From Guide to Crew: Women with Jobs in Hindi Cinema

In Crew, Rajesh A Krishnan’s heist comedy, Jasmine (Kareena Kapoor Khan), Divya (Kriti Sanon) and Geeta (Tabu) are flight attendants whose employer, Kohinoor Airlines, haven’t paid them in months. The three end up resorting to a less-than-legal route to make some Rupees to live out their bougie impulses (Jasmine), pay for their education loan (Divya), and manage their day-to-day expenses with glorious ease (Geeta). In the middle of this gold smuggling and flight attendant duties, is the cutesy flirtation between Divya and Jaiveer (Diljit Dosanjh), and a mature, lived-in marriage of Geeta and Arun (Kapil Sharma), where the latter is especially supportive, as well as regretful for not doing more for his wife when it comes to upward mobility. Crew is not only unusual because it is a commercial film that has three female superstar leads, but also because of how much these women’s jobs factor into the story and eventually shape the stakes around it. 

Hindi cinema, historically speaking, despite some of its roots in courtesan culture, has a poor record of allotting its female characters economic self-sufficiency. The representation is fraught with corrosive contradictions that pit her efforts at building a community against her economic pursuit, and suggest there is a scarcity that the woman will have to make peace with eventually. At times, the job is also more of an aberration rather than a concerted life-long pursuit. It pronounces the oddness of the female character’s circumstances rather than building an argument to normalise the act of her venturing into a job. If this rings as a cliché, what is striking are the recent trends that do not make a case for optimism: At Film Companion, we did a survey of the top grossing Hindi films of the last 10 years (2013-2023), and found out that amongst the leading ladies in these films, a significant chunk’s job profile was a mystery, and they were extremely likely to be subordinate to the male protagonist’s story. 

But, still, despite these dismal numbers, there has been representation of women with jobs which, over time, have become iconic in how they imagined negotiation for what they desire with other characters. Some of them do not vilify these women but still render their success as bittersweet, whereas others are fantastically able to undo the narrative of scarcity to offer something more hopeful, instead. All of them exist within a landscape where it is (still) unusual for women to have such characterisations, colouring even the lesser acclaimed stories as — if not iconic — somewhat singular. 

‘Aaj Phir Jeene ki Tamanna Hai’

Mary Beard, a Classicist, has stated with some regret that in Ancient Greek society, women were likely to mould the intonation of their voices to match those of men during public speaking and performance to be heard, and taken seriously. The easy insinuation here being that to access affluence, you need to adopt behaviour that conforms to the existing grammar of power, rather than propose anything too radical. Beard would perhaps find some glee in the plight of the female protagonist of Guide (1965) — a film based on R.K. Narayan’s book —who is able to turn her tenacious interest and instinct for Indian classical dance into something materially prosperous for herself when she begins to perform professionally. In Guide, we have Raju (Dev Anand), a tour guide in Udaipur, who comes across Rosie Marco (Waheeda Rehman), and discovers that she is in a claustrophobic marriage with a chiding husband (Kishore Sahu). Her husband is cruelly dismissive of her social background — Rosie’s mother had married her off to him for the sake of economic mobility and social respectability because she was a courtesan, and did not want the vulnerability of her profession to characterise her daughter’s life. Rosie reluctantly decides to forsake dance because her husband considers it to be a lowly and insulting preoccupation, but she is soon prodded by Raju to have enough esteem for herself to leave her abusive husband and renew her relationship with the art form. 

While the film never obliterates economic reality, and manages to outline the stakes within which she is pursuing her passion for dance and her transgressive romance with Raju — it also imagines something fulfilling and valuable for her out of a bodily expression that is otherwise controlled, vetted, and marginalised by upper-caste folks due to its historical association with courtesan culture. She experiences fantastical mainstream success due to her talent, but at the cost of her affection for Raju waning over time — he has taken to questionable habits like gambling and alcoholism, and she finds herself floating in a gratified space where the satisfaction of success has eradicated the survivalist need for affection. 

Raju and Rosie’s internal truths collide in an explosive scene when he is arrested for forging a cheque on her behalf. Rosie states that the lack of grace during this turbulent moment in their relationship was mutual, but Raju clings to his misgiving for her: There is something to be said about a lack of empathy, but there is also something to be said about abandonment. The latter constitutes a greater offence.  

That Raju’s heart is broken because she is unable to pull him out of his descent the same way he jolted her out of her earlier poor situation is not expressive of the misogyny of the writing of the film (or R.K. Narayan’s book), as much as it is testament to the influence she never thought she could wield. She is as capable of disappointing someone she loves as she is of a thunderous ascent in her career. There is no insinuation, or a case against her profession in itself: There are outsized sequences for Rehman to show her prowess as an actor when she is dancing, and for Rosie to claim her way back to herself in the narrative in the most stunning way possible. Through this arc, the film expands her interiority rather than boxing her into a grateful damsel or a cold-hearted vixen who can’t see anything beyond herself. 

