Unplanned pregnancies: the value of essentialized motherhood in Kabir Singh and Thappad

ABSTRACT

This paper examines the treatment of unplanned pregnancies as strategic plot-points within two recent and seemingly disparate works of Hindi cinema—Kabir Singh and Thappad. Commercial Hindi films have begun to depict a variety of female characters. However, the positioning of motherhood as the undisputed outcome of every pregnancy curiously remains an unshakeable norm. By juxtaposing the thematic use of pregnancy in a misogynistic film and a progressive one, I explore the persistent appeal of chastity and motherhood as the hallmarks of desirable Hindi film heroines. I examine the undisputed and implicit acceptance of unintended pregnancies within these films as an unwitting conciliation with patriarchal anxieties. I argue for the need to transcend the rhetoric of “choice” in shaping the popular imagination on women’s empowerment.

KEYWORDS:

• Bollywood
• Kabir Singh
• Thappad
• pregnancy
• abortion

Introduction

Hindi cinema puts pregnancy to a variety of curious uses. Often when a pregnancy occurs or is anticipated within a marriage, it is euphemistically labelled “khush khabri” (good news).¹ When it takes place out of wedlock, the pregnant character is subjected to moral judgment and stigma,² if not outright condemnation. When pregnant characters find themselves alone, abandoned, or widowed, the pregnancy signifies the pits of tragic suffering.³ Disagreement on the treatment of an unplanned pregnancy translates into dramatic interpersonal conflict,⁴ with characters often referring to abortion as murder and invoking entrenched values about being a “mother”.⁵ Motherhood itself has been a poignant trope simultaneously constructing fundamental ideas and practices around womanhood, family, and nation (Jasodhara Bagchi 2017; Maithreyi Krishnaraj 2010; Tanika Sarkar 2001). Within mainstream Bollywood films, “[t]he figure of the mother forms the moral epicentre of the cinematic universe, and is in a sense the lynchpin that holds together the diverse and often incoherent pieces of the plot” (Shubhangi Vaidya 2016, 77). The mother has been an idealised figure in Hindi cinema, embodying perfection, selflessness, suffering and unparalleled devotion to her children (Sudhir Kakar 1981).

One could superficially conclude that the representation of pregnancy within mainstream Hindi cinema remains regressive. But an extended engagement with the matter can shed light on the value of an unplanned pregnancy within the plot and, simultaneously, foreground the socio-political positions that films inadvertently endorse or silence. Evading engagement with deeply complex familial dynamics, economic constraints and social norms risks enabling the perpetuation of the “maternal pact”—the belief that motherhood provides an essential, distinct, and significant meaning to one’s identity as a woman, across caste, class, and region (Anu Aneja 2016). On the other hand, abortion too is typically positioned as an individual “choice” rather than a fulcrum of a much larger ideological struggle that tests the meanings behind family, motherhood, and sexuality (Laura Briggs et al. 2013). The rhetoric on expanding a women’s choices, unleashing their economic potential, celebrating their fights against regressive social norms, and abuse is widely rinsed and repeated. In positioning the issue as an individual “choice”—a selection, a preference—seemingly from a bundle of options, the matter is politically neutralized. In this context, feminist queries that go against heteronormative, binary, and biologically essentialized notions of womanhood are often dismissed as being contemptuous of the ordinary person and her values (Anne Marie Goetz 2019). A feminist is disparaged as an elite who is uninformed on the realities of ordinary women who “choose” to depend on a man, “choose” to stay within abusive relationships, or “choose” to not end a pregnancy despite socio-economic difficulties.

It is acknowledged that feminist discourse on reproductive issues can be neglectful of a variety of viewpoints. In particular, oppressive dimensions of motherhood are often tackled without adequately accounting for the value that these experiences might offer (Sally Goetz Baden and Anne Marie 1998). Indeed, many alternative and subversive viewpoints can and do emerge when one engages with the experiential aspects of pregnancy and motherhood. Experientially, each mothering experience is far from a simple or “natural” iteration. In this regard, cinematic representations can contribute to proliferating necessary diversity and disruption in the way women relate to pregnancy, childbirth, and mothering experiences.

