Rage Becomes Her: Women's Anger in Hindi Cinema

I think about angry women being represented well in a Bollywood film, I don’t immediately pick a feature film. Instead, I think of Neeraj Ghaywan라이브 바카라 2017 short film Juice, where a woman—played by Shefali Shah—is hosting her husband라이브 바카라 colleagues at home; serving them food, cleaning up after them, arranging a table fan for the women cooking in the kitchen, and growing angrier as the heat intensifies. She observes, retorts at times, takes care of her guests, and eventually reaches her boiling point—frustrated by the heat, the misogyny surrounding her, and the food sticking to the bottom of the utensils. At last, she switches off the gas, pours herself a glass of juice, and pulls up a chair in front of her husband and his colleagues, blocking the air cooler. She stares at her husband, deadpan. The silence that follows is shrill—almost deafening—for the men in the room, who set their drinks down and struggle to avoid her gaze.

Growing up, I remember watching films where women were angry only for brief, fleeting moments. Anger was a flicker, a gust, a momentary lapse in judgement that passed as things stabilised—like fizz rising in a soda bottle. I don’t recall seeing women라이브 바카라 anger as a default state of mind. To be fair, I rarely saw anger on screen the way I feel it in my body—like a nagging, lingering lump at the back of my throat.

It was easy to mistake anger for strictness. Far too convenient to dismiss women라이브 바카라 anger as ludicrous—even when it wasn’t meant to be funny. And then there was misplaced strictness, parading as anger, that genuinely turned out to be funny. To prove my point, let us recall the viral Rasode Mein Kaun Tha reel that circulated during the pandemic, ridiculing Kokila Behn라이브 바카라 obsession with who was in the kitchen. Strictness is a performance. Anger, not so much. Only the disgruntled know that anger is a resource you don’t waste on being strict.

Easy to Resent than to Represent

Why was anger such a complex emotion to depict on the silver screen? Because representing angry women always risked making them seem mad, of course. And the mad woman belongs in the attic—not on our television screens.

If the recent furore led by men라이브 바카라 rights activists regarding the film Mrs. (dir. Arati Kadav) is anything to go by, it라이브 바카라 clear how unaccustomed Indian audiences are to seeing women express anger. Mrs., much like The Great Indian Kitchen (the Malayalam film it has been adapted from), taps into all five phases of anger—irritation, frustration, hostility, rage, and explosion—while depicting the life of a newly married woman trying to find her place in her in-laws’ home.

But her anger is far from irrational, despite what the sofa-bound saviours of men라이브 바카라 rights make it out to be. It has a build-up. Her anger begins when the food she painstakingly learns to make from a YouTube tutorial is mocked. When she is told not to use the washing machine or the mixer grinder—because, God forbid, technology should make women라이브 바카라 lives easier. It grows when she has to pause her dance videos again and again, reject calls from potential employers, endure sex without foreplay, and be told that she “smells of the kitchen”—despite being trapped in it, making dal pitha, only to be taunted for ruining the recipe.

Endurance is a kitchen pipe that doesn’t leak overnight—it starts with a drip, then a puddle, then a flood. The film lays bare the hypocrisies that have been inherently practised for generations. Mrs. doesn’t just hit close to home—it hits home, starting in the kitchen, seeping into the living space, and finally flooding the bedroom.

Palatable Aggression

To sidestep the kind of backlash Mrs. received, filmmakers in the 80s had devised a workaround: they leaned heavily on morality as a safety net, ensuring women라이브 바카라 anger was seen as justified rather than hysterical. Take Khoon Bhari Maang (dir. Rakesh Roshan, 1988), for example. A wealthy mother of two is swindled into marriage and pushed into a crocodile-infested river. To make matters worse, her children are being tortured, and they need a saviour. So, the mother undergoes plastic surgery, dons leather boots, picks up a whip, and becomes the catharsis of the plot—while firmly occupying the moral high ground.

The same goes for Zakhmi Aurat (dir. Avtar Bhogal, 1988), where a woman, failed by the judicial system, punishes her rapists. Or Ketan Mehta라이브 바카라 Mirch Masala (1987), where a group of women, abandoned by the panchayat, strategically attack a tax collector with mirch masala. Or even Insaaf Ka Tarazu (dir. B.R. Chopra, 1980), where Bharti, a successful model played by Zeenat Aman, avenges her rape and that of her sister by killing their rapist. Films like Shyam Benegal라이브 바카라 Bhumika (1977) and Mandi (1983) and Rajkumar Santoshi라이브 바카라 Lajja (2001) also deal with varying degrees of female rage, portraying women who are fuming.

