For those of you who know me, I watch a film at least three times, minimum. The maximum could probably sound a bit obnoxious to many, but that’s okay. This piece isn’t really about how many times I rewatch films, but about one such rewatch: Thappad [Slap], released in 2020.
I’m assuming you’ve seen the film. If you haven’t, feel free to watch it at your convenience – you may or may not align with my point of view, and that’s fine too.

The film begins with a prelude of five relationships in the city at night, each caught in small, everyday gestures – a popsicle in hand, a window rolled down, a casual conversation that slips into tension. These include:

• A young couple sharing a casual moment,
• A couple in a car where the woman’s troubled marriage looms in the background,
• An older couple going through memories and quietly sharing comfort,
• A mother and daughter awkwardly discussing companionship and loneliness, and
• A working-class couple whose banter masks frustrations.

What’s remarkable is that these vignettes rely on everyday actions rather than exposition. The popsicle becomes a subtle motif running through the scenes – sometimes a small comfort, sometimes an act of sharing, sometimes a symbol of frustration when discarded. It’s through these gestures that the film introduces themes of emotional disconnect, dependency, forgiveness, and resentment without explicitly stating them.
This prelude doesn’t explain relationships; it observes them. The recurring gestures create a shared emotional texture that quietly prepares the viewer for the exploration of marriage, identity, and intimacy that follows.

The prelude is then followed by a sixth relationship – one that the film gradually centres on. Here, the couple’s interactions revolve around everyday disruptions: a failing internet connection, a faulty printer. What stands out is how the husband’s words repeatedly frame everything as “your” problem – “your internet,” “your printer” – even when the issues affect them both. The repeated use of “your” quietly underscores an emotional distance, where responsibilities, attention, and care are divided rather than shared. Their banter feels playful, but it reveals how alienation can creep in through language – how everyday conversations, peppered with “your,” “mine,” or “I don’t know,” expose cracks in intimacy.

After introducing these six relationships through quiet gestures and everyday tensions, the film settles into a rhythm centred around one repeated scene – the morning routine. Amu’s routine unfolds with small, deliberate acts: switching off the alarm at 6 AM, collecting milk and the newspaper from the doorstep, cutting a few lemongrass leaves, and making black ginger tea with lemon grass for herself. In all this, she is jovial, bubbly, and spontaneous – fully inhabiting these moments without hesitation. Later, it’s revealed that this particular tea is one of the few things she has kept from her mother’s care, a small inheritance of comfort and familiarity.

The quiet observations of routine and distance build up to the moment that defines the film’s turning point – the slap. It takes place at a party that Vikram hosts for his colleagues and friends, meant to celebrate their upcoming move to London. The celebration, however, turns sour when Vikram learns that the move isn’t happening. In the midst of the heated argument between him and a senior colleague, Amu tries to calm him down. As she intervenes, he turns and slaps her – in front of everyone. The film captures the awkward, stunned silence that follows.

Though shocked, Amu continues the evening, but bitterness slowly creeps in. The routine they once shared begins to fracture. Eventually, she decides to move to her parents’ house. Vikram’s reaction is less about her well-being and more about appearances:
“What will my situation be? What will I say to people?”
This concern for reputation rather than responsibility makes the emotional distance undeniable.

After the slap, many around Amu try to downplay what happened. They repeat the same refrain:
“It was just a slap.”
The words are meant to normalise the act, to make it seem minor, forgivable, or part of marital life. But Amu’s response cuts through the casualness:
“It was just a slap, but he has no right to hit me. No one has.”
With this, the film makes its stance clear. The incident isn’t about the force of the blow or whether it caused physical injury – it’s about the violation of dignity, respect, and consent. Amu’s refusal to accept the trivialization of violence is what marks the turning point of her journey. Rather than react with anger, she asserts a boundary rooted in self-respect, challenging both her husband and the societal attitudes that excuse such behaviour.

