Seen and unseen: Disabled characters lost in cinema
Hindi films often suffer from a lack of authenticity in the depiction of disabled characters because of the narrative compulsion for a ‘hero’ or a ‘heroine’. A look at some films that steer clear of inspiration porn and present disabled characters as people who are more than just their disability
There have been many Hindi films depicting disabled people as protagonists. From Dosti (1964) to Barfi (2021), films with prominent disabled characters have been popular with the audiences and for some of the able-bodied people watching, they have been the only gateway to the disabled world. It has shaped the perception of how disabled people live and behave. While that can be a good starting point for a conversation on disability, this often comes at the cost of authenticity, with disabled people failing to see themselves in these characters. One of the reasons why Hindi films suffer from this lack of authenticity is the narrative compulsion for a ‘hero’ or a ‘heroine’, which translates to the need for an arc about overcoming their disability. This need for an arc is also persistent in popular disability discourse, forming the foundation of inspiration porn. Yet, disabled people do not live only for this plot arc. They do not exist only to overcome their disability. Disabled people are people. They live everyday. Laugh, cry everyday. They can be bitter. Even evil. They can be mediocre. They can have doubts. The search for heroes forces many Hindi films to ignore the everyday, mundane realities of disabled life.
There have been Hindi films with strong and memorable disabled characters, although many of them do not occupy the centrality which most people attach to a certain type of film often discussed in film discourses. Or perhaps disability is not the fulcrum on which the narrative of these films stand. More often than not, the typical film on disability starts off with a disabled character and builds the plot around the deficiencies or inabilities that the particular disability might lead to, and how they ‘overcome’ it. This is the classic case of the able bodied gaze which sees disabled people only in terms of what they lack. In the real world though, for most disabled people disability is just one facet of life and while it does impact other aspects of their lives, a disabled person is more than just their disability. When we come across such characters, characters containing multitudes, with disability as one of those aspects, in Hindi cinema, we wonder why these do not make it to popular discussions of disability in films.
A few months back, while watching Lapata Ladies, I was reminded of how popular the character of Abdul from Shaan(1980) was for a certain generation of film goers. I am sure disabled people of that generation will remember Abdul, for many of them might have been bullied or teased by being identified with him. Abdul is not a central character and yet assumes a place in our collective memory, probably because of the popular song in the film picturized on him. A disabled man, he doesn’t fit into stereotypes often associated with a disabled person. He is very mobile, street smart, and conscientious. He keeps himself informed of the world around him and has his gaze fixed on society. He is an empowered character, averse to all the pity that still remains important to how disabled people are seen in this county, in cinema and in life.
Saeed Akhtar Mirza directed two films with disabled characters without whom any discourse on disability in Hindi cinema is incomplete. Both of them are complex with a deep emotional burden and embedded intersectional identities. In Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro (1989), Pavan Malhotra plays Salim, a confident, brash and wise character who wants to climb the social ladder while navigating his identity as a lower middle class Muslim in Bombay. He embraces his surname, Langda, by saying that there are many Salims out there but there is no one like him. His disability becomes his identity.
This embracing of identity perhaps helps him to not look at himself as just a disabled person. Through most of the film, he also narrates his inner monologue, which foregrounds his thoughts that often compliment his actions. Even though he is the protagonist, you often feel he is just an observer commenting on the social turmoil around him. He locates himself as a person in love, a family man, a Muslim, a loyal friend. His personhood is perhaps more important to him than his disability, something that disabled people argue and continue to fight for.
The other character from Mirza’s films is one of Joan Pinto, played by Smita Patil in Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyun Aata Hai (1980). In one scene, a creepy customer visits the saree shop where Joan works as a saleswoman and starts to tell her how she looks like her sister, and that she is beautiful. The customer wants her to wear the saree that he is going to buy for his sister, almost forcing it on her. Joan calmly stands up from her seat, gets out and starts walking across the room, the limp in her leg clearly visible, asking the customer: “She is like me. But is she a cripple too? She is beautiful. But is she a cripple?”
As a disabled person who walks with a limp, I have never felt so seen in Hindi cinema. For someone with a limp, walking is an assertion of their disabled identity. It exposes the able bodied gaze for how it sees disabled people -- flawed, lacking, incapable of beauty. The sound of her walking on the floor of the shop asks many questions that are unsaid: Do you find me beautiful now? Do you still fancy me? Are you turned off by the limp?
Joan is a remarkable character. She not only depicts the complexity of being a disabled woman, she also highlights the unrecognized emotional labour that disabled people often put into their relationships. Even though it’s only a small role, Joan becomes one of the most memorable disabled characters in Hindi cinema.
Not everything important that’s said in cinema needs to be counted in the form of screentime, as these three films highlight. Even when they get the screen time though, disabilities often become plot devices within the able bodied world in which the story plays out. In Barfi (2012), for example, the relationship between the two disabled individuals is constantly seen from the outside, with a running commentary on completeness and incompleteness. In Black (2005), the disabled person is nothing more than their disability, with a constant push towards making them less disabled.
It’s not that films about disabled protagonists always ignore the reality of disability but when they do, they are often sidelined as parallel cinema or not seen in the popular discourse as ‘disability’ films. Glaring examples of each come to mind. One is, of course, Sparsh (1980), which is situated in the universe of disabled people and highlights the difficult relationship that blind and visually impaired individuals from that world have with the sighted one. Sparsh highlights that disabled people too are complicated, full of insecurities and fear about being themselves in a world which seldom tries to understand them. For that, it remains one of the best loved films about disability, especially among disabled people.
The other film, which seldom finds mention in ‘serious’ discourse about films and disability is Saajan (1991). Rembered for its music, Saajan is a love triangle typical of the era it was made in. Except, one of the heroes is disabled, walks with crutches and poetry is his romantic language. Even though, at the surface, disability seems to be only a plot tool, Saajan somehow manages to resonate with the romantic universe of disabled people. In this universe, disabled people write poetry, or sing, or do any form of art and it is through this art that they find love. This kind of platonic love is part of the imaginarium of most disabled people of a certain generation, maybe of generations across time. In Saajan, the disabled person is not hesitant to express romantic interest because he has insecurities about disabilities (although that might be an ad on) but because he feels he is indebted to his friend, a friend who is also in love with the same woman. In the film, the disabled man also gets to be with the woman, played by the most popular heroine of the day. It is rare for disabled people to find love on screen in an able bodied person. It’s even rarer to find love through their art. Despite the feminist inside me wanting Madhuri to reject both men, I would still cheer for this love story.
This is hardly an exhaustive list and a lot of disabled stories still remain unnoticed. That’s not surprising since many disabled people still don’t have access to accessible cinema. That being said, disabled people exist in all imaginariums, across intersections, and they deserve to be represented in cinema as their authentic and real selves. They deserve all kinds of characters, good and bad, and shades of gray. Perhaps that day will come when there are more disabled people making films and acting in them. Until then, all we can hope for is that when Joan Pinto walks on the screen, people understand that she isn’t just walking, she is asking you questions. Even if you don’t have the answers, you must think about them.
Abhishek Anicca is the author of The Grammar of My Body; A Memoir