Saas-bahu, soap opera, and life of a woman

Every year, once a year, the world goes crazy with all sights focussed on women. International Women's Day, celebrated on March 8, becomes a marketing opportunity, with the spotlight set on the female buyer, or the female for whom buying happens. In other words, it becomes a marketing scam, almost, with lots of special offers, special events and even more special celebrations.

And, once it is all over, once the sales have ended and the salons and cafes empty, things quieten down, fade back to normal and assume a veneer of normality, it is as if nothing ever happened; the woman is still what she was before the hype and hoopla and all her importance, as assumed or granted for that one day, or even one week, reverts to whatever it was originally. It is as if nothing every happened. The woman never was in the spotlight.

But on television, life assumes a different hue. Through the day, in India, the soap factory is fully occupied, churning out endless variations on the age-old family saga. Some of these are comic, full of fun and slapstick humour, a never-ending series of tired jokes, defunct humour and, often, tactless and downright silly lines.

There are clichés galore, from the characters to the words they speak with such intent to the settings, the progress of events and the situations themselves. But somewhere, somehow, the makers of these 'serials', as they are called, have managed to top the right vein, capturing an audience that is loyal, steadfast and believing of any fare dished out to it. And the woman, often the protagonist, is in clover…or on celluloid, as the case may be.

The classic genre of soap opera on Indian television is the 'saas-bahu' serial. In any one of these, there will be a young woman who, as the show progresses through various episodes, gets married. The wedding itself is an opportunity for the heroine to go through various traditional rituals, the actual process depending on the community the show is based within, and in doing so, to showcase a number of products, from saris to makeup to jewellery to whatever a woman needs to be her best. On the way to that stage of the story and the woman's life, there will be drama, with tears, angst, joys, playfulness, familial bonds, comedy and whole lot of fun, for both viewers and actors alike.

And there is a character evolution too, in a physical sense. The girl starts out in jeans, salwar kameez, even skirts, then, once she is married, almost as if she has crossed a rubicon that cannot be re-negotiated, she changes into saris. From a simple, non-jewelled, uncovered head and light-hearted mien, she suddenly metamorphs into a more serious avatar, one that is sari-clad and decked out in the most impractical jewels.

From a young person who would jump and skip down stairs, chase other children around the house, garden or college grounds, she moves into a realm where she has to walk elegantly, slowly, without that exuberance that is supposedly typical of a single young woman, taking on the weight – perhaps of responsibilities – of an adult.

Once she is part of her marital home, as it is known, the young woman becomes someone else. She has to live by new rules, learn new traditions and customs, even call a stranger 'Mother'. She cannot, by the fairly strict laws of soap opera-dom, access her parental home, her parents and siblings, her closest friends, her former life, as it were, without the relevant permission from not just her husband, but his parents as well. She now belongs to her new home and must abide by its customs.

When I first saw an Indian (Hindi, to be precise) serial of this kind of genre, I was amazed, amused and then horrified. I did not and could not believe or accept that young woman today would change so drastically, so dramatically, becoming so different from her normal personality. I would never allow that to happen to me, I insisted, even as I watched open mouthed, seeing the transformation happen night after night on the small screen.

And then I started meeting women who had actually gone through it in real life. There was the woman in the gym I go to, for instance, who had to battle her marital home and everyone in it to be able to create some kind of life outside it, to become a salon owner and find her own feet. After the sudden tragic death of her husband, the only support she had in her blooming, she had been closeted in her own home, her freedom to live and choose taken away from her.

Just a few days ago I heard that she had won that independence again, but with the threat hanging over her head that her children would be taken away from her if she brought any disgrace to the family name. And this is a young woman in Mumbai, a big city.

Most of the soaps are set in smaller towns, since this kind of regressive ambience can be found there. There is also a familiarity for the viewers – they identify with the travails the heroine and her ilk go through and cheer them on when they win, occasionally gasping in horror as they do something beyond the norm established by tradition and often age-old but constricting familial habits.

Along the way, there is a feeling that this kind of family situation, this kind of closed existence is supportive and comforting, without the risks that feminine independence carries with it, but it is also restrictive, stultifying and amazingly painful for a spirit that, under ideal circumstances, should be allowed the freedom it needs to bloom and be all that it can be: a woman who knows her power, her strength and her ability.

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Ramya Sarma is a Mumbai-based writer-editor.