You don’t overlook the grime, lining the partitions, overlaying the steps. You don’t overlook the patches in between, rubbed shiny clear from the fingers and toes of the various, many who’ve handed over these stairs. You don’t overlook the faces of those that by no means left, who’ve surrounded themselves with portraits of gods and posters of movie stars — sharing an equal pedestal in warren-like rooms, on this closing defiance by the ladies whom the world forgot. And you don’t overlook, what they will’t overlook: all of the little things about that world.
These are the ladies of Delhi’s G B Road, from a day a long time in the past. Even to the naive eyes of a bunch of us school college students, they had been ladies who made us uncomfortable, for not falling simply into any neat, acquainted brackets.
They had been lonely however remarkably shut knit; they had been unhappy however not as sad as we wished them to be; they had been as unsure of the legislation as positive of the methods round it; they lived in battle with society however had society already discovered; and they wore their sexuality on their sleeve, not behind some wardrobe malfunction.
It is on this world that Gangubai Kathiawadi belonged, and beat it sufficient occasions to earn a bust with a plaque in her room in Kamathipura, a chapter in a e book on the Mafia Queens of Mumbai, and a movie on her.
But who is that this particular person clad in virginal muslin and linen whites, uncreased by the passing years and a halted life, in shiny hair, glowing pores and skin, un-widening waist and un-sagging physique, tinkling tunefully alongside always in her ample bangles and anklets?
This is Gangubai sanitised and whitewashed for our viewing pleasure, ceaselessly younger, ceaselessly fairly, ceaselessly shorn of not simply the greys however the audacious hues of the rainbow that will need to have seen her previous many a cloud, ceaselessly searching for approval, ceaselessly the lady one might carry dwelling — however for the truth that one, in fact, wouldn’t.
She might have made offers with the underworld, bought liquor throughout prohibition, overthrown her brothel madam, duped policemen, overturned native politics and survived assaults, however on this girl-as-goddess or girl-as-witch worldview, all that logically follows from energy play equivalent to this should occur off-digital camera.
On Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s digital camera, Gangubai should match uncomplicated conventions — the heroine who is not only higher dressed, combed and learn than the remainder, however can also be, most strikingly, the fairest of all of them.
And if the unsmirched Gangubai shouldn’t be sufficient conference for this fairytale, there are the “evil” others — far faraway from the pristine perfection of Gangubai. Seema Pahwa’s each ounce of weight, bead of sweat, strand of unkempt hair, sequin on sari is an exaggeration; Vijay Raaz because the transgender who additionally takes Gangubai on, as a lot of a caricature. Another brothel resident who confronts Gangubai, leaning on the flawed facet of the weighing scale, is already getting there. The males are typically heartless louts who, by Gangubai’s logic, would go round on a raping rampage however for brothels like hers offering them a sexual outlet.
Gangubai is allowed love, however no need. She has a touching romance with a boy on the streets, and the again of a automotive, however no quickie on the mattress. She kisses one other, who’s clearly besotted along with her, however on the brow. There is a suggestion that mixing love and work is troublesome for her — however the boy doesn’t protest, and who’re we?
So what are we to remove from this supposedly feminist take, aside from the truth that Gangubai had an astonishingly good style, good tailor, and good foresight to see precisely what would work nicely as muted, urbane 21st century style? That ladies be women, take heed to daddy or, alternatively, discover a sugar daddy, suppose twice earlier than you elope, love kids or higher nonetheless get them to like you, and by no means, ever develop previous or fats.
The selection of Alia Bhatt, good as she is, significantly in conveying the dilemmas that she shouldn’t be allowed to play out, shouldn’t be incidental. In her, Bhansali has a super baby-girl, the susceptible damsel whom everybody desires to guard, the fair maiden able to be moulded into no matter form the world has for her.
There is only one disturbing scene the place Bhansali turns the mirror round, at us. When a row of women are on the point of flip into ladies of the evening, hiding their scars and shadows behind powder, rouge and lipstick, earlier than lining on the brothel door to beckon clients. A lady reveals Gangubai simply learn how to stand there — an arm resting above, breasts thrust out, skirt hitched up, a leg bent on the knee, her hand beckoning, her lips shifting.
There stands a lady calling out males going about their enterprise, with fingers that twitch and a sound searching for consideration that one gained’t overlook in a rush. It’s simple to like Gangubai, the saviour in a sari. Can we maintain this lady’s gaze?
(National Editor Shalini Langer curates the ‘She Said’ column)