Dangal: a father’s narcissism
‘Dangal’ is the story of how Haryanvi Mahavir Singh Phogat trains two of his daughters, Gita Phogat and Babbita Kumari, in the sport of wrestling.
For all the fanfare within the movie surrounding Geeta and Babbita’s feats in the light of their womanhood, the protagonist is undoubtedly framed as Mahavir. The narrative is constructed to validate every choice Mahavir thrusts onto his children (which I will explain in greater detail). What I find fascinating is the way this movie–as it is written, directed and acted–enables and promotes the narcissism of Mahavir’s character.
The film establishes the narcissistic tone with the very premise. Mahavir has unfulfilled dreams of winning India a medal at the international stage, and wants a son to complete them. Instead, his wife apologetically gives birth to four daughters in succession. His dreams fizzle, he grows resentful. The turning point, quite early on, is when he discovers that Geeta and Babbita brutally beat up two boys for calling them names. He decides pehelwaani is in their blood, gender be damned, and begins their training the next morning.
Mahavir distances himself from what his actions will mean as their parent by saying: I can either be their Guru or their father. Perhaps so in his mind, but in Geeta and Babbita’s, he is still both.
Geeta and Babbita’s trials are largely played up for laughs as the movie progresses. We get montages of them panting while running long distances, exercising strenuously, and having to abandon their salwar-kameez to wear male clothing during training. They attempt many shenanigans to get out of this regime, and all fail. Again, this is framed humorously, as opposed to being sad. They are children. They hate this, it is not fun for them, and they want it to stop.
There is an unexplained moment here, striking for its random cruelty, that is revisited right at the very end of the film: the three are on a bridge, and Mahavir gestures down to the river. The little girls shake their head, terrified–they don’t know how to swim. In the next scene, they are back home, drenched and shivering, getting toweled down by their mother.
The one scene this film comes close to shooting with the gravity is deserves (I say close, because even this is not devoid of jokes) is when Mahavir orders Geeta and Babbita’s hair to be cut. It is a tragic moment–we close in on Geeta’s locks of hair hitting the floor, tears streaming down her face. Babbita clings to her mother, knowing she’s next. The transformation is as complete as it gets. Mahavir has two almost-sons.
Ridicule is inevitable. Twice, Geeta and Babbita are mocked by kids their age for being so masculine, once at school and once on the streets. Both times, they respond with fists and threats. Except soon, it’s not just other children, adults join too–and how do you respond with fists and threats to paan-chewing men who think you’re a spectacle? We see Geeta and Babbita walk stone-faced through a crowd of chortling villagers, stubbled heads hanging low.
It reaches a point where Mahavir’s heedless destruction of his daughters’ self-esteem and social standing requires some sort of justification. The film delivers.
Geeta and Babbita secretly attend a barat. The bride-to-be (plot device), slightly older than the two at 14 years, is visibly depressed as the jaunty wedding song plays. Babbita is sitting right next to her, singing along to the music. While watching, I expected Babbita to look up, see the bride’s face, maybe have a small revelation that she shares later with her sister. What ends up happening is infinitely more cruel.
Mahavir finds out his daughters are having fun. He storms the barat, makes a scene, and leaves. Later, when Geeta is lamenting over the way her father behaved, the plot device tearfully delivers a speech which is aimed at the audience. She wishes she could exchange places with Geeta or Babbita. She is terrified for her future–the fact that she’s being married at such a young age, that she’s destined to forever sweep and scrub floors. Then, just in case the crude point hasn’t quite been beaten into our heads, she informs them they are lucky to have a father like Mahavir.
It aches to see Geeta and Babbita, young girls with their whole lives ahead of them, readily believe the binary this narration constructs: either wrestling, or child marriage. Nothing else. Worse, instead of pointing out that the belief in this sort of binary is perhaps a problem in itself, the film shows the girls tip-toeing to their parent’s bedroom to observe Mahavir snore, guilt and awe in their eyes. He is newly framed in benevolence. The girls have been converted, and so has any doubting audience member. They willingly submit to his training after this episode.
We fast-forward in time, and now Geeta and Babbita have grown up. Their father is older, but still single-mindedly pursuing his dreams through them. He hangs their medals and achievements on a wall where his used to be.
Geeta heads for the National Sports Academy (NSA) in Patiala to train for the international level, after pleading with Mahavir. This is the first true blow to his narcissism. Geeta now has less time for him on the phone. She makes friends, goes out more, and eats the golgappas which were forbidden at home. She grows out her hair, and begins enjoying romantic movies. Mahavir and his masculine diktat are now decentered from her life.
The film punishes Geeta for decentering her father. There are two intentional narrative choices here, both of which serve to prop up Mahavir and make him still relevant to his daughter’s life.
Geeta’s coach is slimy, and of dubious competence. He has to be, because he dismisses Mahavir and his Haryanvi training methods from day one.