Hindi films have begun experimenting with a variety of female characters, broadly identified as “the new woman” (Megha Anwer and Anupama Arora 2021; Waseem Ahad and Selma Koç Akgül 2020). Commercial ventures are not shying away from exploring more “women-centric” themes in which the female lead plays out her role in a variety of landscapes, navigating her identity, aspirations, and dilemmas with regards to family, romance, career, or nation.⁶ These “new women” of Bollywood “are renegotiating the boundaries of tradition and modernity, while securing a transnational identity, whereby local and global practices of femininity interact to create complex, multiple and heterogenous modernities” (Saba Hussain and Nazia Hussein 2019, 396). However, these experimentations are never undertaken at the cost of firing up patriarchal anxieties (Ahad and Koç Akgül 2020). In their discussion of Dangal (2016) and Tanu weds Manu: Returns (2015), Ahad and Koç Akgül argue that Bollywood offers subversive characterisation of women and simultaneously “represents and reproduces patriarchy in its rawest form” (2020, 16)—for instance, a female lead may be depicted as subversive for challenging conventions of physical strength and appearance, but will be made subordinate to a male figure such as a father or a husband. In this regard, the unlikely but tangible confluence of “gender equality” within liberal feminism, mother-worship under Hinduism, and the unwavering and epitomized desirability of the Hindi film heroine are churning up complicated messages about the “new woman”.

Building upon this argument, I attempt to explore the understudied arena of unplanned pregnancies. It is a potentially useful field to expose tensions in the representations of women, empowerment, modernity, and choice in Hindi cinema. In the following piece, I offer an in-depth examination of unplanned pregnancy as a strategic plot point in Kabir Singh (2019) and Thappad (2020). Both films employ pregnancy of the female protagonist within the film’s climax, allowing the story to resolve towards respective interpretations of a fulfilling end. By juxtaposing such diametrically opposite cinematic works, I argue that the unquestioned acceptance of pregnancy runs the risk of “maternalising” female identity, treating pregnancy as an inevitable part of womanhood. Cinematic representation of unplanned pregnancies is fertile ground for understanding the politics of gender at work. In neglecting and silencing the explicit articulation of the issue, movies can contribute to normalizing pregnancy and motherhood as an individual choice that warrants neither structural confrontation nor the political space to engage with the various ways in which women carry out negotiations for self-determination on an ongoing basis. This is not to say that abortion is a definite measure for empowered decision-making for women who find themselves in situations depicted in Kabir Singh and Thappad. In critically analysing the treatment of unplanned pregnancies within these films, I pursue the need for widening meaningful discussions on how women relate to their bodies, their pregnancies, and their lives.

The pregnant pause: misogynist cinema and women-centric films find common ground

Kabir Singh is the Hindi remake of director Sandeep Vanga’s successful Telugu venture Arjun Reddy 2017. The film focuses on the emotional spiral of the eponymous hot-headed surgeon Kabir Singh (Shahid Kapur) following his breakup with college sweetheart Preeti Sikka (Kiara Advani). The movie follows Kabir as he severs ties with family and friends, and plunges into a drug and alcohol fuelled self-destructive rampage. Kabir faces a professional and legal predicament when his obscene inebriation nearly costs a patient’s life. A perchance encounter reveals that Preeti is pregnant and Kabir is the father, following which the two get married and reunite with their families. Kabir Singh was among the highest grossing films of 2019 (India Today 2019). It received mixed reviews with much debate around the artistic liberty to explore the psyche of flawed characters (Sandipan Sharma 2019). Sandeep Vanga defended Kabir Singh despite the barrage of criticism for the film’s celebration of toxic masculinity and a blatant endorsement of misogyny (Sucharita Tyagi, Vani Tripathi and Shekhar Suman 2019). He vehemently disagreed with the feminist critique of the film’s depiction of the romantic relationship between the lead pair. He said that women who subscribed to such opinions have never experienced love and are “parasites” and a “real threat to the industry”:

“When you are deeply in love, when you are deeply connected with a woman and vice versa … there is a lot of honesty in it. And if you don’t have that physical demonstration of- if you don’t have the liberty of slapping each other, then I don’t see anything there.” (Sandeep Vanga 2019)

