When I want to take a break from writing, I watch Bollywood movies. I enjoy them a lot, especially the ones that are almost constant action, but recognise their message is pernicious. I am speaking, in particular, of movies that set India&’s heartland as an “other” and then use it as a backdrop for a somewhat outlandish story that defies all Newtonian laws. Even if Punjab or Uttar Pradesh&’s badlands serve as the other in Son of Sardaar (2012) and Heropanti (2014) respectively, their otherness is seen as positive. In these movies, brawny sons of the soil are exalted and shown to be in possession of great family virtue.

For instance, in both movies, a guest is seen as being akin to God and the ancient matriarch is respected, even if she is never listened to. Such a positive representation is dangerous, given that the culture shown to situate great virtue in hospitality is simultaneously shown as sexist and misogynistic. Punjab and Jat men, if these movies are to be believed, are paragons of violence who drop one-liners with great facility.

For the protagonist to grow in these two movies (both of which can be seen as bildungsromans), he has to gain the respect of these men and show himself to be worthy of being allowed into their community. Only when he has shown himself to be capable of equal violence is he allowed to break bread with his hosts. And herein lies the rub. Since we see the movie&’s world through the eyes of the protagonist, we are co-opted into a world where women are little but chattel, helpless creatures whose femininity is their biggest weakness and who cannot function without some masculine hand to prop them up. Both Heropanti and Son of Sardaar do a tremendous disservice to their heroines.

In Heropanti, the only marker of the heroine&’s comparative liberation is that she attends college (which she is at some point taken out of ). She quickly devolves into a mess and has to be saved from the depredations of railway ruffians, a plot device that paves the way for the protagonist&’s acceptance by her family. In Son of Sardaar, Sonakshi Sinha&’s belle is a free spirit till she returns home.

At some point after that, she is so bereft of her agency that she doesn’t demur at her marriage to her best friend, when it is Ajay Devgan&’s character she really loves. In both movies, women are content to be the hands that serve, the smile that gives, and to quickly fall silent when a man is speaking. You may say that these movies, given their larger-than-life nature, are not to be taken seriously.

But their audience identifies with these movies’ protagonists, cheering them on in their one-sided fights. What then is to stop a fan of Tiger Shroff or a fan of Ajay Devgan from unconsciously internalising these movies’ explicit (if unintentional) message about the place of women in society?