A sincere and biting satire, Laapataa Ladies hilariously but effectively juxtaposes the notion of lost identity with the literal act of physical displacement
Kiran Rao’s comeback film, Laapataa Ladies, set against the backdrop of the fictional state of Nirmal Pradesh in 2001, unravels a tale that teeters on the edge of chaos and hilarity, even as it disguises subtle but solid jabs against deep-seated patriarchy. The story, written by Biplab Goswami, Sneha Desai, and Divyanidhi Sharma, revolves around the newlywed couple, Deepak (Sparsh Shrivastav) and Phool Kumari Nitanshi Goel). Their marriage takes an unexpected turn when they find themselves in a peculiar situation aboard a train bustling with other newlywed pairs. Veiled brides and impatient grooms set the stage for a comedic pandemonium where confusion reigns supreme.
At the heart of the chaos lies an age-old custom, steeped in sexist tradition. This tradition inadvertently triggers mayhem when Deepak, unable to discern his bride in the melee of the veiled, mistakenly takes the wrong one, Pushpa (Pratibha Ranta), leaving his sleeping wife, Phool, behind. Oblivious to the mix-up, Pushpa innocently follows along, believing Deepak to be her husband. The chaos escalates as Deepak arrives at his ancestral village, Surajmukhi, and unveils the bride before his unsuspecting parents, only to realize that he has brought along the wrong woman. To complicate matters, neither Pushpa nor Phool know their respective in-laws’ village names, rendering them officially lost.
Lost, they find themselves
Enter the corrupt police officer, Shyam Manohar, portrayed with delightful flair by Ravi Kishan. Assigned to investigate the case of the missing Phool, registered by Deepak, Manohar suspects Pushpa to be more than she is letting on. Her husband, Pradeep (Bhaskar Jha), with a dubious past of being accused of his first wife’s demise due to infertility issues, adds a layer of intrigue to the unfolding narrative. As Phool finds herself abandoned at the station, her only solace comes in the form of Manju Maai (Chhaya Kadam), the owner of a modest food stall in the neighbourhood. Meanwhile, Pushpa finds herself stuck in the wrong household. While Phool is desperate to be found, Pushpa’s motivations to remain hidden unfurl gradually.
Set in 2001, a time when Nokia phones were considered a luxury and technology wasn’t a panacea for all problems, the storyline is entirely fictitious. However, the fiction serves as a vessel for unearthing uncomfortable truths about social expectations placed upon women. The film’s title, Laapataa Ladies, serves as a metaphor for the larger theme Rao explores — a reflection on women who lose themselves amid social pressures; their voices are stifled and dreams deferred.
In a sincere yet biting satire, the film hilariously but effectively juxtaposes the notion of lost identity with the literal act of physical displacement. The veil, or the ghoonghat, becomes a potent symbol of the concealed and repressed identities of these women. Ironically, it is through their physical displacement that these women embark on a journey of self-discovery, shedding social barriers to reclaim their true selves.
The joke is on us, and it truly hurts
In one of the many memorable moments in the film, Manohar’s frustration boils over as he grapples with the absence of recognizable bride pictures obscured by veils pulled down to their chins. His exasperation gives rise to a heartbreaking question: is anonymity preferable to infamy for these veiled women? Through her storytelling, Rao confronts pressing issues that plague women who are often relegated to their roles as wives, mothers, and sisters — their lives led faceless, whether veiled or not. The burden of upholding familial honour weighs heavily upon them, crushing their dreams and identity, and even their need to be found.
Lost, the women find themselves.
The film’s narrative is laden with unapologetic messages, delivered with simplicity and directness that pierces one’s consciousness sharply. The film is a goldmine for the thousands of stones patriarchy pelts at women — from subsuming one’s identity in marriage to enduring abuse and navigating the labyrinth of dowry demands, to not taking the husband’s name, and having to forego one’s own.
The film’s message is clear: let women live. However, the tragedy lies in the myriad ways society denies them this basic right. Rao’s filmmaking charmingly navigates this complex terrain, deftly addressing seemingly inconsequential issues that carry profound significance. With a comical treatment, it prompts us to question: where does the joke truly lie? Yet, when the punchline arrives, it’s anything but humorous; you realize there is a joke, it’s just not funny, because the joke is on us, and that is when it truly hurts.
Breaks your heart, only to mend it
In a scene that tragically seems relatable, Deepak’s mother, played by Geeta Agarwal, who has become Bollywood’s go-to small-town mother, says women are so caught up in being mother-in-laws, daughter-in-laws, and sister-in-laws that they forget being friends, and then goes on to ask her mother-in-law if they can be friends? Such is the nature of Rao’s filmmaking that it breaks your heart only to mend it so that you know what a beautiful world can look like, and how distant that is right now.
In one of my favourite moments in the film, however, Rao goes all out with the sass. An unabashed Manju Maai, who lives alone, tells the naive Phool that she kicked her husband and son out because they used to live off her and then hit her after getting drunk. Then, almost in a direct response to Sandeep Reddy Vanga’s claim of violence being an important facet of love, she says he believed ‘pyaar ho toh maarne ka bhi haq hai, toh ek din maine bhi haq dikha diya’ (if there’s love, you have the right to abuse, so even I showed love one day). The messaging works because Rao’s careful not to make it sound preachy. In fact, she roots much of the messaging in pragmatism. Some of the patriarchal burdens aren’t just morally problematic, but physically don’t make sense, and Rao’s quick to point that out, whether it’s the inconvenience of the veil, or the fact that not taking names of one’s husband makes it really difficult for you to call them when they are searching for you.
In the end, it’s moments like these that make Laapataa Ladies what it is: a montage of womanhood under siege since time immemorial, in ways that we don’t even realize. Rao and her team of writers make it a point to bring these things to the forefront of conversations that are often relegated to bigger conversations of pay parity, safety, and domestic violence, which are all pertinent discourses, but Rao sees the vitality in the little things, and how change really does begin from the tiniest of things, like cooking food for yourself, when all your life you’ve been preparing meals according to someone else’s liking.
Laapataa Ladies is currently running in theatres