Thappad (slap) directed by Anubhav Sinha, traces the journey of the upbeat and doting housewife Amrita (Tapsee Pannu) after her husband Vikram (Pavail Gulati) “accidently” slaps her during a heated moment at a house party. The slap shatters Amrita’s outlook towards her seemingly perfect life, triggering a difficult re-evaluation of her-self and her marriage. What follows is a straightforward yet nuanced narrative, revealing varying shades of compromises and violence endured by Amrita and other women around her. Amrita moves out of her husband’s home and files for divorce on the basis of that one slap. As the marriage sours and the legal battle intensifies, she discovers that she is pregnant and remains unwavering in her decision to separate. Thappad draws to a close with Vikram and a visibly pregnant Amrita amicably parting ways after signing the divorce papers. The movie received moderate box-office success and wide-ranging critical acclaim for holding a mirror to the face of male entitlement (BusinessToday 2020; 1Films 2020), even as the excessiveness of Amrita’s decision was a contentious issue (Rajeev Masand 2020). Anubhav Sinha was inspired to make Thappad bemoaning the fact that women are “always the canvas, never the paint” (Anubhav Sinha and Tapsee Pannu 2020). He positions the film not about domestic violence per se, but about a variety of relationships between men and women—“a good husband hits his wife for the first time, and she can’t deal with it” (Anubhav Sinha 2020).

Even as Kabir Singh and Thappad offer disparate sensibilities in the treatment of women, the movies exhibit comparable representation of unplanned pregnancy as a plot-point. In Kabir Singh, Kabir along with the viewers learn about Preeti’s pregnancy and his paternity with under twenty minutes of runtime. In Thappad, Amrita takes a pregnancy test well over the halfway mark as the story hits its climactic crescendo. In both films, the pregnancy is undeniably an integral part of how the chief plot-points—Will Kabir and Preeti get back together? Will Vikram and Amrita stay married?—get resolved. I argue that both films depict unquestioned acceptance of unplanned pregnancy and a near apodictic transition into motherhood.

The undying appeal of good girls

In “Bad” Women of Bombay Films (2019), Saswati Sengupta, Shampa Roy and Sharmila Purkayastha discuss that desire in the good women of Bollywood is either a passing phase or an anomaly, to be ultimately disciplined by domestic duties, wifehood, and motherhood. Conversely “bad” women “illuminate the desires and anxieties that society needs to police, marginalize and repress” (5). They argue that the success of patriarchy within Hindi cinema lies in its “mutability” to accommodate, manage, and rein in each and every “new woman” trope. A non-threatening female lead is an essential tenet and has allowed filmmakers to serve up a diverse range of female characters.

Preeti in Kabir Singh and Amrita in Thappad are “good girls.” Both emit child-like innocence and are untouched by malice. Preeti’s gaze is glued to the ground, and she speaks only when spoken to. She accepts that she is nothing without Kabir. Amrita exists as the ideal bahu (daughter-in-law) who gave up her dancing career and happily entered an arranged marriage with an avowed commitment to be a devoted housewife. She has a comparatively effusive persona, but her loquaciousness is fully bound to the frenzied care and celebration of others around the clock. Preeti is given a paper-thin, passive characterization and the one time that she initiates conversation, it is to ask Kabir why he loves her. She hails from an orthodox family that opposes her inter-caste relationship and forces her to wed a man of their choice.

Within their respective backgrounds and storylines, both female leads experience severe conflict with their partners and undergo tremendous strife. While Amrita’s story maps onto the plot of Thappad, Preeti’s life unfolds off-screen. A noteworthy display of strength in both Amrita and Preeti is their resolve to end their marriages. Unable to initially fight family pressure, Preeti walks out of her arranged marriage within days of the wedding. She does not return to her parents’ home, and takes up work at a clinic. Even as the details of that decision remain unknown, it is an uncharacteristic and, therefore, brave move for Preeti. Amrita’s fight for self-respect risks dishonour for herself and her family. Her potential risks and losses are also spelled out in terms of the ease with which men can remarry while she will be stigmatized as “a divorcee”. As a housewife, Amrita had no personal income and risked financial instability by ending her marriage. For both, the pregnancy is unexpected and is revealed at a time of grief over separation from their respective partners. In coping with that grief, perhaps the pregnancy signifies an unspoken hope about new beginnings.

