Laapata Ladies proves films can be feminist and funny

Two village brides, just married, board the same train with their respective grooms. In the trailing red gauze traditional to Indian weddings known as the ghoonghat, , they are indistinguishable. Cultural norms dictate that these brides keep their faces hidden until they reach their in-laws. As the brides cannot see properly through their veils and the grooms cannot see their faces, when the first groom gets off  the train he has the wrong bride. The brides have been switched. 

This is the hilarious premise of Laapata Ladies—“laapata” meaning “lost” or “missing”. However, Kiran Rao’s masterful direction ensures that the comedy doesn’t rest only on the setup. With the assured touch of a much more experienced filmmaker, she maneuvers the film into two different stories running in parallel.  We see the first bride Jaya rejoice in the mixup, as she had been forcibly married to an abusive husband who was only focused on her large dowry (a regressive practice that still happens in a lot of villages in India though technically illegal). Despite shocking Deepak—the groom she mistakenly followed in the dark when she got off the train—and his family who are unsure of what to make of her presence in the place of Phool,  bride they did want, the viewer is given glimpses of Jaya stealthily hiding her identity under the fake name “Puspha” to avert the police and escape to freedom. As viewers, we are also treated to great comedic moments showing Deepak’s family’s reaction as they berate him for failing to recognise his own bride and express their inherent suspicion of Jaya.

But the real comedy lies in the performance of Ravi Kishan as the jaded but shrewd sub-inspector Shyam, who knows from the start that Jaya is lying. He is a man of no illusions and sadistically delights in exposing the weaknesses of others and exploiting his position. However, although his actions are questionable and definitely expose the reprehensible nature of the police system, Rao and Kishan’s talents lie in imbuing the character with just the right amount of humanity and hilarity. His sardonic smile as he collects bribes from the naive Deepak shows that for him this is just routine work – all part of the job. Greedy for money and success, he suspects Jaya to be a thief when he sees her selling jewellery and is keen on arresting her. When he hears from Jaya’s real groom, Pradeep, who is looking for her, it is the icing on the cake for him as he foresees the opportunity for more riches and to make a name for himself. He is uninterested in helping Deepak – the young lover desperate to find his bride. Always chewing on a piece of paan (betel leaf) as he contemplates his next move, Kishan makes Shyam world-wise, corrupt and yet, somehow funny. Towards the ending, he also reveals hidden depths, as upon learning Jaya’s true motives, he actually ends up helping her. 

Meanwhile, in the parallel story, the second bride Phool is having a terrible time. She realizes the mixup in the station and quickly goes to the station master to report it. Here, we are treated to more comedy, but as in other parts of the film, it comes with a bite. For Phool (who was married as an adolescent bride  (as is the case in many villages) doesn’t know her husband’s full name, as Indian tradition dictates that speaking your husband’s full name is unlucky. Young girl brides are kept as ignorant as possible and Phool is the embodiment of this regressive ideology as she doesn’t even properly remember her husband’s village. However, Phool too transforms as a character as an elderly street-vendor grudgingly takes her under her wing. She scolds Phool severely for her ignorance and opens her eyes to how her grooming to become a homemaker has crippled her growth and independence. We see Phool learn to stand on her own two feet and her views progress under the vendor’s guidance. She still prays that she will find Deepak but also becomes more self-assured and determined to prove her own capabilities so that she can break free from the ignorant mold she has been cast in. She is very different from Jaya, who is a natural feminist despite receiving no encouragement and longs to be independent so that she can study agriculture. But in her own way, the girlish Phool under th elderly  tea-stand owner - Manju’s guidance - becomes a woman. Other female relationships feature in the story — Jaya’s interaction with Phool’s in-laws show her infectious radicalism affects the women in Deepak’s family as well. The film effortlessly weaves all these various stories of the women together. In this way, it is in many places quietly redefining womanhood while also directly promoting feminism. 

The brilliance of Laapata Ladies also lies in the fact that it employs a symbol of female suppression—the ghoonghat—and transforms it into a weapon for rebellion and empowerment. Not only does the piece of clothing lead to a mixup that is ultimately the making of both women, but the film also has moments in which the women manipulate society’s poor view of them to their advantage. For instance, when the inspector Shyam wishes to take Jaya’s photo so that he can send it to the village Pradeep is in and confirm her identity, Jaya quickly says that she cannot show her face so soon after her marriage when she is not amongst family, as tradition deems it immodest. Shyam knows she is lying and is about to call her bluff, but his deputy reminds him that the village people are very sensitive about customs surrounding a woman’s modesty and so her photo should not be taken. I found that scene in particular to be a stroke of genius as it shows how despite the poor treatment of women in rural India  and the stifling customs that still bind them, women like Jaya can rise above them and even use them to get the better of their oppressors. At the end of the day, Rao’s Laapata Ladies is a hopeful film about women and their lives which makes its vision an inspiring one.