'Qala' review: Heartbreaking dissection of parental trauma
Spoiler alert! One of the few things pertaining to analyses that is quite intriguing is when the title of story tells a tale on its own. Qala - talent, as one would translate it - carries with it the weight of gender politics and emotional turmoil. A scathing insight into a mother-daughter dynamic to which many South Asian women may be able to relate, the OTT release revisits old wounds while attempting to lay a thin layer of balm on others.
The story begins with Urmila (Swastika Mukherjee) seated expectantly in the shadows, waiting for her twins to be handed over to her. Immediately, she learns that the stronger twin overpowered the weaker one, leaving behind a baby girl as the sole survivor. The soft look of adoration is replaced with a hateful glance at the child in the new mother’s arms, setting the tone for the rest of the film.
Needless to say, Urmila and Qala (Tripti Dimri) do not see eye to eye – for a plethora of reasons.
Their turbulently terrifying relationship remains deeply fraught and marked by psychological violence - one that cloaks itself in numerous ways, including physical abuse, emotional neglect, and the manipulation of the protagonist’s sense of self-worth. The disappointing stares, abrupt silencing, deprivation of conversation, and spells of exile from one’s home as punishment might hit a little too close to home for women who have found themselves in a similar set-up within the confines of their home.
The film lays bare the ways in which archaic societal structures can create and perpetuate cycles of abuse within the family. It also markedly highlights how some women, in the absence of male guardians - must become the foot soldiers of the patriarchy to maintain a facade of dignity, donning the venomous cape of destructive masculinity, when necessary, all whilst tapping into their femininity to further another man’s goals.
Yes - there is another man, amongst the many in Qala, who becomes a thorn in the side of the titular character. A young, promising Jagan (Babil Khan) sweeps Urmila off her feet with his spellbinding performance, with Qala receiving minimal acknowledgment for her own display of talent moments before. Her mother is struck with the same affection that dissipated upon learning about her infant son’s passing. Thus, Jagan replaces Qala as the golden child.
Engulfed in a hailstorm of emotions, the visuals on screen soon double as metaphors for Qala’s own state of mind - icy, barren, with a lack of visibility amongst a snowstorm in which navigation seems impossible. One cannot place blame on Jagan either. His greatest flaw in the eyes of Qala, and, perhaps, the viewers, is the strongest tool in his arsenal - his gifted voice.
However, Urmila contorts herself to make him everything she supposedly wanted her daughter to be (and, in turn, all that Qala saw as her eventual goal and key to winning her mother’s love). The consequent decisions made by the distraught Qala hang as an axe wrapped in a question mark over the events of the film, raising the question of whether or not the few choices Qala does make are, in fact, dictated by circumstances, despite being lethal.
The film is a heart-wrenching tribute to the trauma that can result from authoritarian parenting and how it can have lasting, horrifying effects on the lives of children. Through the lens of classical music and the entertainment industry in the 1940s, Qala is an exploration of the various ways in which women have been oppressed, dissecting the impact of misogyny on their lives.
What the tale lacks in terms of a swift pace, it more than makes up for with a compelling progression of events, a transportive soundtrack that has quickly become a fan favourite, and mesmerizing cinematography and editing.
Tripti's portrayal of the two separate Qalas - one, with whom the world engages as the epitome of vocal excellence, and the other, to whom a select few are privy in moments where she falls apart - is as breathtaking as it is hard-hitting. She makes viewers ache for her wounded inner child, which remains scarred and traumatised at every turn, owing to life-changing decisions made for her by figures of authority or the prevalent state of affairs.
Swastika is silently ferocious as the controlling, terror-inducing mother who continues to feel let down by the assumed murderer of the son she could have had, all while eventually finding solace in the vocal prowess of Jagan, the son she adopts, who comes as a harbinger of social capital.
Babil plays the part of Jagan well, given the limited screen time of the role. However, his introductory step into the Indian film industry is both a welcome feast and a cause for complaint. The audience is left wanting to see more of him, while fully fathoming that his scarce presence is essential to the unfolding of events. Regardless, Babil is subtle, but impactful, with hints of mysticism evident in his overall enigmatic portrayal of the character. For Irrfan Khan fans, witnessing the maestro’s son carry forth a monumental legacy is equal parts riveting and heart-wrenching.
All in all, Qala bursts forth like an ethereal dream amidst a sea of politically charged, propaganda-driven noise that its parent industry has been churning out. It is a significant testament to how sensitive issues can be raised without seeming like a sermon. Moreover, it instills the audience with a sense of hope that seems to have been lost in recent times.
For those amongst the viewers who cling to the Indian entertainment industry as a mode of escapism, Qala stubbornly claims that female-led storytelling that stands for heavy subjects can persevere and make its mark in unforgettable, impactful, and necessary ways.
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