On the other hand, this is an unspoken hope under rather unfavourable socioeconomic circumstances. Amrita’s pregnancy is referred to as “raising the stakes” and “being a turning point” in the film (Sinha 2020). She finds herself pregnant as relations with her husband turn bilious over the impending divorce. Preeti finds out she is pregnant after breaking up with Kabir and ending her marriage. The outright absence of even the mere mention of abortion is conspicuous, considering the social stigma and economic pressures of going forward with the pregnancy. Preeti would face stigma of being an unwed mother. Amrita wishes to divorce her husband, a man whom she does not love anymore. And yet, the question of ending the pregnancy does not occur even as a passing reflection. Preeti’s pregnancy fully redeems Kabir’s love and viewers’ sympathy for her. Amrita’s pregnancy softens her undeterred resolve to end her marriage over “just one slap”. Pregnancy is made acceptable, fitting with the self-effacing essence of womanhood epitomized by good female leads of Hindi cinema. Unquestioned acceptance of an unplanned pregnancy and not weighing one’s circumstances and options in the face of all adversity speaks to a deep rooted, historical identification of womanhood with motherhood. Even the spiritual leader and philosopher Swami Vivekananda inherited a highly conservative and severely polarized notion of women as either deifying the pure, virtuous, and chaste mothers, or disparaging the hyper-sexual and wretched (Narasingha Prosad Sil 1997). “[T]he ideal woman in India is the mother, the mother first and mother last … To the ordinary man in India, the whole force of womanhood is concentrated in motherhood” (Swami Vivekananda 1900).

Amrita can threaten her identity as a good wife. Preeti can transgress her parents’ expectations. But neither can challenge the category of (potential) mothers. In the absence of any explicit discussion of how to manage the unplanned pregnancy, it ends up being a “motherhood pact” under which certain heteronormative performances of mothering are upheld (Aneja 2016). The heroine is then no longer just a woman, she’s a mother. Conversely, being a mother validates the attainment of a more well-rounded womanhood, a sentiment echoed in both the films. In Thappad, Amrita’s parents discuss the need to look after her happiness and well-being only after learning about her pregnancy. In Kabir Singh, Kabir demonstrates uncompromising respect for Preeti only after seeing that she is pregnant—“she’s a woman now,” he says to his friends.

One significantly invariant aspect of this good girl appeal is chastity. In Kabir Singh, Kabir take notice of Preeti solely because of her physical beauty and demure behaviour—“ … Preeti never matched her eyeline with anyone. She’s a beautiful girl, man.” He labels her “my girl” without learning her name and selects friends for her. When a college student assaults Preeti to spite Kabir, she does not fight back or seek revenge. Throughout her breakup with Kabir, Preeti is completely “pure” and does not do anything that can challenge Kabir’s propriety over her. It is simply not sufficient to have separated from her husband three days after the wedding. She espouses undue physical devotion as she sobbingly tells Kabir that she “didn’t let him [her husband] touch me, not even my little finger, not even my used clothes.” Meanwhile, Kabir’s pursuit of casual sex (at knifepoint in one case) is in no way meant to slander him. In fact, a spell of light-heartedness is derived out of his liaisons. It is billed as reprieve or distraction from his depressive state. Initially, Kabir is unperturbed about the paternity of the foetus. His nonchalant approach and willingness to raise “another man’s child” is perhaps meant to signal his nobility. However, it represents his privileged position as a man and as an economic elite that afford him a complete disregard towards prevailing social norms. He can afford to “acquire” Preeti back from her husband and raise her child (one is left wondering why he did not attempt such sure-footed reconciliation before). Unbeknown to the truth about the paternity of the foetus, he urges Preeti to not let the pregnancy inhibit her—“that’s still your flesh and blood, Preeti”. He offers to raise the child as his own and “handle” her reservations about her husband, family, and society. He redeems himself before Preeti and the viewers. Preeti’s big reveal drives home the value of the pregnancy—“this is not just flesh and blood Kabir, this is your baby”, she says between sobs and demands that he marry her right away. His reaction and the background music that follows Preeti’s revelation about his paternity leave no doubts that this is a valuable piece of information. She remained sexually devoted to him. Kabir’s elder brother receives the newly married couple with a concerned gaze at Preeti’s belly. Kabir signals to reassure him and he breaks into a relieved smile. It is crucial that the child be his, because the social anxiety about Preeti’s pregnancy is inescapable.

The societal stigma pertaining to divorce and single motherhood is relevant for both Amrita and Preeti. However, Thappad differs from Kabir Singh in distinctly valuable ways. Kabir Singh rewards the misogynistic behaviour and toxic masculinity of the hero. Thappad is an unequivocal denunciation of such behaviour. The movie is fully attentive to Amrita and offers a variety of female characters, allowing us to frame domestic abuse from intersectional positions of caste, class, and gender. At the same time, compared to all other women in Thappad, Amrita’s story is made the economically and socially palatable middle-ground. In this manner, the film keeps patriarchal expectations unchallenged. Amrita’s poor house-help Sunita (Geetika Vidya Ohlyan) endures routine beatings, and her high-profile lawyer Netra Jaisingh (Maya Sarao) suffers marital rape. All three are subjected to varying degrees of violence within marriage. The audience is prompted to sympathize with Amrita’s despair at being slapped because it deteriorates her to the same level as her house-help. Privy to Sunita’s torment, she had thus far responded by brushing it off as trivial banter. Conversely, witnessing Vikram slapping Amrita makes Sunita acknowledge the futility of her complaints against her husband’s aggression- “maare to saare hi hain” (All men hit [their wives]).

