It has been more than nine decades since Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay, the celebrated Bengali novelist, gave us Devdas – that ‘immortal tale of love and longing’. The story of the spoilt, indecisive Devdas, his hapless lover, Paro and the noble courtesan Chandramukhi has so captured India’s fancy as to spawn countless reinterpretations in Bollywood, starting from P.C.Barua’s soulful 1935 flick. Devdas’ slow, self-flagellating descent into alcoholism has since been captured on reel in almost every language in India. If any of this generation missed the ‘iconic’ image of Shah Rukh Khan smashing expensive bottles of sharaab in Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s obscenely opulent take on Devdas (2002), there is always this year’s image of Abhay Deol doping himself silly in Anurag Kashyap’s Dev D. As Kashyap gives Devdas the first happy ending (along with Chanda, no less) in his seemingly immortal existence, the fate of Paro gives us less to rejoice about.
Parvati, Devdas’ childhood sweetheart, is one unfortunate soul. She is in love with a weak, indecisive brat and also has the misfortune to be born into a family poorer than Devdas’ mother envisages for her son. Humiliated by her love’s inability to stand up to society, she follows the only course allowed to a woman in early 20th century Bengal – marriage to a wealthy zamindar many years her senior. In the novella, she is not even allowed to step out of her husband’s zenana to see the dying Devdas. The story is hence considered a poignant portrayal of society’s constraints.
Flash forward to Bhansali’s magnum opus. Aishwarya Rai portrays the much-wronged Paro, bedecked in Neeta Lulla’s finery that leaves one wondering at just how ‘down-market’ her family is. She croons pleasingly to her lover, coyly accepts his heirlooms, dances enticingly and quietly marries an old fogey. In short, she is the quintessential bird of paradise. Through all the distress and rejection, she remains restrained and unfailingly dignified. With the exception of a few scenes, Paro’s hurt and anger remain bottled up. She makes the transition from lover to trophy wife almost wordlessly. Her spunk, when it does bubble up, is restricted to lashing out at Devdas’ sister-in-law and, sometimes, at her overly zealous son-in-law. One almost gets the feeling of watching a pawn, forced to assuage her mother’s bruised ego by marrying ‘brilliantly’. Rai’s lackluster acting does little to dispel the impression. Passivity – that seems to be Paro’s lot. That was all society offered women and Bhansali’s Paro is faithful to the times.
What is even more disheartening is Paro’s undying, albeit secret love for Devdas even after he displays how spineless he really is. She flings herself against the gates of her mansion, sobbing helplessly as she watches Devdas die on the other side. One can only judge this display of regret as Paro’s unique brand of self-flagellation. As the lights fade on the decadent (but clearly meant to appear bleak) landscape, one is left with a sense of waste. Paro, still clearly in love with the self-indulgent Devdas, remains something subhuman, sacrificed to egos greater than her own. The movie went on to become a runaway hit which remains a mystery, judging by this generation’s general intolerance of lingering, torturous regret. Perhaps, the glitzy packaging dazzled audiences too much?
It is the year 2009 and women’s movement seems to have become redundant, almost. After all, every magazine and election campaign claims that society’s ‘loosened up’. Today’s youngster knows what he or she wants and also how to be vocal enough to get it. The West clashes with the East, giving headaches to parents and pseudo-orgasms to youngsters. Out of the edgy cocktail that is the underbelly of Punjab and Delhi emerges Dev D, Kashyap’s take on the done-to-death saga. Mahie Gill plays aaj ki Paro, a spunky Punjabi girl waiting restlessly for her childhood lover to return from London. There’s love, lust and plenty of talk about nudity and touching oneself. This Paro is raucously bold, maybe even scarily so. The scene where she lugs a folded mattress on a cycle to a deserted field in order to cavort with Dev is sure to go down in cinema history. However, the foul-mouthing and sexual assertiveness is but a thin veneer. This Paro’s story is just as conventional, ending with marriage to a rich man after being spurned by her lover.
Paro’s story is even more heart-breaking in Dev D. Her bold expressions of ‘love’ scare Dev off, earning her the title ’slut’. Rumours are spread about her promiscuity and Dev, the modern epitome of his weak-minded precursor, recoils in disgust. Paro is torn between the conventional decorum drilled into her, on the one hand, and her confused, mostly physical attraction to Dev. She lashes out repeatedly – the scene where she maniacally pumps water, much to her parents’ chagrin, comes to mind. Another telling scene is when she breaks into an unrestrained, wild dance in the hugely popular song, Emotional Atyachaar. There is even a moment where Paro returns, after marriage, to put Dev in his place. But the message is very clear. There still are lines that nice girls shouldn’t cross, for fear of being labeled a slut. The lines may be invisible, but they exist all the same. Where passivity was the cross Bhansali’s Paro was forced to bear, this Paro’s cross seems to be modern-day hypocrisy.
Paro’s suffering is something that cannot be exorcised easily. Whichever way she turns, she is thwarted – either by an inept lover or by a rigid society. Ninety years, hence, seem good enough to give Devdas a new lease of life while being insufficient to mitigate Paro’s tragedy.
Pic Source: www.bollywoodhungama.com
The Author I'm 18 and self-avowedly pan-Indian. I am a student of English Honours at Lady Shri Ram College, New Delhi. I love reading, writing, and dancing, and have been trained in Bharatantatyam for ten years. The beaten track bores me, as do reality shows. 'Metamorphosis' is my favourite word and I'd have it tattooed on if I weren't so paranoid about the process. I adore P.G.Wodehouse, Chandni Chowk, Simon and Garfunkel, Nabokov, American sitcoms and perfectly spelt text messages, though not necessarily in that order. I hope to become a journalist and write a novel. Or seven.
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