Very early into the play, the presenters slip in a quick note through one of the characters, that their gaze is restricted largely to the urban women, since that is what their lived experiences allow them to do and as such any commentary about the under-privileged women or those from rural areas would be superficial and unfair even, hence avoided. Although this is an honest admission, it presents a peculiar problem.
The play comes at least a decade late if not more, for it to make any real dent on public psyche and bring out any real reconsideration in the male gaze. Urban feminist movement has lost its relevance, largely due to their own doing, or over doing of things if I may say so.
The post covid world has completely exposed the realities of gender roles and ideas of equality. The collapse of labour division in an organised urban dwelling has demolished the very need for each other. Women don’t need men to provide and protect, nor do men need women to nurture and nourish. With each passing day, more people realise the pointlessness of being in a committed relationship and opt out of it. Each passing day increasing number of couples opt out of parenting choosing to prioritise themselves. Relationships have steadily become transactional and there is no need left on either side.
Naturally when there is no need for the other, there arises no question of understanding each other either. In this evolved scenario, the old labels of a suppressed women or the women in the shadows have become largely redundant. So then what exactly do the makers wish to communicate here?
Near the end of the play, the old man admits his negligence or conditioning and makes a rather poignant apology about his choices and behaviour towards the women in his life. “Unlike me, you were complete by yourself”, he says. No Sir. That is factually incorrect as the world is slowly but surely discovering of late. “I don’t need a man to complete me”, is a statement made out of rebellion at best. Deep down every woman knows the hypocrisy that she has buried under the façade of feminism.
In the year 2000, I was on the cusp of adulthood and the fear of future gave me sleepless nights. “Study or you will have to do the dishes for the rest of your life”, this and the other one, “be an engineer so that you won’t starve to death”, were the two statements that pushed me, no forced me to study things I had no inclination of studying. As if everyone other than engineers were begging in the streets or doing dishes at best. Whatever I learned was out of fear, fear of survival, which I carried through my adult life, still do. That I metaphorically did the dishes all my life is fate or shall I admit my choices manifesting themself of course.
None of the women of my generation, had this fear. Not one. They had the choice to study or drop out. Those who opted to study had no compulsion of being an engineer, if they did, it was out of their own will. After they became engineers, they had no compulsion to find employment, if they did, it was out of their own will. Once they began a career, they had no compulsion to perform and move up the ladder, if they did, it was out of their own will.
Whether for periods or pregnancy or out of pure preference, women had the choice to take a break. They could do so because men in their life offered them this choice, they had them covered. Neither me, nor any of the men I know ever had this choice.
Women always had agency, men rarely did and yet women kept saying the lacked it. Why? Nobody knows. Now for the past few years women have started to experiences the uncertainties of fending for themselves and are losing the soft spot men had for them. For all the so-called inequality they faced, men valued women, but that is changing, or shall I say, changed already?
So, when Maya and Greta speak about being in the shadows of the men they loved, it sounds convoluted. The little counter-view that Puru offers is ridiculed and reduced to a stereotype, of course without offering any real answer to the question he raises. Sure, he was an exploitative, self-centered man, what stopped the two ladies to walk away from his shadow? Love, is what they say. Sorry ma’am, that’s a lie. Need is the answer and you know it. The day your needs exhausted so did your so-called love for the man. You are as much in this hammam as the man you claim to be, aur is hammam mein…
Marathi theatre for over six or seven decades have had themes and opinion far ahead of their time. Be it “Shantata Court Chalu Ahe” of the late 60s or “Char Chaughi” and “Dehabhan” of the 90s or the much acclaimed “Sangeet Devbabhali” running in theatres today, Marathi theatre has been voicing much more nuanced opinion and offering on the feminist gaze. So, when Silhouettes comes along, particularly from a group of artists who are known for their craft and articulation, the expectation is to find a deeper voice. What we find instead is an old, irrelevant and lopsided view finely wrapped in splendid décor and lights. The addition of classical European feminist references adds a touch of class and awe to the presentation. But strip it off the façade and the play rings hollow, devoid of substance.
Last night when I walked out of the auditorium, I was engulfed in the feeling of amazement and deeper introspection. I walked all the way home, 7.5kms away Strava said when I reached home. I called up a few people and told them about the experience. Though today when I woke up, the initial awe was dissolved, I realized that the play was never meant for people like me. It was aimed at those who wish to live perpetually in an echo-chamber, smashing patriarchy and all that. By the way, picking the absurdity in the lyrics of yesteryear songs was a neat touch though. I played Jaydev songs while getting ready for work, beautiful songs all of them.
Back in the factory, I saw the women working on the cutting machines. Eight of them in our workplace, not one, I repeat, not one has a safe space to live. The men in their life drink, smoke, hit them and live off their earning. Every single day they do the dishes, cook food, sweep the floor and work nine hours in the factory only to go back home to cook and do the dishes before they can sleep. None of them are silhouettes, they are bright as sunshine, all of them, the color of their skin or the language they speak notwithstanding. But Sandhya and Amol won’t count them as such, I know that, we know that.