Similarly, while there is no coerced intimacy between Amrita and Vikram, the audience is given a passing sliver of incongruity in their preferences. Listening to Vikram describe his successful work presentation on a drive home, Amrita impulsively kisses him:

Vikram:

“Arre kya ho gaya Amu? Ghar tak wait to kar lo” (What has come over you, Amu? Wait till we get home)

Amrita:

“Main sleepy hoon” (I am feeling sleepy)

Vikram:

“Main to bilkul sleepy nahi hoon” (I am not sleepy at all)

The conversation is not carried forward and does not devolve into a sleepy Amrita being coerced into intercourse by her husband. Therefore, a certain dignity is secured for Vikram, compared to Sunita and Nitya’s respective partners even as sexual negotiation is an evident part of each dyad. Further, Amrita is half-way in terms of the inter-generational response to patriarchal violence. Her mother-in-law Sulakshana (Tanvi Azmi) has an unhappy marriage and exhibits a resigned attitude towards her health and life. She has a cordial relationship with Amrita, an exception to the otherwise notorious trope of “saas-bahu” conflict on celluloid. Sulakshana exhorts Amrita to forgive and forget the slap—“Jaane de beta, thoda bardaasht karna seekhna chahiye auraton ko” (Let it go child, women must learn to be tolerant).

In aligning with Amrita’s resolve against such counsel, the film condemns “the indoctrination of self-effacement as a feminine trait” (Swati Sehgal 2020). The film offers a younger, more radical form of opposition in the audacious and openly furious Swati (Naila Grewal). She is a young, assertive lawyer engaged to Amrita’s brother Karan. She, like her boss Netra, represents a comparatively “liberated” strain of bahus. While not treated disparagingly in the film, these women do not get the main lead either. When Amrita threatens domestic peace, it is with the purpose of fighting for her self-respect, not for her right to smoke a cigarette, take a lover, or actively support battered women. Thappad is undoubtedly a very deliberate and successful attempt at breaking away from cultural stereotypes of female characters in Hindi films. But it is remains one of Amrita’s many redeeming qualities that she is neither Swati nor Netra.

The film also pitches Amrita between her mother Sandhya (Ratna Pathak Shah) and her neighbour Shivani (Dia Mirza). Sandhya remains the custodian of Amrita’s wifely duties while Shivani is the first to comfort her after the slap. Shivani is a financially independent working mother. Vikram quips at her fancy new car, hinting that his widowed neighbour is more financially prosperous than him. Amrita harbours no material aspirations except those that are concomitant with her husband’s goals. She tells Netra and Swati that it was her “choice” to give up her career after marriage. Even the financial implications of the divorce are articulated by others—“Zero se shuru karna padega” (You will have to start from zero). Netra and Swati recommend appealing for maintenance and share in property, given the unpaid emotional and physical labour Amrita invested in her marriage—“All marriages are deals, Amrita”. Sehgal (2020) points out that this scene brings out two separate dimensions of marriage, the contractual angle (endorsed by Netra in encouraging Amrita to file for alimony), and the compassionate one (rationalized by Amrita as “he will earn the money and I will look after our house”). I argue that in denying the contractual angle, Amrita emerges as a scrupulous woman, untarnished by material desires. Monetary concerns of affording a prominent lawyer like Netra or life after divorce remain unaddressed. I insist that this is a crucial and deliberate layering of Amrita’s character as someone who is not driven by revenge, greed, or indeed any negative emotions. If someone as chaste, as unreasonably non-materialistic as Amrita has had enough, then it surely must be enough.

