At the onset, let it be asserted that freedom of
expression is sacrosanct in a democracy and no artist deserves to be bullied
and harassed by fanatical fringe outfits with their fundamentalist fundas the
way Sanjay Leela Bhansali has. That said the man has somehow managed to
alienate the right wingers and left wingers both. The former have excoriated
him for his largely imagined trespass of dishonouring the legendary Rani
Padmavati and insulting the Rajputs when it reality his film is an endless
paean to the prowess of a privileged caste and their pristine code of honour
which when viewed through the prism of history is far less flattering in light
of how the various warrior clans in India failed abysmally against foreign
invaders. The latter on the other hand have come out with guns blazing to
excoriate his spectacular, slow – motion, colour – coordinated, glorification
of Jauhar and nonsensical notions of honour enforced by India’s notorious
patriarchy.
Of
course, one does not wish to discuss the bullying organizations, backed by a
government that seems to thrive on fermenting religious unrest and media who
has given heft to their threats by allowing them to hog the limelight
endlessly, any more than they already have been. Accusations about Jauhar are more
valid even if opinions on this sensitive subject remain divisive. Of course, a
filmmaker is well within his rights to tell his story any old way he sees fit
and is not under any obligation to take into account, new age feminist beliefs
especially if he wishes to stay true to the period in which his saga is set.
And yet, therein lies the problem – Bhansali’s messy mishmash of a film does
not do justice to either Jayasi’s epic poem, Padmaavat nor the admittedly scanty historical records of the fall
of Chittor.
For
instance, a modicum of research would have revealed the status quo at the time.
The various warring factions of the Rajput clans were unable to bury the ill
feelings between them on account of infighting and lacked a strong leader like
Prithviraj Chauhan to unite them against an invader of the calibre of Alauddin
Khalji. Consequently, none of them dared risk an open battle with the Khalji
forces which were superior in terms of numbers, strength, weaponry and
discipline. That left the Rajputs with no choice but to hole themselves up in
their fortresses like Chittorgarh and hope their allies would come through or
pray for divine intervention, neither of which was forthcoming.
In
the meantime, Khalji’s generals besieged them and cut off all supplies to the
fort. Alauddin was not above bribing willing traitors to betray their people
and reveal hidden passages inside, starving out the beleaguered populace or
poisoning the water sources. Those trapped within had a rough time out of it
with every mouthful being rationed, water becoming scarce, hygiene and waste
disposal becoming increasingly problematic leading to outbreaks of disease and
finally, a mounting death toll. In desperate straits and when all hope seemed
lost, the men rather than give in to the expectedly humiliating terms of
surrender prepared themselves for one last charge and the women readied
themselves for Jauhar to avoid the sacking, slaughter and rape that was the
most likely scenario.
Of
course, Bhansali with his almost masturbatory attention to aesthetic detailing
can hardly be expected to portray the sordid reality of a siege or capture the
foolhardiness of a warrior clan so steeped in pride that they treated war like
a game that ought to be played to the bitter end and gave their misguided
notions of honour precedence over the lives of those who depended on them.
Instead, with his ugly obsession for all things bright and beautiful, he mounts
grandiose scenes stacked one on top of the other, where the denizens of
Chittorgarh are shown celebrating Holi and Diwali with ritualistic rigor, with
marble fountains tinkling away merrily in the background while the invaders
cooled their feet and chomped on chicken at their gates. And let us not forget
the royal ladies, who are always dressed to the nines, adorned with clunky,
uncomfortable looking nose – rings through the good times and bad, leaving them
teary – eyed and unable to blow their noses for the life of them. The entire
thing is ludicrous to say the least!
Back
then, Jauhar was a choice made by women to avoid dishonour. We have no right to
judge them for that but it would also behove us to take into account the
irrefutable fact, that Jauhar as well as Sati was often performed with
political expediency in mind. Many women were driven to the flames under
duress, and often dosed with opiate mixtures to render them docile and
encourage them embrace their doom with decorum. One wonders, if Bhansali would
have lingered lovingly on the horrid visual of a pregnant woman and her
daughter, traipsing prettily towards their deaths or portrayed the Rani
Padmavati requesting her husband’s permission to kill herself, thereby
surrendering her agency, had he known the awful truth behind romanticized
legends.
Equally
problematic is the lack of a balanced perspective in Bhansali’s narrative and
his pandering to populist agendas, especially in a time when there is so much
hatred and intolerance with regard to faith, caste and class. His portrayal of
the Muslim invaders as barbaric and dishonourable while massaging the egos of
the Hindus is deplorable to say the least. Alauddin Khalji by all accounts was
ruthless, ambitious and known to display a savage streak but the same can be
said about every great ruler this land has seen, irrespective of their faith. Khalji
was also considered an able administrator, brave warrior and generous
benefactor who patronized the arts. Would it have been so bad to give him a
curlicue of credit and acknowledge his mighty deeds? After all, we are a
secular nation even if only on paper.
This lack of nuance is
proof of the prejudice seeping through Bhansali’s so – called auteurist
sensibility that saturates every sumptuous frame and is every bit as offensive
as the scant respect shown to the source material Bhansali has so liberally borrowed
from. It is somewhat galling that someone who has lavished a fortune on
decadent costumes, ostentatious jewellery, splendid sets; expended endless
effort on synchronizing even the flickering of the flames in the umpteen lamps
that twinkle in artificial harmony or the rippling of muscles on hyper
masculine torsos, couldn’t be bothered with sparing a little time and thought
towards ensuring historical authenticity and thereby creating a worthy work of
art that would have deserved to be defended from the extremist elements that
sought to suppress it. In the end, it was much ado over nothing, after all.
