Why I won’t watch Padmavat-i

I feel like the mirror image of Karni Sena, and I’m not proud of it.  

It’s not like me to take a right-wingish position on freedom of expression, especially when the medium is art, my beloved.  At the fanatical height of the demonization of Salman Rushdie, I stood firm on “must read first” (until I read and…well…later, on that one). Add to that my utter devotion to anything Bollywood – art house, commercial, kitsch, even preposterous and outlandish. Thus, I surprise myself by passing up a Bhansali-Deepika-Ranveer iMax extravaganza which, in the past, has abundantly satiated my appetite for the magnum opus. In shopping mall ridden, brand enslaved, social climbing Dubai, desi movies are an abiding escape for the indifferent. I watch all Pakistani movies, good-bad-often pukey, because I have vowed to support and strengthen our film industry, perpetually on its last breath.  I watch nearly all Indian movies, often equally pukey, because every now and then a brilliant one emerges and induces a euphoric “paisa wasool” high. Retail therapy doesn’t compare with the sublime gratification of 45 plus 50 (yes, I succumb to junk food…what of it? ) dirhams guiltlessly spent at the cineplex. 

It is, therefore, incredible that I aim to give Padmavat a miss, not only at the local theatre but also later when it eventually screens at my second most favorite venue, Emirates Airlines. Having ….err….not watched the film, here are the reasons why - not and will not. The irony is not lost on me; as I said, I’m not proud of it, but I have resolved, and I remain resolute. 

I cannot understand what Karni Sena was protesting. A Maharani’s exposed navel, her public pirouetting? They should have lapped up this nauseating tribute to Rajput honor, a mockery of history though it made.  I was born into a Rajput family on my mother’s side. I also married into one, both my mother’s ancestors and my husband’s having been converted by the sword during the reign of the self-righteous Mughal Emperor, Aurangzeb, less than 400 years ago. Fairly recent, one would say, relative to our land’s ancient history, thus overly zealous as rookie converts are. Being Muslim did not undermine their Rajput-ness, though, and one grew up with tales of Rajput valor ad-nauseum. Drama queen that I was, I fancied myself a Rajput princess sending her prince off to war with a tilak of blood drawn from my thumb which I cut upon his fabled sword. What rubbish! The fact is the Rajputs fared miserably against invading adversaries, and their women’s sole claim to fame remains their haste to self-immolate after the men lost their lives in battle.  Courageous they were, no doubt, but not very clever. If I were Karni Sena, I would have hailed Padmavati, sensually exposed navel and all, as the definitive depiction of Rajput grandeur rather than dig my heels in against it for so many months, having ultimately achieved nothing more than the emasculation – or should we say efeminization – of Padmavati to Padmavat. 

Despite my Rajput roots and regardless of my faith, I – thankfully like most of us - hold the practice of Jauhar in contempt. Life is most precious and must not be sacrificed unless for an infinitely greater good, in defense of humanity. I consider Jauhar a cowardly act and remain confounded why mankind’s honor is associated singularly with a woman’s being, in fact lives in a woman’s body parts. Modern day misogyny owes a great debt to Sub-continental practices of rendering womankind the mascot of all ills in society, so much so that our collective cuss-words nearly all evoke imaginative, detailed degradation of the female. The day men’s vulnerable honor finds its way out of a woman’s crevices and into their own credence, conduct and courage will be the day women will become truly secure and need no more jump into the pyre which we continue to do -symbolically - at various stages of our contemporary lives.  Women, too, must consciously discover their own identity free of society’s travesty. It is wonderfully romantic to be a mother, daughter, wife, sister but amidst these expedient roles one mustn’t lose “me”. Conversely, from the dregs of the social order – whore, tramp, slut – must emerge a respectable definition of a working woman who feeds and clothes her household in an unjust world crafted by bigotry, misogyny and dogma.  Neither devi nor dasi, let her just be woman. 

The Chittorgarh Jauhar, upon defeat at the hands of Alauddin, is a historic fact so cannot be argued. Truth is the best recourse, no matter how devastating. But I cannot condone Bhansali’s glorification of it in Padmavat because, subconsciously, such subtle messages are internalized by the gullible who often channel them into behavior. Such is the power of cinematic storytelling. Talk is that the climax is breathtaking, leaving the audience with their jaws hitting the cinema floor. If this is so, I wish he had presented it with less splendor, on a subdued scale. I wonder how the audience would react to a depiction of the aftermath of hundreds of women and children being burnt to death. Can we fathom the horror of such a visual, and would Bhansali’s Padmavat withstand this truth?

What does one say about Ranveer Singh! The man is a god of cinematic portrayal. Many great roles played by Bollywood veterans, if attempted by Ranveer, would be rendered greater. Amongst contemporary leading men, only Nawazuddin Siddiqui beats Ranveer Singh and, in my book, not just in talent and skill but also in looks (who’d’ve thought I’d ever go for the “maila” type but I concede, Nawaz is irresistible!). So, it must be expected that a villain coming to life in Ranveer’s head would give Gabbar and Mogambo a run for their money. Unfortunately, Bhansali’s ambition to give Indian cinema the greatest villain of all times drives him to self-immolate at the feet of ethical storytelling. The other casualty is the truth about Alauddin Khilji.