Sandhya disapproves of Amrita’s decision to divorce Vikram. In an exchange with her husband Jayant (Kumud Mishra), she says that women must suppress their feelings and tolerate injustices to keep families together. The scene is noteworthy for the manner in which female choice and complicity are tactfully addressed. Sandhya reveals that she gave up her desire to be a singer in the face of family responsibilities. She owns the decision, while also alluding to the way her mother inculcated the prioritization of home over self, perpetuating the cyclic creation of domesticated, self-sacrificing women generation after generation. She points out that Jayant did not question her decision to stop singing either. The film is conscious of passive neglect, social conditioning, and compulsions of domesticity. It is committed to Amrita’s ruminations about her marriage and her husband. Often, she verbalizes her inner turmoil and gives reasons for her decision to end her marriage. Given the nuance with which Thappad treats structural issues and systemic socialization into patriarchy, it is a perplexing flaw that Amrita is not given even a few seconds worth of rumination about her pregnancy.

Surely a child conceived (presumably) days after the slap suggests that intercourse was tolerated and not actively desired by Amrita. Everyone around her begins to call her the “mother” and the foetus as a “child”. Amrita’s parents tell her, “jab ma khush hoti hai, tabhi bachhe happy paida hote hain” (if the mother is happy, the child will be born happy). Her mother-in-law organizes a prayer meet for the “unborn child”, bringing Amrita in a celebratory reunion with the man who hit her, and his family. But the socio-economic implications of continuing a pregnancy as an unemployed, divorced woman are not articulated. My attempt is not to adjudicate her decision but to exteriorize what is made out to be a natural path into motherhood. This remains unexplored in the film.

Sexual devotion to flawed heroes and essentialized motherhood

Kabir Singh is deeply misogynistic. But Preeti’s decision to break off her marriage and be a single mother is admittedly subversive. On the other hand, Thappad pushes against clichés and stereotypical female characters within a commercial project. It offers shrewd tweaks and nuanced representation to make audiences break out of their mental model of what domestic abuse looks like. These two films are perhaps not fully representative of how pregnancy or modern, middle class female characters are treated in Hindi cinema. But they do typify the ways in which chastity and motherhood are the boundaries for a woman’s respectability across regressive and seemingly progressive films.

Amrita’s sexual fidelity to her husband is not up for dispute. It does not figure even within the frivolous charges made by Vikram’s lawyer to intimidate her. Therefore, Amrita’s chastity is a prerequisite for the viewers to buy into her guileless appeal for self-respect. She went from her parents’ house to her husband’s house. She does not work and is not a woman of the world, at least not in the manner that Bollywood interprets it. She did not marry for ambition, or assuage a loveless marriage through an affair. Amrita only wants “respect and happiness” and who could disagree? Wanting an abortion would be too much. In both Kabir Singh and Thappad, the female lead’s chastity and pregnancy are mobilized to serve the plot. Sexual loyalty to the male lead also circumvents doubts about paternity. It keeps the female lead connected to flawed and violent romantic partners. Within a large majority of Hindi films, female characters play an explicitly instrumental role vis-à-vis the hero and the script. They are “instructors and enablers of men”, performing physical, sexual, and emotional labour throughout the male lead’s self-discovery on screen (Megha Anwer 2019, 311). In both the films, the pregnancy is revealed at a time of strained relationship between the lead couple and, therefore, has implications for how the follies of the male lead are processed. Both Kabir and Vikram expect their partners to fit into their routines, and life plans. Any exceptions are seen as unreasonable and beyond comprehension. Specifically, both inhabit a worldview in which women whole-heartedly embrace unplanned pregnancies.

The male lead slapping the female lead in an angry fit is a significant plot-point in both films. In Kabir Singh, Kabir slaps Preeti during an aggressive argument, following which the relationship breaks down and she is forced to wed a man chosen by her parents. It is not established whether the slap played a part in her acquiescence to the arranged marriage. Kabir does not apologize for the slap, and reveals no intention to mend matters until a chance encounter eight months later when he finds out about the pregnancy. Some might consider Thappad to be a fitting rejoinder to Kabir Singh because a single slap is the basis of a housewife’s resolve to end her marriage. Vikram sees the slap as a momentary lapse. He tries to make peace with Amrita but does not apologise. He is befuddled by her decision to end their marriage over the incident. His exasperation turns viscous after he realizes that she is unwilling to return even after learning that she is pregnant. He implores her to “think about the baby at least”. He approaches the divorce plea tenaciously, fighting to retain custody of “his child”. His brother reassures him that no child from their family will grow up an “orphan”. There is a hint of internalized gender bias as Vikram and his family refer to the foetus as male. The film is clear in its denunciation of this patrilineal ownership of pregnancies and instead aligns ethos with the would-be single mother.

