5 gems from Smita Patil’s pathbreaking filmography that celebrated the female experience

Born on October 17, 1955 in Pune, Patil possessed a chameleon-like quality, effortlessly assimilating into the film’s environment and narrative to such an extent that her cosmopolitan origins receded into background. This remains accurate, whether we consider Manthan’s Bindu and her poignant connection with a veterinarian striving to usher in the White Revolution in her Gujarati village, Chakra’s unflinching portrayal of a mother in the squalid slums of Bombay, Khairun in ‘Gaman’ who is waiting for her husband who toils as a migrant, among others. Her acting was piercing, her gaze poignant, her defiance resolute, and her filmography pathbreaking.

Actress Smita Patil in Film Manthan. (Express archive photo)

In an era where cinematic narratives invariably confined women’s characters to either god-like paragons of virtue or maleficent agents of matrimonial discord, vilified for their independence, modernity, and progressiveness, the two-times National Award winner’s filmography defied convention.

In a short-lived career spanning just over a decade, she prised open a space for feminist interventions and her movies dared to engage with an audience segment hitherto unaddressed by the film industry.

In an interview with Prasar Bharati, she rebuked formulaic commercial movies for portraying women as feeble individuals devoid of intellect or depicting them as villains. She stated, “I portrayed the truth of the characters in every movie I worked on. I chose films that not only showcased the trials of Indian women but also emphasised their inner strengths.”

On her birth anniversary, we take a look at some of her movies which posed questions that opened up the conversation on feminism and unveiled the expansive tapestry of women’s roles and their societal conditioning within a film’s narrative.

Bazaar (1982)

In Sagar Sarhadi’s ‘Bazaar,’ Patil’s anguished Najma, after realising that she has been manipulated by her paramour (Bharat Kapoor) for year,s confronted him with questions that continue to resonate with the experiences of many women at some point. “Mujhse mera kirdaar chin liya..mujhe bebas aur majboor bana diya (You took away my character from me… you made me helpless and powerless),” she said. Najma questioned the concept of love and came to understand that she had been living in an illusion of love, a mirage of security that had clandestinely eroded the essence of her persona.

Bazaar subtly delves into the concept of internalised misogyny that women are ingrained with as they mature in a patriarchal society. “Mai kon hu kya hu… is bazaar mai kahi mai toh kharidaar nahi (Who am I and what am I… in this market, am I also a buyer?),” Najma asks Salim (Naseeruddin Shah), realising that she has unwittingly become a channel for perpetuating the same discomforting ordeals that she had grown up with.

Even though the movie centers around the issue of young girls forced into marriages with significantly older men for financial gain, it repeatedly crosses the threshold to offer a glimpse into the life of a woman whose life experiences have obfuscated her ability to differentiate between good and bad. This raises the question of culpability: who bears responsibility within this construct? The film provides an answer in the penultimate shot, where Patil’s Najma breaks the fourth wall and gazes unwaveringly into the camera. In doing so, she accuses the audience of sharing in the guilt of ensuring that the fuel for patriarchy’s survival is continually provided.

Naseeruddin Shah and Smita Patil in Bazaar. (Express archive photo)

Mirch Masala (1987)

The conventional and well-worn approach of portraying women within a rustic backdrop as feeble entities, bereft of individuality, autonomy, and intellectual acumen, faces a formidable challenge in Ketan Mehta’s ‘Mirch Masala.’ When the lascivious ‘subedaar’ (Naseeruddin Shah) sets his sights on Sonbai (Smita Patil) with sinister intentions, she stands defiant. She refuses to yield, even in the face of the entire male-dominated village’s collective persuasion, framing the subedar’s advances as yet another form of ‘lagaan’ he demands.

On the other hand, the women of the village are convinced that Sonbai somehow gave inappropriate signals to the ‘subedaar,’ leading them to question why he singled her out over others. When an elderly woman remarks, ‘galti tere roop mai hai’ (the mistake is in your appearance), Sonbai retorts, ‘uski nazar mai nahi’ (not in his eyes). At this juncture, it becomes evident that this scene transcends the immediate context in which it is spoken, resonating with women across generations, both past and future. It compels us to reflect, “Have circumstances truly evolved for the better?” In this poignant moment, both Patil and the film have aptly served their purpose.

