Spotlight on ‘biji’, the invisible woman in Punjabi cinema
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Take your experience further with Premium access. Thought-provoking Opinions, Expert Analysis, In-depth Insights and other Member Only BenefitsShe is the soul of the Punjabi film, the emotional bedrock of the family. We see her in the soft glow of the kitchen, her hands expertly rolling out rotis. We hear her voice, a gentle murmur of blessings and traditional wisdom. She is the bebe, the biji, the ever-present matriarch. We love her, we revere her, but we don’t really see her. Her own story, her desires, her unfulfilled dreams, and her potential for a life beyond service remain completely invisible, tucked away behind the vibrant journeys of her children and grandchildren.
For decades, this has been the accepted portrayal. But in an era of global conversations about representation, we must ask a critical question: While Punjabi cinema has grown into a global powerhouse, why has its portrayal of older women remained so stubbornly frozen in time? My recent research, comparing Punjabi industry with contemporary Hindi cinema, reveals a startling divide. While Bollywood has slowly begun to challenge its ageist and sexist tropes, Punjabi cinema seems content to perpetuate a narrative that suggests a woman’s meaningful life ends once she becomes a mother or grandmother. Her “season of life” is depicted not as a continuum of growth, but as a final, static chapter of service.
Think about the last few Punjabi blockbusters you’ve watched. Where was the older woman? She was likely the emotional anchor in films like ‘Ardaas Karaan’, a respected figure whose world was confined to the home. This isn’t new; it’s a direct echo of characters from the 1980s’ classic ‘Chann Pardesi’, where a mother’s life is defined by the silent suffering for her son. The costumes and film quality have changed, but the core message hasn’t: an older woman’s value is measured by her utility to her family. She is rarely, if ever, shown starting a new business, pursuing a long-lost hobby, or having a life independent of her family. Her authority is symbolic, her agency non-existent.
This cinematic erasure is most profound when it comes to desire. The idea of an older character falling in love is treated as a joke or a narrative impossibility. On the rare occasion it is explored, it is often framed as a transgression that must be punished. A powerful, tragic example is the 2022 film ‘Moh’. The story dares to explore the love between an older woman and a much younger man. For a moment, it seems to break the mould. But instead of validating her feelings, the narrative descends into tragedy, leading to social condemnation and heartbreak. The film’s message becomes a cautionary tale: a woman of a certain age cannot, and should not, fall in love with someone younger. If she dares to, she will be penalised by society and by the story itself. It reinforces the very taboo it claims to explore, sending a powerful message that the capacity for passion expires with youth, and any attempt to reignite it will lead to ruin.
Now, look across the aisle to Bollywood. The change, while not a revolution, is undeniable. In ‘Badhaai Ho’ (2018), the taboo of parental sexuality was shattered when Neena Gupta and Gajraj Rao’s characters dealt with an unexpected pregnancy, forcing us to confront our biases about what is “age-appropriate”. In ‘Gulmohar’ (2023), the matriarch, played by the legendary Sharmila Tagore, makes the radical decision to live independently, prioritising her own desires for the first time. And then there is ‘Dhak Dhak’ (2023), a joyous anthem against ageism where four women embark on a life-changing motorcycle trip. These are not just stories; they are counter-narratives that tell women their lives are not over at 50, 60, or 70.
This isn’t just an academic critique. To understand if audiences felt this gap, I conducted a survey with 100 women from diverse backgrounds. The results were overwhelming. A staggering 95 per cent of the respondents felt that older women in Punjabi cinema are portrayed without personal dreams or ambitions. When asked if these portrayals felt empowering, only 15 per cent agreed. In a stark contrast, 78 per cent found the evolving portrayals in Hindi cinema to be more empowering and modern. The message from the audience is clear: they see the problem and they are hungry for change.
The collective feeling of being seen but not heard, of being present but not truly existing, can perhaps be captured in a few lines:
Chulhe di agg seki, par apne supne thande reh gaye,
Sab diyan jholiyan bhariyan, par apne hath khali reh gaye.
Sadi kahani likhan waleya, kalam teri vi ruk gayi,
Pardey te disdi rahi, par asli surat lukk gayi.
(I warmed myself by the hearth’s fire, but my own dreams remained cold,
I filled everyone's bags, but my own hands remained empty.
Oh, writer of my story, even your pen stopped,
I was visible on the screen, but my true face remained hidden.)
Punjabi cinema stands at a crossroads. As a globally influential industry with a passionate diaspora, it has immense power to shape culture. It can either continue reflecting outdated norms or become a powerful medium for upliftment. The path forward is clear. First, writers and directors must write their stories. This means moving beyond using older women as background props. Make them protagonists. Give us a film about a widow who decides to go back to university to finish the degree she left 50 years ago. Give us a comedy about two elderly sisters starting a food truck. Explore their pasts, their unfulfilled dreams, their friendships, their humour and their wisdom. Give them the central conflict and the hero’s journey. Second, grant them agency. Show them as financially independent professionals, entrepreneurs and community leaders. Let them make decisions that drive the plot, not just react to it. An older woman can be a sharp business owner, a savvy investor, or a political activist. Her wisdom should not be confined to dispensing marital advice but should be shown shaping businesses, families, and communities in tangible ways. Finally, invest in senior talent. Our industry is blessed with phenomenal veteran actresses like Nirmal Rishi, Rupinder Rupi, and others who can command the screen with a single glance. It is time to write lead roles worthy of their talent and trust them to carry a film. The commercial success of films like ‘Badhaai Ho’ proves that a powerful story, led by an experienced actor, transcends the age of its protagonist.
The celluloid stage is a powerful one, and for too long, the lights have been dimmed on our older women. It is time to let the bebe leave the kitchen and embark on her own road trip. It is time for her story to be heard, not as a whisper from the past, but as a roar that shapes a more inclusive future. Let her season be not of a quiet winter, but of a second, glorious spring.
— The writer teaches at University Institute of Legal Studies, Panjab University