Invading Turk-Afghan armies, which descended in waves upon India, were never merciful. Their objective was invariably to loot, plunder and abscond, never to co-exist and settle with the local population in peace and harmony.  Muslims ruled India for about 1000 years, and one cannot brush aside the treacherous nature of many Muslims despots. On the other hand, there were the Mughals, worthy of the jewel called India. Having purposefully converted their foreign status to domestic, they became recognized as settlers rather than invaders, and gifted India with her most glorious, peaceful and progressive chapter in history. The Mughals were great no doubt, and history tells us the Khiljis were less so.   

But no amount of salt, taken in pinches or buckets full, can justify the characterization of Alauddin Khilji as conceived and sketched by Sanjay Leela Bhansali in Padmavat. Bhansali’s Khilji is maniacal, evil to the core, petty and superficial, ill-mannered and “dark” to boot.  The lurking-shadows ambience in which Khilji dwells seems to suggest that not just he, everyone around him is imbued equally with the same menacing, negative spirit. In the sorcerous hands of Ranveer the magician, Alauddin Khilji comes to such palpable life that I am barely able to hold my gaze steady upon him in the teasers.

I wonder if every Muslim in this mythical Padmavat is malicious and evil by default, and every Hindu Rajput is resplendent and pristine? I am reminded of similar suggestions in old Pakistani films, far inferior in all aspects of production than Padmavat but equal in their ambition to portray the antagonist as a scourge of humanity. I was a mere child but I recall feeling uncomfortable, fearful and humiliated – not by the portrayal of evil but because of the injustice of projecting a community of people collectively as such. I never bought into the devious Hindu baniya draped in saffron with designs on the goody-two-shoes Muslim heroine, and I cannot accept a ridiculous caricature unabashedly hinting at inherent flaws in a man’s Muslim DNA. 

I object to the appalling distortion of history as portrayed by Bhansali. I find it conspiratorial, agenda-based, and deceitful, intended to confuse generations of South Asians, Hindus and Muslims alike, about the reality of our shared heritage.  

Alauddin Khilji was a merciless ruler, it is written. He was also the savior of his empire from Mongol armies biting at its borders, itching to break in and wreak havoc. Alauddin was an insatiable annexer of land, and the siege of Chittorgarh was for this purpose, and not because he was covetous of a Rajput Maharani. He ransacked neighboring kingdoms to fulfill his ambition to become Alexander II, but he patronized all learned and talented subjects in an environment of inter-racial, inter-religious harmony. 

It seems fantastical that the greatest Sufi poet of all times, Ameer Khusrau, flourished and wrote his prolific, ageless and delicately refined poetry under the sponsorship of (if Bhansali is to be believed) a feral, demented monarch who pulled at and devoured meat as if he were a depraved Viking accidentally dumped in elegant, learned India. It is ironic that many who watch and believe Ranveer’s Alauddin, and indeed are repelled by him, would be Khusrau devotees enchanted by the bard’s powerful evocation of Hindu tradition alongside Muslim references. 

I do not attempt a defense of Alauddin Khilji. I simply demand the statement of truth unscarred, uncolored by religious, political, territorial bias.

It does not matter whether Rani Padmini existed or not, nor is it of consequence that Malik Mohammad Jayasi penned his epic poem two hundred years after Alauddin Khilji’s death and probably drew his storyline from folklore rather than fact. Art is merely expression and is allowed liberties.  I imagine Jayasi took these amply for his writing and storytellers over the years embellished as they chose.  Finally, in the creative hands of Bhansali, in this polarized, intolerant world (of which I seem to be a part today!), a whole other level of artistic license has been claimed. 

What matters is acknowledging and respecting the difference between fiction and non-fiction. Both are effective influencers of consumers’ thought process, sometimes even actions, but perhaps one garners greater impact than the other and, therefore, merits more cautious treatment.  

With fiction, one may take infinite artistic leeway – create, form, deform, kill, revive any character or situation without fear of misrepresentation. After all, they are born in your head and there they exist – at your pleasure and command.  With non-fiction, on the other hand, there must be a responsibility towards truth, albeit with some space for artistic rendition. Devotion to art must not mutilate commitment to truth. When lies are told in non-fiction, history is distorted and the future of the world is altered. Whatever it may eventually be, if based upon fabrication and lies, this cannot be good. 

It is said history is written by the conqueror. Through centuries, much truth has been lost as the victorious chronicled themselves as compassionate saviors while brushing over the admirable qualities of their opponents.  We are a direct outcome of history, truth and falsehood alike, and one finds no way to redeem what has already passed. However, one can certainly protest continuation of similar distortion which will push us deeper into the abyss of misinformation. 

I don’t expect Padmavat to be banned. There are greater untruths on offer from Hollywood on a weekly basis and we never think of banning them. Audiences must have a choice to accept or reject, and be wise to determine the truth.

I have a choice…I choose not to watch, and I choose not to contribute my 45 dirhams to the now confirmed, stupendously successful run of Padmavat-i.