Smita Patil in Mirch Masala. (Express archive photo)

Bhumika (1977)

The dialogue, “Mard ke mukhote badalte hai, mard nahi,” spoken by one of the characters in the movie to Patil’s Usha, precisely encapsulates the film’s core essence. Forced into acting at a very young age and enticed by an older, abusive man into a marriage designed to exploit her earnings, this Shyam Benegal film raises a thought-provoking question: Does economic independence alone grant genuine freedom to a woman?

Being a successful actress does not guarantee Usha the dignity she deserves, as her opportunistic husband is determined to exert control over every facet of her life. He even reprimands her for opening a bank account without his approval.

Usha finds herself oscillating between various men in a perpetual quest for the respect and affirmation she never recognised should emanate from within her.

The men change, the circumstances shift, but her misery persists. Superficially, it might seem that she is merely a victim of her own choices. But is this truly the case? The film subtly hints at the underlying factors influencing her decisions by employing numerous flashbacks to illustrate what shapes her choices and how tightly she remains bound by the invisible chains of patriarchy.

Smita Patil in Bhumika. (Express archive photo)

Arth (1982)

In Mahesh Bhatt’s ‘Arth,’ Smita Patil played the role of Kavita, the woman with whom Inder, portrayed by Kulbhushan Kharbanda, falls in love, ultimately leading to his abandonment of his wife, Pooja, portrayed by Shabana Azmi.

“Smita bared her soul and depths of vulnerability to portray a woman who has to struggle to find acceptance from an audience that is rooting for Pooja (Shabana Azmi),” writer film critic Maithaili Rao writes in her book ‘Smita Patil: A Brief Incandescence.’

Undaunted by nature, Patil didn’t hesitate to accept a role that inevitably portrayed her in a negative light. While Shabana’s Pooja undeniably embodies the kind of woman that many individuals caught in such predicaments would aspire to become, Smita Patil, through her layered portrayal, brings a depth and nuance to the neurotic character of Kavita that invites viewers to understand her perspective, even if it doesn’t necessarily garner their sympathy. Her portrayal of an emotionally unstable woman’s quest for unconditional love immerses you in a whirlwind of intense emotions and liberates you from the burden of judgment.

In a pivotal moment in the film, Kavita kneels at Pooja’s feet, beseeching forgiveness with folded hands, and utters, “It wasn’t your husband I fell in love with but the man Inder is. I wanted to make a home, not break yours.” Here, we may ask, does the blame lie entirely on Kavita?

Shabana Azmi, Smita Patil and Kulbhushan Kharbanda in Arth. (Express archive photo)

Mandi (1983)

The women residing in the kotha nestled at the heart of a quaint Telangana town, as portrayed in Shyam Benegal’s 1983 classic “Mandi,” are far from being mere victims or powerless figures.

They are individuals who tenaciously assert their right to pursue their profession, unflinchingly resisting unwanted advances and demanding respect. They dedicate themselves to the arts, training in classical music and dance, often viewing their work in as another form of artistic expression.

Rukminibai (Shabana Azmi) serves as the custodian of a gilded yet confining sanctuary, with Zeenat (Smita Patil) as its most treasured inhabitant. Zeenat, alone among them, retains her virginity and practices her musical and dance skills in a room atop the two-story establishment.

The film challenges the societal tendency to subject these women to humiliation and blame, instead of casting a discerning eye on the men who solicit their services. At the time, when numerous cinematic endeavors, regrettably, confined sex workers to narratives driven by the intent of hyper-sexualisation, objectification, and their continued commodification, this film emerges as a strikingly feminist anomaly.

In the contemporary landscape of cinema, when we watch movies such as ‘Thappad’, ‘Parched,’  ‘Kahaani’,  among others we cannot help but recall Smita Patil, who, in many ways, pioneered the path of women-centric films. She created a space for the subsequent generation of actors to chart their own course and shatter ceilings in this still male-dominated industry. This speaks volumes about her vision, thoughts, and character, as she deliberately curated a filmography that we are still unraveling to uncover deeper social meanings. Notably, actors such as Tabu, Taapsee Pannu, and Radhika Apte seem to be advancing the legacy she initiated. Patil passed away in 1986 due to complications related to childbirth. Nevertheless, her magnetic on-screen presence lives on and continues to inspire.