmakers. I’ve been a hesitant actor. I lived in Delhi when I was acting. I always felt specialisation is overrated and an imposition. What if you have varied interests? I don’t want to specialise in anything, I don’t want to excel, I just want to do things that speak to me and I like doing. 

 

Q: But you understand, I’m not asking: Nandita, why didn’t you consciously choose to make films on women? 

 

A: Yes, I understand where you’re coming from. You’re asking about what I’ve been naturally drawn to. And my answer is, I was naturally drawn to life and its complexities, irrespective of the narrow identity of the protagonist. Who are they really, what about their story grabs me and why? For instance, in Manto, I instinctively wanted to make his wife Safia’s character stronger than what the family kept telling me, ‘Ammi toh bahut hi gentle thhi.’ But I thought, living with a man like Manto must have been tough, don’t tell me she never protested. They would say, ‘Nahin, she never.’ Then her sister told me she had this skin allergy all over her body in the last couple of years that vanished after he died. That gave me a clue to her suppressed emotions, so I told myself I’m going to give a voice to what she must be thinking, feeling, going through. And I told the daughter, I’m sorry what you see on screen may not be the mother that you described to me, I have given her a little more agency. When they saw the film at the premiere, I was nervous. But the first thing they said was that they loved how their mother was portrayed. They felt finally they could hear what she must have felt. I felt vindicated. 

 

Even in Zwigato, though it is a kind of a love story, it has its edges. A woman can love someone and yet rebel in her own way if she is wronged. 

 

Q: You’ve spoken about your personal journey while making these films. What did you learn about yourself while making Zwigato?

 

A: This is a very personal journey we’re talking about! I don’t think I’ve spoken about it. I realise there’s a ruthless side to filmmaking, where it is justified to do many things for the sake of art. One is often confronted with a choice of film versus people – the dilemma when you need something for a film, but it would make things difficult or uncomfortable for someone involved. It’s almost a choice between life and work! And I find myself increasingly choosing life. I choose people’s well-being over what may seem necessary for a shot in a film. 

 

I don’t know if it’s a gender thing, but I’ve worked with many, especially male, directors who’d go to any length for a film. Maybe film requires that level of passion since it’s very demanding work. After all, no one hears the backstory about how you made it and will judge only by what is seen on screen. And you hear horror stories of directors, where for their film they’ve gone to crazy lengths, even compromising on the lives of people. I cannot relate to that anymore.

 

Not that I was ever going to that extent, but sometimes I wonder if I am less passionate as a filmmaker. I’m still anal about every little detail of the filmmaking process and I am fully hands-on in every aspect of it, but when I’m confronted with that dilemma, I feel that no film is greater than anyone’s life. And I want to continue being mindful of that. 

 

For example, an old lady in Zwigato, the one who plays Kapil’s mother, had to travel one-and-a-half hours to reach the shoot from her home in Cuttack. One day we were shooting till really late. She was very spirited and was happy to stay back, but I could see she was tired and was anyway rather frail. So I let her go, because anyway she was sleeping in that scene, so we put pillows and managed. But when I was shooting, I thought to myself, actually, if her legs were showing in this one it would have been nice…but it’s okay. Not the end of the world!

 

You know, small things like this. We shifted a shoot because of a child actor’s exam. Now, I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, because it might harm my films, but I can feel this personal shift more and more. At the same time, this is the first time I’m saying, filmmaking is what I’m going to do. It’s strange that both are happening simultaneously. We’ll see what really comes out in the next film. 

 

All Photos Courtesy Wikipedia