Bad Girl

एक लड़की है स्कूल में जिसके लिए ब्वॉय फ्रैंड बनाना पहली प्राथमिकता है। उसकी मां उसी स्कूल में टीचर है लेकिन वह लड़की रूल्स तोड़ना अपना हक समझती है। पढ़ाई की बजाय उसका ध्यान लड़कों में रहता है। मां-बाप समझाते हैं तो वह उन्हें धमकियां देती है। स्कूल के बाद कॉलेज, कॉलेज के बाद नौकरी करते हुए भी वह बदलती नहीं है। नियमों और परंपराओं से बगावत उसकी फितरत है। लोगों की नज़रों में ऐसी लड़कियां खराब होती हैं। वह भी ‘बैड गर्ल’ है। लेकिन अपनी नज़र में वह सही है, बिल्कुल सही।

You know that a film baldly calling itself Bad Girl will be about a girl who is ‘bad’, but you also wonder how it will be different from films about a similar subject that have preceded it. Bad Girl makes no bones about telling us why Ramya (Anjali Sivaraman) is labelled so. All her instincts rebel against what ‘good girls’ are expected to do– be seen, not heard– in fact, not even be seen if that is going to upset her core family, which in Ramya’s case is her mum, dad, and grandmum, as well as school-teachers, principal, and every one else who makes a girl’s business their own, because, of course, a girl has no business that’s strictly her own.

In Varsha Bharath’s Bad Girl, the eponymous protagonist keeps returning to one question that hovers over her life like a single dark cloud obscuring the galaxy of stars beyond. “Naa yen ipdi irukken?” (Why am I like this?) The girl is Ramya, a name that is so commonplace in South India that it could be its own Jane Doe for half a country. For a whole generation that grew up between the 1980s and the first decade of the 21st century, the name bears no real characteristic. In a certain class of society, it is as regular as music class after school or the insistence to speak in textbook perfect English outside of the classroom. Bad Girl begins around the mid-2000s — a generation that was sneaking mobile phones into school and beta tested Orkut before the exodus to Facebook; so probably the last to stick to a name like Ramya. And yet, there are three Ramyas in the classroom. Bad Girl’s Ramya (Anjali Sivaraman), daughter of a teacher (Shanthipriya as Sundari) in the same school, is so feral that she strives to be the main character in her life, a life of banality according to her. The life of all Ramyas.

The most terrifying stretch of growing up is between the feeling that you are the only one who is going through life—masturbation, bleeding, heaving, wet dreams, shattered hearts—to knowing, no, there are others, too, who are transgressing. “Naan yen ippudi irukkein? (Why am I like this?),” a frustrated, teenaged Ramya (Anjali Sivaraman) asks herself as Bad Girl opens, and you think the film will iron out this misconception—that no, she isn’t alone. But Bad Girl’s preoccupation is elsewhere. The central protagonist of the film, also its central hurdle, Ramya pulls the film from her high-school years, to college, to her early thirties, roughly more than a decade. The film begins frenetically, moving swiftly between her inner and outer world—dialogues delivered in the same decibel—between mid-shots and close-ups, between dreams and reality, life-rooted and life-fabulated. Even the close-ups are wide, rushing the whole world into the image of her face in the trembling foreground.