Unlike Kabir, Vikram will suffer separation from his child. Even as his relationship with Amrita thaws in the last scene, Vikram will still be a father at arms-length. Sinha admitted that he deliberately cast Vikram as a “good guy”—“I wanted you to leave the theatre thinking ‘oh he shouldn’t have done that’ and not saying ‘what a bastard!’.” On the other hand, he planned for Amrita to not be “an activist of a woman … it would have been counterproductive” (Sinha 2020). Audiences, it is implied, do not sympathize with a woman-activist. Meanwhile who could help not find Vikram’s repentant monologue heart-breaking? Vikram’s mistake costs him “his” child. The importance of fathers for both the female leads is also amply clear. After walking out of her three-day marriage and severing ties with her family, Preeti must undertake the pregnancy alone. In any case, the news would be abhorrent for her father. When he finally sees her, she is wed to Kabir and out of the ambit of his authority. Amrita’s father supports her and balances out the hostility displayed by her mother and brother. “Affluence is a precondition for this version of modern feminine subjectivity” (Pamela Thoma 2009, 411). Amrita manages to find independent accommodation and a car, presumably with the support of her parents. Preeti is financially independent through her work at a clinic, but her overarching stigma and stress of abandonment is resolved through marrying Kabir. Both Kabir and Vikram are men who have abused them. And in keeping the pregnancy, they remain tethered to their abusers.

How would Kabir Singh and Thappad unfold in the absence of the unplanned pregnancy or its undisputed acceptance? Any chance encounter with Preeti ought to have moved Kabir towards atonement. One can be justifiably sceptical about Preeti’s opinion on safe sex or whether she had a say in the matter. Kabir’s socially and economically privileged views on birth control are made evident when he scoffs at his newly married brother’s decision to plan a baby in due time—“Plan karenge matlab? (What do you mean by plan?) It should happen in a flow or love”. Perhaps termination of the pregnancy would also be an equally “unromantic” topic. It is worrisome considering that both Kabir and Preeti are doctors and in a position to offer informed consultation on the matter. Preeti remains respect-worthy for her emotional and physical commitment to Kabir. The sheer absence of even the slightest contemplation about seeking an abortion is strategic for her untainted characterisation.

Amrita’s “choice” to end her marriage is tolerable precisely because of her otherwise lovable and devoted persona—her horizon for prosperity rest within her husband’s aspirations, she continues to look after her sick mother-in-law even after separation. Vikram is characterized by a fastidious pursuit of his aspirations. When he realizes that Amrita will go ahead with the divorce despite the pregnancy, he brings out his planner and recites his goals. The pregnancy caught both husband wife off-guard, but he is happy because it coincides with his plan. Amrita approaches the matter with calm and undeterred resolve. She no longer loves him and finds her self-respect compromised within the marriage. The pregnancy is a litmus-test for her determination, but she must nevertheless carry it to term. To seek termination would be to act out of self-preservation and risk moral ambiguity. The takeaway is subliminal yet undisputedly clear—women across socio-economic strata deserve respect but no respectable women would even think about ending an unplanned pregnancy.

Conclusion

Motherhood is one possible outcomes of an unplanned pregnancy. However, termination of pregnancy is not presented as an option for “good women”. Here, terminating pregnancy is in no way conflated with women’s empowerment or feminist ideals. Instead it draws attention to the argument that “[s]ilencing debate about reproductive rights, even in their narrowest and most popular feminist version, conforms to the mandate by postfeminist discourse to repudiate feminism as a political movement” (Thoma 2009, 416). Certainly, there needs to be greater consideration of the fact that many women wish to be mothers and motherhood provides value to them. However, it is problematic when becoming a mother is positioned as the unchallenged, unconfronted segment of the female self. It is anchored in what Susan Douglas and Meredith Michaels call the “mommy myth”, the “insistence that no woman is truly complete or fulfilled unless she has kids” (2004, 5). We need an adequate engagement with the economic, social, and cultural compulsions under which unplanned pregnancies occur. Choosing to be a divorced, single mothers is a bold decision for Preeti and Amrita. However, this does not negate the fact that continuing the pregnancy under the circumstances is meant to be a redeeming quality for both of them. It serves to restore femininity i.e. docility, vulnerability, selfless-ness. It softens the disruptive nature of their actions, legitimizes their empowerment, and makes it non-threatening.

