The deep red lipstick becomes the colour and mode of rebellion, giving us a hint of what goes on inside—the turmoil, the pain, the swallowed humiliation, the unshed tears, the unspoken resentment and anger. These few lines are enough to some up the basic theme of Lipstick Under My Burkha. Alankrita Srivasatava's 4 women are relatable, identifiable and very real. The four women are based in Bhopal going about their lives, but it is not as simple as it sounds. All four of them have different journeys and struggles which they are combatting every single day in their very own way. The depiction of the characters is mind blowing, so is the well written plot and theme. The performance of each and every actor in the film is impeccable and we are really glad that Lipstick under My Burkha was not confined to being just a film-festival item and could lift off its ban and hit the theatres with a bang! Kudos to the entire team for this piece of excellent art that they have given today's film fraternity!

Shrivastava, for most part, seamlessly shuttles from one woman's journey to another, peppering the individual narrative with adequate amount of humour and incident, and in process paints detailed portraits of women rarely seen in Indian cinema. Reality bites in Lipstick Under My Burkha which is one of the many reasons why it has resonated with audiences at multiple international festivals.  It evokes a gamut of emotions - rage, delight, empathy and more so discourse - because it always feels genuine as it touches upon issues that women have or will confront at some point of their lives, or know of somebody who has. Lipstick Under My Burkha is truly an ensemble film in which every performer leaves her or his mark. But to Sensharma and Pathak belong the film's finest moments, some that make you giggle and others that make you feel their pain. "Pata hai hamari galti kya hai? [You know what's the mistake we make]" asks Leela to Shirin whose silence and moist eyes speak volumes of her relationship with her husband. "Hum sapne bahut dekhti hai. [We dream a lot]" Shrivastava's film is a plea for women to not give up on their dreams and their voices silenced in the patriarchal society. That she does it without being preachy and in an engaging mode makes her film even better.

This ‘lady-oriented’ film is absolutely worth your time and thoughts. The deep red lipstick becomes the colour and mode of rebellion, giving us a hint of what goes on inside a woman—the turmoil, the pain, the swallowed humiliation, the unshed tears, the unspoken resentment and anger. What makes Lipstick Under My Burkha the film it is, is the upfront, frank manner in which female desire and fantasy are treated, running like a strong, vital thread through the film. Dreams can keep you alive, and age is just a number. A song I love goes: where do you go to my lovely, when you’re alone in your head? Lipstick Under My Burkha takes us into that space, and lets its characters out, to start walking down forbidden paths, finding support in sisterhood, and in the recognition that we all have shades of Rosie in us. It is a film to be celebrated. Take a bow, producer Prakash Jha, director Alankrita Shrivastava, and the entire cast and crew. And now excuse me while I go looking for my deepest, reddest lipstick.

In the final moments of Lipstick Under My Burkha, as the four protagonists face the explosive consequences of their perceived rebellions, we hear firecrackers bursting in the background. Director Alankrita Shrivastava uses the backdrop of Diwali to tell us that the lives of these women may be going up in flames, but they’ll go out with a bang. What is so scandalous (or “lady-oriented”) about the lives of these women, is unclear. In fact, Shrivastava’s bravest act is simply opening the doors and showing us what goes on behind them. The women portraying these lives on screen give Lipstick… its true color. Plabita and Aahana are instantly relatable and light up the screen. Konkona’s helplessness makes you think about every woman who is a second-class citizen in her own home. And Ratna’s infatuated Usha, a woman in the throes of passion, will make you look at older women in a new light. While cinematographer Akshay Singh uses tight close-ups in cramped spaces to make you claustrophobic, Gazal Dhaliwal’s lines range from hilarious innuendos in seedy novels to out-of-character outbursts of frustrated women. A line from Zebunnisa Bangash-Anvita Dutt’s well-placed song Le Li Jaan goes, “12 takke byaaj pe, hassi hai udhar ki,” and the notion of this taxed independence is what defines the movie perfectly. Lipstick… may not drastically change things for women, but it’ll certainly smudge a few boundary lines.