Geeta begins losing matches. The reasoning the film offers later on is that the coach had been training her wrong, making her play defensive strategy when her strength lies in attacking. This doesn’t explain the deliberately implied correlation between Geeta’s growing independence and her worsening wrestling–an independence, it is important to note, which is never shown to conflict with her actual training at the NSA. There is no subtlety. When Babbita arrives at the NSA, Geeta shows her the cafeteria and rooms first. Babbita asks her, in a tone laden with implications, where they train. Later, as Geeta is painting her nails, Babbita reminisces about the “old Geeta” who would stay up the whole night if she lost a single bout. No, Geeta hasn’t lost focus, but she has lost compliance.
The second narrative choice is particularly hurtful, because the film begins to paint Geeta as an unsympathetic character for making her own choices. She is acting, if the narration is to be believed, too tall for her boots. Things come to a head when she is visiting home, and tries showing Mahavir a new technique in front of other children training to wrestle. He throws her down to the mud in an unprovoked attack–Geeta is dangerously close to usurping his place in the story. He then challenges her to a match, which she wins. But Babbita comes to the defense of her father’s humiliation: His methods aren’t weak, he is. Again, we are pushed into sympathising with an ageing Mahavir, and finding Geeta’s victory over him shameful.
It is no coincidence that we were previously shown Geeta failing at all her international bouts, intercut with shots of Babbita cruising to a national victory.
It is no coincidence that Geeta starts winning matches again only after she reconciles with her father and chops off her hair.
Soon, the Commonwealth Games (CG) is only months away, and Mahavir assumes the central position in his daughters’ lives once more. Their coach’s judgement is deemed damaging. He travels to Patiala and trains them daily in the early hours of dawn, before their day at the NSA begins. This subterfuge is eventually found out, but after an emotional apology to the NSA board, Mahavir is sent away with a rap across the knuckles. Geeta and Babbita are allowed to remain. By now I was already viewing the film through the lens of narcissism, but it was still surprising to hear this on-the-nose sentence uttered by Mahavir’s nephew (also the film’s narrator), who travels to Patiala with Mahavir and is duly sent home with him: We came here for lead roles, and now we get side roles.
The CG arrives. Mahavir makes the trip from Haryana, and Geeta wins her quarters and semis. Mahavir and the coach tussle for dominance. They yell conflicting pieces of advice to Geeta while she plays–it’s obvious whose advice Geeta follows, leading her to win. The tipping point is when Geeta publicly attributes her success to her father at a press conference. Cringe-worthy drama ensues. The coach is bitter over Geeta gifting her father the spotlight in the narrative of her victory. He arranges for Mahavir to be locked in a storage room during her finals, in an act of irredeemable evil.
Here’s where we revisit that horrific moment on the bridge.
Her father is not in the stands, but Geeta is in exemplary form. She wins one bout, and her opponent wins another. In the third and final bout, she is five points behind with only seconds left on the clock.
We flashback to a young Geeta, sinking fast into water and leaving a trail of bubbles behind her. Mahavir watches this traumatic game of character-building from the bridge. His voice-over comes: I won’t always be there for you. I can push you in, but you have to get out on your own.
Even in a moment that should rightfully be hers and hers alone, Geeta finds strength from the memory and wins. This is the final validation the narration affords Mahavir–it justifies even this awful moment of parenting (or coaching, as Mahavir would correct you), and portrays it as the reason Geeta won. Any lingering ill-will towards Mahavir for that specific betrayal is eradicated in finality. As the referee lifts Geeta’s arm, Mahavir is anxiously pacing in a storage room, far, far away–but there is no reason for him to be worried. He is still the hero.
With thanks to Sourya, for his feedback & advice.
Final Note:
I understand this movie is meant to track real events. I have been told that, because of this, the film was constrained in showing Mahavir’s actions. I do not agree with this. I haven’t researched into Geeta Phoghat or Babbita Kumari’s authentic upbringing, and cannot speak to how faithful the movie is to real life facts. But more importantly, even if the film was constrained in this manner, it made the choice to position Mahavir’s choices as reasonable compared to ‘greater evils’, all of which were purposely constructed.
Other asides:
Mahavir’s eventual reunion with his daughters after being unlocked from the storage room is immortalised by a surrounding throng of news reporters and camera persons, who rush away from the coach.
A story I’d love to see is one where the father takes his daughters to see a wrestling match and tells them: I see the same potential in you, would you like to try this out, etc. And then nourishing any resultant passion for wrestling instead of force-feeding it to them.
An interesting angle I thought the film would explore at multiple points: our national apathy towards sports. The film opens in the 1980s with Mahavir criticising the funding and facilities India’s sportspeople receive, and then later (after quitting his job to coach Geeta and Babbita full-time) yelling at someone who won’t loan him money to buy a synthetic training mat. Instead, the film shifts gear: the NSA is given visually complimentary shots and shown in its state-of-the-art glory. It ends uncritically with everyone singing the national anthem.
Not to dismiss the small but necessary inroads Dangal is making into our calcified patriarchy, but what’s interesting is that the film focusses on Geeta and Babbita as unique individuals, versus anything systemic. They are being trained specifically to fulfill their father’s legacy, by virtue of being his daughters, and not in the pursuit of any larger ideal. At one point, when Geeta is defeating every other girl in the State categories, the narrator explicitly says (though I’m paraphrasing): She had already won against all the boys her age. These girls didn’t stand a chance.