Lipstick Under The Burkha Movie Page

In the landscape of contemporary Indian cinema, where formulaic blockbusters often dominate the box office, certain films emerge not merely as entertainment but as cultural disruptors. Alankrita Shrivastava’s Lipstick Under My Burkha (2016) is a landmark example. Initially stalled by the Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) for being “too lady-oriented” and containing “sexual scenes,” the film’s journey from censorship to a cult classic is itself a testament to its core theme: the fierce, quiet rebellion of women seeking agency over their bodies, desires, and identities within a patriarchal society. The film is not a radical manifesto; rather, it is an intimate, unflinching, and often humorous portrait of four women in small-town India who use small acts of transgression—a hidden lipstick, a stolen romance, a risqué phone call—to chip away at the suffocating burkhas of social convention. The Many Layers of the Burkha: A Metaphor for Patriarchal Confinement The title’s central metaphor is deliberately provocative. The “burkha” is not merely the physical garment worn by the young college-going heroine, Leela, to escape her family’s surveillance; it represents the myriad forms of invisible cloaking imposed on women across generations, religions, and classes. For the 55-year-old Usha (or “Buaji”), the burkha is the expectation of asexual widowhood—a life where her only permissible joys are mundane household chores and religious piety. For the ambitious beautician, Shireen Aslam, the burkha is the communal and financial pressure to conform within her Muslim household, stifling her entrepreneurial dreams. For the student, Leela, it is the hypocrisy of a modern family that grants her freedom to study but polices her every move and relationship. And for the middle-class housewife, Rehana Abidi, it is the prison of a sexually sterile marriage and the relentless drudgery of motherhood. The film argues that the most oppressive burkha is not made of cloth but of societal expectation, internalized shame, and the fear of “log kya kahenge” (what will people say). Small Rebellions, Monumental Desires What makes Lipstick Under My Burkha revolutionary is its focus on the granular, everyday nature of female resistance. The film’s protagonists do not burn their bras or lead street protests; instead, they reclaim their pleasures in secret, hidden corners. Usha/Buaji, the film’s most poignant character, lives a double life. By day, she is a conservative landlady; by night, she becomes “Rosie,” a woman who lusts after a younger swimming coach, reads erotic pulp fiction (the film’s brilliant narrative device), and dares to dream of a second youth. Her act of rebellion is buying a lipstick, hiding it under her pillow, and daring to feel desire at an age when society deems her invisible. Leela’s rebellion is a secret relationship with a photographer, while Rehana’s is a series of anonymous, sexually charged phone calls with a stranger. These are not grand political gestures, but they are deeply political acts. They assert the fundamental right to a private, desiring self—a self that patriarchy systematically erases. The Triumph of the Gaze: Female Pleasure on Screen The film’s most audacious achievement is its unapologetic depiction of female pleasure from a female perspective. In mainstream Bollywood, women are often objects of the male gaze—ornaments in songs or prizes for heroes. Shrivastava reverses this. The camera lingers on the women’s faces, their anxieties, their boredom, and their explosive moments of self-discovery. The sex scenes are not titillating; they are awkward, fumbling, realistic, and sometimes unglamorous. When Rehana masturbates with a showerhead, the act is not framed as perverse but as a desperate, almost tragic grasp for a moment of autonomy. When Leela experiences her first orgasm, it is a revelation. The film dares to ask: What does female desire look like when it is not performed for male approval? The answer is messy, complicated, and profoundly human. By centering the female gaze, the film dismantles the idea that women’s sexuality is a threat to social order, revealing instead that the real threat is the system that forbids its expression. Censorship as Confirmation of Relevance The intense controversy surrounding the film’s release inadvertently proved its point. The CBFC’s initial objection—that the film was “lady-oriented” and contained “sexual scenes”—exposed the deep-seated discomfort with female autonomy. The board, made up largely of men, found the film’s depiction of women owning their desires to be “provocative” and “uncomfortable.” This was a classic case of the patriarchal burkha being wielded not by religious clerics but by state machinery. The subsequent public outcry and the film’s eventual release (with an ‘A’ certificate) turned it into a cause célèbre. The censorship battle highlighted a crucial irony: while Indian society could tolerate violence and misogyny in popular cinema, it could not bear the sight of a middle-aged widow buying a lipstick or a housewife craving intimacy. The film’s struggle for release became a real-life echo of its characters’ struggles for existence. Conclusion: A Call to Uncover Lipstick Under My Burkha is not a perfect film; its multiple storylines occasionally feel rushed, and the resolution for some characters is deliberately ambiguous, reflecting the unresolved nature of their struggles. Yet, its power lies in its refusal to offer neat, heroic endings. Usha does not run away with her lover; she returns to her loneliness, but with a newfound knowledge of her own worth. Leela leaves for college, but the future is uncertain. The film concludes not with liberation, but with the possibility of it. It suggests that the journey of uncovering oneself is slow, painful, and incremental. By giving voice and screen time to the secret lives of ordinary women—the landlady, the student, the housewife, the beautician—the film becomes a collective howl against the silence imposed on them. Lipstick Under My Burkha is more than a movie; it is a mirror held up to a society that preaches feminine virtue while punishing female vitality. Ultimately, it reminds us that a lipstick is never just a lipstick; it is a flag of defiance, and the act of applying it under a burkha is the first step towards tearing the burkha down.