The repetition of “It was just a slap” by others highlights how normalised violence can be, while Amu’s quiet but firm response shifts the conversation. The film doesn’t rely on dramatic confrontation; instead, it uses restraint to expose how easily everyday dismissals can perpetuate abuse. Amu’s insistence that “no one has the right” reclaims her voice and reframes the meaning of love, care, and partnership.

After exploring the events of Thappad, it is interesting to turn our eyes to another film that examines marital dynamics, though in a very different cultural and narrative context: the Malayalam film Njangal Santhushtaranu (1999), starring Jayaram and Abhirami. The film delves into the dynamics of a newlywed couple, Sanjeevan and Geethu, navigating the challenges of marital life. Sanjeevan, a dedicated police commissioner, lives with his widowed father and two younger sisters. Geethu, raised in a privileged environment, faces difficulties adjusting to her new home and the expectations that come with it – this is the plot displayed.

This difficulty is not simply about lifestyle differences; it is a reflection of underlying patriarchal structures. She is portrayed as “high-maintenance,” a label that subtly reinforces the idea that women from more comfortable backgrounds must adapt to domestic spaces dominated by patriarchal expectations.

Geethu enters her marriage with a sense of self-assuredness, stemming from her privileged background. Raised in an environment that values education and independence, she is a liberated woman. However, this perception is quickly challenged as she steps into her new role as a wife in Sanjeevan’s household. Her inability to speak Malayalam and unfamiliarity with domestic chores are highlighted, not as personal shortcomings, but as indicators of her deviation from the traditional expectations of a wife. Sanjeevan’s family imposes their expectations upon Geethu, viewing her as an outsider who must conform to their established norms. Her resistance to these impositions is met with ridicule and disdain, positioning her as the “other” within the family.

The emotional labour required to navigate these expectations takes a toll on Geethu. Her actions, such as the prank involving Sanjeevan’s disappearance, stem from a place of frustration and a cry for attention. Instead of understanding her emotional needs, the family responds with punishment, further alienating her. This response reflects a broader societal tendency to dismiss women’s emotions and prioritise familial reputation over individual well-being. The revelation that Geethu was adopted serves as a pivotal moment in the narrative. This disclosure is used to diminish her identity, stripping her of her familial ties and reducing her to a mere object to be moulded into the “ideal” wife.

Throughout the film, Geethu (Abhirami) is subjected to multiple slaps by her husband, Sanjeevan (Jayaram). These instances are not isolated but recur at various points in the narrative, each time reinforcing a pattern of control and dominance. The slaps are not just physical acts of violence but symbolic gestures that reinforce the idea that a woman’s place is subordinate to her husband’s authority.

Both films interrogate the dynamics of male authority in marriage, but they do so differently: Thappad through the lens of moral clarity and the consequences of one unacceptable act, and Njangal Santhushtaranu through normalized repetition and humor that masks structural oppression.

Before I conclude, I want to add something more. Husbands often seem to take a certain joy in making fun of their wives in front of their friends, colleagues, or even family. It’s usually framed as harmless joking – teasing about habits, forgetfulness, appearance, or quirks. But what stands out is how this humor is rarely questioned, how it’s accepted as part of male bonding or lighthearted banter.

What starts as a joke often reinforces an unequal dynamic – one where the wife becomes the subject of ridicule rather than a respected partner. The laughter of others adds to the weight, making it harder for the woman to speak up or call it out. Over time, these small humiliations accumulate, shaping how she sees herself and how the relationship operates.

It’s not always about open cruelty; often, it’s casual, even affectionate. Yet, this kind of humour can mask patterns of control and disregard. By normalising these moments, it becomes easier to overlook how they chip away at a woman’s dignity, reinforcing stereotypes about what’s acceptable in marriage. 

I’ll be sharing a write-up on women in the Bible next. One affirmation that stands at the heart of that reflection is this: both men and women are created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27) – equal in worth, though distinct in role. The distinction between roles is not one of superiority or inferiority, but of different expressions of service and responsibility within God’s design. This understanding shapes how we view dignity, identity, and partnership – not in opposition, but in complementarity.