Why is it so important that the position of these heroines, especially Amrita, is defendable and indeed admirable? The films are united in their depiction of unplanned pregnancies and also the slap. A slap is physical harm, but it is often considered innocuous enough to be a pardonable harm by many people (the director of Kabir Singh included). Therefore, acknowledging a violence that is largely invisibilized or normalized can be mistaken as “manifesting” that violence or bringing it into existence—“It is because we expose violence that we are heard as violent, as if the violence of which we speak originates with us” (Sara Ahmed 2016, 253). Amrita is disruptive because she considers the slap reason enough to terminate a happy, upper-caste, materially prosperous married life. She represents a violence to this deeply valued institution, making Anubhav Sinha work overtime to ensure that the audience sides with her. This simultaneously draws upon and informs notions of empowerment for women in contemporary Indian society.

As a society, we still believe that there are women against whom violence can justifiably or understandably be committed. Therefore, neither Amrita nor Preeti should ever come across as “asking for it”. We can only get behind their decisions to the extent that we find them unconditionally blameless and harmless. Therefore, the employment of the unplanned pregnancy as discussed above reinforces a sleight of hand in which a new patriarchal order tiptoes its way into the larger tropes of the new women. Drawing on Partha Chatterjee’s discussion of modernity in postcolonial India, Hussain & Hussein argue that this “new patriarchy was a more classed practice, and a condition reformed and reconstructed against old patriarchy, which confined Indian women to only domesticity, creating a superior national culture to mark middle-class woman’s newly acquired freedom in the public and intellectual sphere” (2019, 400). Within this new patriarchal order, Preeti and Amrita seize their individual narratives, giving new meaning to ideas of independence, self-respect, women in love and complicated domestic set-ups. The unquestioned acceptance of motherhood is normalized rather successfully.

By making the pregnancy valued by all characters and by making it valuable to the story itself, Kabir Singh and Thappad contribute to perpetuating ideals of the “good woman” and heteronormative domesticity. By not taking cognizance of a more comprehensive rubric of options that can be and need to articulated, the film condones the view that women who may even contemplate terminating their pregnancy are somehow tainted, less deserving of the hero’s love and the viewers’ sympathy. The consideration of unintended pregnancies cannot be captured within the “choice” rhetoric. It is, instead, more meaningful to attend to what is endorsed or rejected, verbalized, or silenced within a narrative. In both these films, the pregnancy becomes part of a happy ending. It is premised on the assumption that both the women get what they want, that they had choices and pursued their desires. Women’s choices will be tolerated and even celebrated, so long as they make the right choice. Ultimately, it reveals that cinema and, indeed, society consider female empowerment more significantly in terms of a transgressive threat to status-quo, than commendable for its emancipatory and transformative potential.

Acknowledgments

I want to thank all the peer reviewers. The feedback and inquiries helped me refine and finalize this paper.

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No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Additional information

Funding

This work was undertaken independently by the author, independent of any funding body.

Notes on contributors

Vyoma Dhar Sharma

Vyoma Dhar Sharma is a PhD candidate at the Department of International Development, University of Oxford. Her work focuses on gendered nature of illness and reproductive health policy in the Indian context. E-mail: [email protected]

Notes

1. Hum Aapke Hain Koun.! (1994), Hum Saath-Saath Hain (1999), Chori Chori Chupke Chupke (2001), Krrish 3 (2013), Dil Dhadakne Do (2015), Sultan (2016) among others. A recent comedy-drama about pregnancies resulting from mixed up in-vitro fertilization is, in fact, called Good Newwz (2019).

2. Julie (1975), Kabhie Kabhie (1976), Prem Granth (1996), Hum Aapke Dil Mein Rehte Hain (1999), Kya Kehna (2000), Aitraaz (2004), Fashion (2008), Raajneeti (2010), Shuddh Desi Romance (2013) among others.

3. Aradhana (1969), Silsila (1981), Uri (2019).

4. Aitraaz (2004), Salaam Namaste (2005), Paa (2009).

5. Raman Raghav 2.0 (2016), Raazi (2018), Badhaai Ho (2018), Good Newwz (2019).

6. To name a few recent examples: Band Baja Baraat (2010), Dangal (2016), Gunjan Saxena (2020), Mary Kom (2014), Neerja (2016), NH10 (2015), Piku (2015), Queen (2013), Sultan (2016), Tanu Weds Manu (2011), Veere di Wedding (2018).