Sridevi will be remembered for what she inspired in a generation of women
In many ways actor Sridevi’s passing away is reminiscent of Blake’s Song of Innocence giving way to the Song of Experience and parallels the story of Indian women of a crucible generation, the ones who rewrote the rules by pushing through male-driven bastions with tremendous grace under pressure, survivors of a struggle that makes women’s empowerment a millennial development goal today. Sri’s childhood phase, with those big, curious and wondrous eyes, the naughty flick of the brow and the disarming dimpled smile reflected a state of protected innocence compared to original sin, but not immune to the fallen world and its institutions. The roll of her eyes, her bird voice, her petulant pouts in Sadma were of the beginner, who screamed out for attention with her vulnerability. So through her 80s’ hits in Bollywood, Himmatwala to Chalbaaz and Chandni, she was seen as the star who could also act but who was crafted as the child-woman of male fantasy. She bubbled with spritz but was indefatigably buoyant too, demonstrating her chops through a series of double roles, precursors of an Indian version of Wonder Woman, if it could ever get made. If she was the docile stereotype in one role, there was the feisty twin too who cared two hoots about somebody as large as Thalaivaa (Rajnikant in Chalbaaz) and teased men on her terms in a chiffon sari in the Swiss highlands. The monolithic Bachchan aura was waning from overuse and the Khans were still chocolate boys. But Sri was too much in the fullness of things, not just as a woman but a smart manager who taught us how to make good of an opportune talent gap and carve out an unassailable place for herself. little wonder then that she was called lady Bachchan. Then came the liberalisation years and she opened up possibilities for an industry that prides in spawning an experimental wave today. Of course, there were the arthouse characters of the 80s, trying to come out of their struggle and victimhood. But it was Sridevi who roared in commercial cinema, forcing Yash Chopra, the original king of romance, to make lamhe in 1991, the story of a mother and daughter pivoted around a common man. The former didn’t need to do a Mrs Robinson but could amicably turn a much younger suitor into her Platonic friend, a switch which was done justifiably without any brouhaha. And when the daughter fell for the same man, Sridevi added a certain dignity to the younger girl’s passion without letting it seem like an obsession. The nation accepted it with a purity of heart, simply because of the elegant conviction with which Sridevi carried the twin unconventional roles. For Indian women breaking out, that was a coming-of-age year, when there was no fear in taming the uncharted or the unguided. By 1992 and then on, the lady Bachchan happened to resurrect Big B himself with Khuda Gawah, playing his love interest and daughter simultaneously, negotiating her screen time with resplendence and ability. With heroes thereafter, she commanded a higher pay packet. She voluntarily opted out for her private life and emerged in her late 40s and 50s again, like a Mohican showing that she could still hold the nation with her dualities — the tenacious learner in English Vinglish and the avenging angel in MOM.
But for all her trail-blazing, she was not confident about the creases of a well-worn life, under pressure to look ethereal. And for all her ascension, there was this retrograde pressure of outscoring her own relevance, one a superlative achiever needn’t have given into. That’s a takeaway the post-liberalised Indian woman needs to find: Her balance that’s not decided by a man.