What ties all these films together, beyond their portrayal of women라이브 바카라 anger, is how easy it is for audiences to side with these women. Their righteousness makes their anger justifiable. And often, these women tiptoe the line between anger and aggression—for aggression is when you do something about your anger.

Onscreen Interlocutors

A well-worn trope in cinema라이브 바카라 depiction of female rage is the insertion of interlocutors—who often happen to be men who narrate, validate, and often sanctify women라이브 바카라 fury. Kahaani (dir. Sujoy Ghosh, 2012) provides a striking example: right after Vidya Bagchi executes the man who killed her husband and vanishes into a sea of saree-clad women, police inspector Satyaki summarises her motifs to his superior. At the final scene of the movie, Amitabh Bachchan라이브 바카라 signature baritone deifies her vengeance by comparing her to Goddess Durga. Her story gets summarised by the gravitas of a voice so iconic, so omnipresent, that it functions as an emblem of authority itself.

If we look at the film Bulbbul (dir. Anvita Dutt, 2020), released almost eight years after Kahaani, we once again find the presence of a male interlocutor—Dr Sudip, initially brought to the zamindar라이브 바카라 manor to treat Bulbbul. Set against the backdrop of the 1880s Bengal Presidency, the film offers a feminist reimagining of the chudail from gothic folklore. Even in this plot, the actions of a woman who preys on men-who-harm-women are filtered through the perspective of Dr Sudip, played by Parambrata Chattopadhyay. His character is carefully written, not only as Bulbbul라이브 바카라 admirer and companion, but also as a template for the kind of man who does not provoke her rage but instead, becomes an ally in her quest for retribution.

Then there is Darlings (dir. Jasmeet K. Reen, 2022), in which Badru (Alia Bhatt), ties up and gags her husband, seeking revenge after he brutally beats her, causing a miscarriage. The film is guided by the moral fable of The Scorpion and the Frog, which suggests that oppressors oppress out of habit, just as the forgiving forgive. Throughout the second half of the film, Badru is driven by rage—until she chooses to break the cycle instead of continuing it. She believes she is the frog, and not the scorpion. Interestingly, in Darlings, it is a fable, rather than a male character, that serves as the film라이브 바카라 interlocutor.

Unfazed Fury

Jigra (dir. Vasan Bala, 2024) marks a tectonic shift in how angry women are portrayed in Bollywood. In a society where women—even in their rage—cannot occupy the same space as men, Jigra라이브 바카라 Satya (Alia Bhatt) dares to aspire, declaring, “Ab toh Bachchan hi banna hai.”

Satya is furious when she learns that her brother has been framed and wrongly incarcerated in Hanshi Dao—a fictional country. She becomes the living manifestation of her anger—slow-burning, quiet, agonising. The film doesn’t waste time dwelling on Satya라이브 바카라 helplessness. Instead, Satya clutches on to hope and bulldozes every obstacle in her path to freeing her brother, Ankur. She may not have the physical strength to overpower her enemies, but her relentless determination leaves only two options—destroy or be destroyed.

What prevents her from being dismissed as hysterical, or mad, or a monster, is her singular identity as a sister. In Jigra, Satya exists only as Ankur라이브 바카라 sister, working relentlessly toward one goal—his freedom. She has neither the time nor the inclination to be ethically upright. What didn’t work for the film at the box office, among other things, was its obsession with the super-villain. What should have worked for the film was its portrayal of women라이브 바카라 anger—one that no longer requires voiceovers or male moderators. That is, if we, as a society, were more accustomed to acknowledging the presence of angry women.

Whether it라이브 바카라 the slow, steady drip of a woman라이브 바카라 endurance leaking through the kitchen pipes, the calculated storm of killing seven husbands (7 Khoon Maaf, 2011), or the unbridled fury that burns everything down in its wake, leading to a jailbreak—women라이브 바카라 anger in Hindi cinema has come a long way from being just a fleeting moment. No longer confined to male validation or moral justifications, it now takes centre stage, unapologetic and unfiltered. If anything, this shift in how we portray women라이브 바카라 rage is a reminder that it라이브 바카라 time to stop putting a lid on anger just to play it safe or maintain peace. After all, if we can learn to process women라이브 바카라 rage, maybe we would finally be ready to face the question of why they have been so angry for so long.

Sritama Bhattacharyya has an M.Phil in Women라이브 바카라 Studies from Jadavpur University, Kolkata. She is currently an English Teacher based in Washington