Mandi

Dir: Shyam Benegal

1983

A Masterful Exploration of Power and Prostitution

Shyam Benegal’s mesmeric Mandi chronicles life through a woman running a brothel house

in the crammed backstreets of Hyderabad. As is the nature of a marketplace, the
establishment is marked by rumpus and range but Benegal views the matriarch’s lifestyle and
choices with endless fascination and empathy. She may not always deserve our pity but
neither do society’s self-appointed moral police attacking her lack of propriety when they
ought to question their own hypocrisy and history of transgression.
Mandi’s satirical narrative – based on the short story Anandi by Ghulam Abbas – sniggers at
their double standards while offering an intimate understanding of Rukmini Bai’s (Shabana
Azmi) bustling kotha and its day-to-day affairs. In its opening sequence, Rukmini juggles
between extending hospitality to visitors/guests of significance, getting rid of a monkey on
the loose, ensuring her beloved Zeenat’s (Smita Patil) riyaaz goes uninterrupted, telling off a
sneaky photographer caught clicking one of the girls without permission, calming down the
towel-draped tearful girl in question, restraining a freshly purchased entrant’s escape and
ordering around her loyal lackey Tungrus (Naseeruddin Shah) for all of the above. Chaos is
an accepted way of life in this dysfunctional household, almost like some defence mechanism
that enables them to cope with their inferior status in social hierarchy.
Undoubtedly conscious of the revulsion they draw, Rukmini and her girls are neither
apologetic nor resentful. As cosy their colourful community may seem, it is not without its
differences.
Smita Patil’s Zeenat, the only virgin in Rukmini’s bordello, spends most of her time on the
floor above, an ivory tower of sorts, rehearsing and reciting classical thumris. Soni Razdan’s
Nadira is callous and business-like in her approach. Neena Gupta’s Basanti grudges Zeenat’s
preferential treatment and aspires to showcase her kathak skills on a grander platform. Anita
Kanwar’s raunchy Parveena takes kindly to all kinds of lusty behaviour. Sreela Majumdar’s
Phoolmani conveys the plight of a gullible village belle tricked into the flesh trade. Ila Arun’s
highstrung Kamli is due to deliver her third child even as Rukmini, always looking out for
her profession, hopes it’s a girl. Even Tungrus, after downing one too many, doesn’t mince
words about his demanding mistress yet is too much of a bum to forsake her company. 

Switching between maternal and street-smart, Rukmini looks at her profession as an ancient
art, one that prospered under the patronage of feudal lords but is struggling to find foothold
and legitimacy in postcolonial India. It’s hectic but fun to keep pace with Rukmini’s erratic
mood swings – hysterical, sickly-sweet, shrewd, vinegary or audacious, the woman is
enjoyably melodramatic. A 33-year-old Shabana consciously overate and put on extra kilos to
look a part 15-20 years older. She even made a trip to a few red-light areas to research the
body language of Rukmini. Crimped hair, big bindi, multiple chains, shiny sarees,
paan, zubaan -- the actress shows a good grasp of her Hyderabadi character’s habits, accent,
and conditioning not just superficially but in the measured exuberance of her bossy,
overbearing dealings. Her protective ardour around Smita Patil bears genuine grace of a
mother figure, one that her most famous rival and co-star reciprocates as intently. Trespassing
their livelihood are elements of greed, voyeurism, propaganda, and exploitation under the
pretext of progress, ambition, empowerment and rehabilitation.
Geeta Sidharth fits right in the role of a white cotton sari-clad pseudo feminist endeavouring
to sanitize a neighbourhood while folks titter about the incestuous affair she’s carrying on.
Kulbushan Kharbanda and Saeed Jaffrey’s civility is purely to mask their mutually beneficial
alliance. One has got money and a cuckoo daughter (a droll Ratna Pathak Shah), another a
son and mortgaged house. Except the latter, played limply by Aditya Bhattacharya isn’t quite
the chump he looks and rebels to romance the coquettish Zeenat. Forbidden to express her
sexuality as freely as her sisterhood, she’s developed a flippant attitude towards her prized
virginity. During one hilarious episode, Rukmini kicks out three suitors from her room much
to Zeenat’s amusement. The men may not be central to Mandi’s story but they matter.
There’s Harish Patel’s wimpy cop, Annu Kapoor’s well-meaning doctor, Pankaj Kapoor’s
phony activist, Om Puri’s incorrigible photographer (but, of course, he prefers to be thought
of as an artist) and Amrish Puri in a fanciful cameo as a flaky, wish-fulfilling Sufi saint.
Call it a dream ensemble or casting coup but to rope in nearly every single stalwart of parallel
cinema is an overwhelming task. Master filmmaker that he is, Benegal weaves their presence
seamlessly in Mandi’s multi-hued story to lend it an eclectic texture.
It’s as much a wry commentary by the auteur on the politics of social sciences as it is a
humorous slice-of-survival brought alive in Nitish Roy’s National award-winning art design.
Roy creates a dilapidated ambiance reflecting the cluttered minds and bleak prospects of its
gaudy inhabitants. Yet the same space acquires an old-world charm the moment they assume
the role of a traditional enchantress excelling in the art of kathak and thumri. Music director
and Benegal favourite, Vanraj Bhatia composes elegant melodies to match the magic of
classic Urdu poetry. Benegal’s triumphant, timeless vision finds an equal in cinematographer
Ashok Mehta. His camera, devoid of male gaze and moral scrutiny, captures the raw, raunchy
reality of Rukmini’s kotha head-on and views their explicit candour and crude ideas of vanity
as characteristic not caricature. Even after three decades, Mandi proves its lasting relevance
and powerful impact on cinephile memory.