When you contrast this strand of modernity in Guide with the one in Don (1978), a stark difference emerges. Through Rosie, we see a modernity that suggests that anything that is suffering under misunderstood notions of respectability can be pulled out to not only dust the shame around it, but can account for glorious purpose, instead. Don, on the other hand, offers an interesting glimpse about what happens when the quest switches from that of thriving to that of survival.

High-Kicks and Punches as Agency

Roma — one of Zeenat Aman’s most iconic roles — renders a suit-clad contrast to the saree-wearing Rosie that is both refreshing and limiting in the way it shapes her arc for vengeance in Don. Once Roma learns that the infamous Don (Amitabh Bachchan) has murdered her brother, she decides to learn martial arts and infiltrate his group to eventually murder him. For this, she learns fighting from a teacher who spouts the stale sentiment that she is not like other girls because she has more spunk. More than internalised sexism, it also indicates the unusual circumstances within which this task is being undertaken.

When Roma learns that Don is dead, she becomes a crucial ally to Vijay (also Bachchan), a lookalike who has been sent in Don’s stead by the police to retrieve the shady operation’s secrets. While her motivation to collude with the police to kill Don evolves from being personal to becoming something bigger than herself once she starts assisting Vijay, she also becomes subordinate to Vijay in the process as the story becomes about his mission to evade these goons and protect his adopted children. 

 During scenes of action, like when she proves her mettle to Don and takes on one of the members of his group to prove her skill, her hair is styled to look like a ‘boy’ cut, and she wears pants. She also wears a tight-fitting shirt and a colourful scarf stuffed in its collar, lest we forget she is a woman. But during moments of courtship between her and Vijay, she adorns fancy dresses. It’s a clear-cut binary that is mired in a gendered web of power and desirability, but it is complicated by how, in an espionage mission, it is far more sensible for Roma to blend in seamlessly with existing notions of gender rather than challenge them beyond a point to draw attention to herself. 

Even if Rosie’s arc on the outset might seem more staggering than Roma’s, it also results in a heartbreak due to not only the cutting exchange between her and Raju before he goes to jail, but also, spoiler alert, when he dies at the end of the film due to a prolonged hunger strike. His self-abnegation at this point stands in contrast to her previous abandonment of him. When the two do reunite before he passes away, his organs are already failing due to the lack of sustenance: It almost seems like an invitation for her to thoroughly repent her previous actions, and feels gratuitously punishing. This detail also colours her success as bittersweet. Roma, on the other hand, is able to secure a more traditional happily-ever-after. There are narrative confines in both that nudge towards a melancholic realisation: Maybe you can have a semblance of having-it-all in an escapist storytelling space that already requires you to suspend some amount of disbelief.

Ambitions and Safe Spaces

Exactly three decades later, we also had Meghna Mathur (Fashion, 2008), and then Shruti Kakkar (Band Baaja Baaraat, 2010) in the Aughts. Both Meghna and Shruti are consumed by the desire to establish themselves in their respective fields of modelling and wedding planning, except one does so within constraints of Madhur Bhandarkar’s realism, and the other does so within the jolliness of Maneesh Sharma’s YRF-produced rom-com. 

Our country, by this time, had been ripped open to accommodate globalisation; the idea of sex, sexual agency, and romantic agency had skittered up to become heterogeneous. The Hindu upper-caste notions of paying obeisance to virtue, and the practice of burying bodily yearning primarily in songs gave way to a more assorted landscape where subtexts, in some cases, were yanked out to become text. Meghna and Shruti, for example, could express sexual desire with less coyness without being penalised for it. These matter-of-fact recountings of physical intimacy also take place within a context where they can draw confidence from their economic independence, and separate pursuits as individuals in these stories. But, there is still a gendered layer to this intimacy.  

Meghna perseveres to become a supermodel in an industry that is clearly exploitative towards models because they are placed lower in the rung of hierarchy, and are often a sponge for designer’s and agencies’ fleeting attention, but discarded at a moment’s notice at their whims. Early on, she is lucky enough when the male owner of Panache (Arbaaz Khan), takes a fancy to her and can recognise her spark and potential to become the face of his esteemed fashion agency. There is a prophecy available to her in the shape of another supermodel, Shonali (Kangana Ranaut), but Meghna is only interested in reducing her predecessor to an exceptional cautionary tale, rather than thinking of how Shonali getting fired by Panache could be a serious warning. But once her boss begins to find her clingy, and a bit of a nuisance when she gets pregnant during their affair, she gets a brutal reality check about the actual power dynamics that were obscured by her arrogance until this point, especially when she is let go by Panache without prior notice. She becomes depressed. A short break, and some anxious introspection later, she finds respite in her relationship with Shonali, whom she rescues from a breakdown, and also in her previous friendships with a fellow female model and queer designers who were there for her from the beginning itself. 

Most of the sex in Fashion happens within the context of professional hierarchy within the industry. There are sexual favours accrued by designers who have more power than the models who walk the ramp for them. And then there are ones that seem less crude on the onset, like Meghna and her boss. He is also driven by a predatory impulse, but there are enough endearing romantic moments between the two for her to think that the relationship could become a long-term one. There is a dearth of aspirational romance in the film, but it does point us towards the potential of safe spaces created by women and queer folks for those who need a sense of belonging within such a power-tilted space. Through her well-intentioned comrades, Meghna also learns to forego the egoistic notion of indispensability, instead realising the inherent value of everyone around her, and how you cannot dismiss them simply based on the fact that you are in a position to do so. But there is cynicism coded in its messaging as far as romance and sex goes.

