Slumbitch Has No Bite

I watched Danny Boyle’s global hit, Slumdog Millionaire, and likeeveryone else, I too cheered for Jamal Malik, the underdog, all the way to thefinal question for the final million. I did. I told myself not to get hung up onthe garbage and the shit, the violence and the squalor. Not to take it all tooseriously. After all, the film is supposed to be a modern-day fantasy. A Pauperto Prince fairytale that dares to imagine a different life for an orphan boyfrom the slums of Mumbai. And that, I told myself, should make the filmworthwhile.

But as a globalised Indian woman watching "the world’s first globalisedmasterpiece," I wanted a fairytale with more dare. I wanted the film toimagine a different life for Latika the slumbitch as well.

I waited for the girl to show some spunk, kick some butt, and have the sameimprobable run of luck as her boyfriend. Modern girls too have the right offantasy, right? Wrong. The slumbitch didn’t bite.

Latika is the only female character in a male-dominated story with amasculinist point-of-view. For some reason, Boyle’s film doesn’t include anyof the other female characters who appear in the novel on which it’s based(most significantly, the female lawyer to whom Jamal confesses). With barelyfifteen lines throughout the film, Latika’s function is to provide what isknown in Bollywood parlance as "the love-interest." As such, the slumbitchremains firmly locked in the age-old fairytale role of damsel-in-distress, apretty little innocent waiting for Prince Charming to come to her rescue.

As little Latika stood soaking in the rain, I expected her to shove the boysaside and fight for a place under the roof, to exhibit the same primal instinctfor self-preservation any self-respecting slumbitch would. But the girl juststood there getting drenched until little Jamal took pity on her and invited herin.

I got my hopes up for just a bit when the girl showed spunk and put thechilly in the willy of the beggar boy. Perhaps she’ll grow up and put somechillies in the willies of the big boys I thought. Wrong again. When Salim, thebad big brother throws Jamal out and presumably engages in sex with Latika, thegirl doesn’t put up a fight. Indeed she offers little resistance as she isforced into prostitution by the big bad wolves. Even when Jamal sneaks into theabusive gangster king’s house and pleads with his sweetheart to run away withhim, she refuses out of fear.

Women’s fears are always all too real. Even in fantasyland. So of coursewhen the damsel does takes a risk and escapes to the railway station to meet herPrince, she’s hunted down by the gangsters and her pretty face is slashed. Inthe end, Latika escapes not because of her own enterprise or initiative, butbecause big brother sacrifices himself, gives her his car and phone, and tellsher to run.

Still I remained adamant. I refused to give up hope for the slumbitch. Thencame the climax. Jamal doesn’t know the name of the third musketeer, theanswer that will win him the final million. He uses his life-line and dials hisbrother’s number. Latika realizes she has the ringing phone. She pushes herway through the crowds outside the TV station to get to the car to pick up thephone. Go bitch go! Pick up the phone and give him the answer. Surely theslumbitch would’ve had some unaccountably unlikely encounter in her sexworking career. But the dumb bitch didn’t know. "I don’t know, Jamal,"she cooed, looking as pretty and as helpless as can be. "You’re on your own,Jamal," said the gameshow host. The same old romantic formula eroticisingmasculine independence and female dependence, male power and femalepowerlessness. My cheers choked.

Imagine if the bitch had actually known the answer. She’d have had alegitimate stake in the dog’s million! That would’ve been a daring fairytalefor global patriarchies everywhere.

Revathi Krishnaswamy, Writer and Critic, is with Dept of English &Comparative Literature, San Jose State University, California, USA