Mothers, but without the halo

Indian cinema is finally allowing mothers to exist beyond the tropes of sacrifice and anxious anticipation, as women with contradictions and emotional complexity, writes Pranati A S.

In her most vulnerable state, Sadhana (played by Deepti Naval in ‘Goldfish’) tells her now-grown daughter that she had once left her in a pram in a park, never wanting to return. Because motherhood took away what she cherished most: her singing career.

Imagining confessions like this from mothers in mainstream Indian cinema is quite difficult. For decades, Indian films idealised mothers, treating them as mythical figures — noble, honourable and self-sacrificing. Their suffering gave emotional weight to the hero’s journey. Whether it was Nirupa Roy’s silent endurance leading up to the dramatic line, ‘Mere paas maa hai’, or Rakhee’s devoted ‘Mere Karan Arjun wapas aayenge’. And let’s not forget Jaya Bachchan’s relentless wait for her son’s return in ‘Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham’.

Mothers in Indian cinema have rarely existed outside the family. But contemporary cinema is increasingly allowing mothers to be flawed, lonely, complex, sexual and politically aware. They are no longer symbols of sacrifice, but more human and genuine.

In ‘Girls Will Be Girls’, Shuchi Talati explores the sexual awakening of teenage Mira (Preethi Panigrahi) while also showing her single mother Anila’s (Kani Kusruti) sexual desires. A mother’s sexual desire has long been absent in Indian films — after all, once you have had a child, there is supposedly no time for self-growth or personal desire. Much like how Nandini’s only role in ‘Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham’ is to hold the family together while waiting for her son’s return.

Another interesting thread Shuchi Talati explores is Anila’s competitiveness and jealousy towards her daughter. Indian films rarely allow mothers to feel threatened by their daughters. Mothers must nurture, not compete. But Anila’s loneliness and emotional immaturity make her jealous of Mira’s youth and the attention she receives. It is perhaps discomforting to watch, but it is also a profoundly human emotion.

Meharunnisa (Revathi) in ‘Modern Love Hyderabad’ comes to her estranged daughter’s house to take care of the latter’s broken leg. She is unapologetic about how she feels regarding her daughter’s decisions, while Noori, played by Nithya Menen, openly confronts her mother about past wounds. Set amidst the pandemic, the director uses food, silence and playful banter to rebuild intimacy between the two women while also allowing them to remain angry with each other.

In films like ‘Veer Zaara’ and ‘Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge’, mothers played by Kirron Kher and Farida Jalal tell their daughters (Zaara and Simran) that women can dream, but should never dream of fulfilling those desires. A decade later, we see a quirky Kirron Kher encouraging chaos, romance and self-expression in her daughter Mili, who has fallen in love with a handsome young prince (Fawad Khan) in ‘Khoobsurat’.

Shefali Shah’s Shamshu (‘Darlings’) is an unforgettable, fearless and sarcastic mother who supports her daughter Badru in teaching the latter’s abusive husband a lesson. In the end, the two bond as Shamshu reveals details of how her husband abused her and what she had to do to get rid of him. A similar bond is explored between Neelam (also played by Shefali Shah) and her daughter Ayesha (Priyanka Chopra) in ‘Dil Dhadakne Do’, where both women connect through an unspoken understanding and shared trauma within a patriarchal society.

What’s interesting about the Tamil series ‘Sweet Kaaram Coffee’ is that three generations of women quietly reject the identities assigned to them within domestic spaces. The series treats motherhood and caregiving not as sacred duties, but as roles that can become emotionally exhausting. Unlike older family dramas like ‘Hum Saath Saath Hain’, where mothers could step out of the house only during a big family trip, ‘Sweet Kaaram Coffee’ shows that mothers and wives need distance from family to rediscover individuality beyond caregiving.

I strongly wished for Sridevi’s Shashi (in ‘English Vinglish’) to feel something more for Laurent, who is attracted to her and perhaps even in love with her. While the film follows her journey of self-discovery, the question remains: Does Shashi truly liberate herself? Even when there is growing agency in Indian cinema, does it finally allow mothers’ desire without guilt? Shashi learns to love herself, but the film stops short of allowing her to cross those emotional boundaries. Laurent’s affection remains tender, but unrealised.

Films like ‘Goldfish’ push the conversation further. Sadhana is not merely dissatisfied or underappreciated — she openly admits that motherhood made her resentful. She even leaves her will to a man living a few houses away. The film neither glorifies nor condemns her for it, but allows her contradictions to exist.

In the end, when you look at all these films, the mother-child bond remains intact even when the mother is not “perfect”, showing that you do not necessarily need a self-sacrificing mother for that bond to survive.