Love-as-Equals

While there are not too many female friendships for Shruti Kakkar, she gets an electric romance with a man, Bittoo (Ranveer Singh), who is happy enough to bolster her vision for an ethically sound wedding planning enterprise. Band Baaja Baaraat is Shruti’s brainchild, but with Bittoo’s brawn and resourcefulness, and her own integrity and planning, she is able to establish a successful business that challenges the likes of already famous wedding enterprises that can provide the glamour and oomph to the weddings while massively fleecing their clients off with questionable practices. 

Bittoo and Shruti are both attracted to each other but oblivious to the other’s feelings, till a one-night stand threatens to shake up their dynamic. When they sleep with each other for the first time, it is Shruti who initiates this aspect of the evening. There is an awkwardness that follows this canoodling because Bittoo is unsure of what this is immediately supposed to evolve into, which is decidedly not the case for Shruti. This is a rom-com so it is not grave to divulge the spoiler that the two would get a happy ending and will become partners in life as in their business, but there is something especially heartwarming about how the courting between the two is framed. There is no intention to package them into a typical heterosexuality which rests on glorifying the brawn, and finds ways to undercut a woman’s resourcefulness if it overshadows the man. Bittoo is very much a stereotype — Ranveer Singh’s body conforming to a muscularity which had started to become a norm at the time — and he brings his “daring” to the partnership while she brings her “brains”. But by putting him in a position where he has to convince her that he can be useful to her business initially, the narrative automatically dignifies the moral and financial clarity she has for her venture. Much like Guide, Maneesh Sharma’s romantic comedy, though located much farther from Vijay Anand’s film in terms of its genre preoccupation, suggests that modernity is often about looking inwards and rearranging our preconceived notions to excavate something new out of it entirely.

The Limitations of Economic Independence

The anti-Bittoo of romance is Gehraiyaan’s (2022) Karan (Dhairya Karwa), who is condescending towards Alisha’s (Deepika Padukone) yoga instructor profession, using it to deflect her attempts at showing interest in his writing. The man with negative Bittoo energy is Zain (Siddhant Chaturvedi), who emotionally manipulates his well-meaning fiance Tia (Ananya Panday) when he cheats on her, and, spoiler alert, almost resorts to murder to cover up his tracks.

In Shakun Batra’s neo-noir film, Alisha is financially supporting her partner, Karan, who quit his full-time job to become an author. Her peppy cousin Tia  is financing the lofty ambitions of her fiancé Zain with her parents’ money. Here are two women who supposedly have the economic negotiating power to tilt their circumstances. So far, so modern. During the course of the film, the four would get mixed in a dysfunctional crosswire where the frustrated Alisha and flirty Zain would cheat on their respective partners with each other. This is propelled by Karan’s constant dismissal of Anjali’s job profile, and it would result in Zain gaslighting both Alisha and Tia about his capacity to commit to them. Here are two men who, instead of feeling humbled by how they lean so heavily on their partners, seem emboldened, no, even immune by it. So far, so irksome, and typical. 

But the curiosity itches: Why do Alisha and Tia listen to their partners yap, condescend and gaslight? These are two sexually liberated, economically self-sufficient women holding up the ambitions of the men in their life. But the closer they inch towards the truth of their relationships, the more it suffocates them. Despite Karan taking nonsensical jibes at his partner’s profession, and Zain being unfaithful, the situations never feel like clichés — they always feel frothing and urgent. Which is why, perhaps, the momentary reconciliatory exchange between Tia and Alisha at the end is so assuaging, even when it is hinted that this might not be long-lasting. The two are pushed so far apart by the shenanigans of their respective partners that even a glimpse of fence-mending between the two women can satisfy a buried yearning: That perhaps, something outside of corrosive romantic dynamics can not only be imagined, but is possible.

To Romance or not to Romance

It is tempting to find assurance in narratives that end up upholding female solidarity even within the confines of realism, like Fashion does. Despite the cynical itch of Gehraiyaan, there is also something to be said about its moral clarity: In a lesser narrative, Alisha could easily come off as nagging, and Karan and Zain could emerge as sympathetic even if not moral figures. 

But the pull of romantic desire is also incontestable. What makes modern pursuits difficult is how economic independence can chafe at your prospects of partnering up. You can find respite in empathy, and there are huge merits to imagining alternative ways of social existence that do not centre romance, but you cannot negate desire. Which is why even though there is a range of admirable representations within these stories of modernity, the story of Shruti Kakkar from Band Baaja Baaraat, and the two protagonists of Crew, Divya and Geeta, who are happily coupled up with supportive men, ends up bringing not only comfort but also a great sense of buoyancy. That this  happens within a rom-com and a comedy — genres that suspends disbelief and power-tilted negotiation to some extent to trudge the path for escapism — is a sobering reckoning.