Jaya Jaya Jaya Jaya Hey is all about the awakening of a woman’s ‘self-defence’ instinct

Vipin Das’s recent Malayalam film Jaya Jaya Jaya Jaya Hey turns the 'suffering wife' premise right on its head.

But that doesn't happen until you wade through parts of the first half of the film sympathising with a young woman who has the men in her life make all her decisions for her. Her father and an insufferable maternal uncle decide what’s best for her—what to wear, how to play, and when and where to study—with her mother falling in line with their patriarchal mindset. Her elder brother’s protests are at best a whimper, until the end, where he turns out to be the only “good man” in the film, and the one to understand his sister.

When Jaya meets a Malayalam teacher (Aju Varghese) at a college where she is forced to do a BA in Malayalam (she wanted to study Anthropology)—who shows some signs of open-mindedness, she is not afraid to fall in love. But his open mind is just a farce; the misogynistic devil in him rears its head all too often, especially after they become closer. Suddenly, he tells her how to talk and how to behave, has access to her Facebook profile where he blocks those he dislikes, and controls her life in general.

It takes a slap to end the relationship, and when the family comes to know of her “indiscretion”, it’s a given she must be married off—to someone of their choosing. Like every other decision in her life, she has no say in this too.

On their first meeting, Rajesh (Basil Joseph), a poultry farm owner talks of chicken “rates” and you can see Jaya flinching at the thought of marriage. They get married and the metaphors are for all to see. When she enters the marital home for the first time, she places the nilavilakku (the traditional lamp) on a cracked centre table. Later, she must get used to a loudly rumbling washing machine and a mother-in-law who suffixes every description of her son with ‘aal pavamaa’ (he’s a poor thing!)

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Rajesh comes with his own compulsions—he only has idiyappams and kadala curry for breakfast every single day and gets angry at the slightest pretext, which his family brushes off as idiosyncrasies. And we wonder along with Jaya—what is this, where have I come? who is he?—the song that plays as she enters her husband’s home.

The violence, once it begins, is continuous. And it is always attributed to anger—‘you made me angry, so you deserve it’ and ends with a 'sorry', a movie, and a meal at a restaurant and food of his choice—two plates idiyappam, two plates chilli chicken, and two teas.

When all pleas to her family fall on deaf ears—their husbands will get angry and beat their wives, you must adjust grates on the ears.

But, Jaya must rise—not for retribution or revenge—but for plain self-defence. With the aid of YouTube videos, she counters Rajesh physically. For, hell hath no fury like a woman hit, again and again! As expected, all hell breaks loose.

But as with every woman, the story must attempt to compromise as well. Apologies are made and when the couple reconcile, much against where you want this film to go, you realise it’s a Malayalam film, after all. When a plot to ‘teach this feminichi (a derogatory word in Malayalam for a feminist) a lesson’ is revealed, and Jaya reacts, she is blamed again but she finally gathers the courage to move out.

She has had enough. When the matter moves to court with a divorce filing, the judge (superbly essayed by Manju Pillai in a short role) must remind the men what women need is ‘justice, equality and freedom’ and not be expected to be ‘tolerant, good cooks, or cultured’.

The movie ends with a twist, not quite expected, but one that is welcoming. Darshana Rajendran plays Jaya with aplomb while Basil Joseph is convincing in the role of the misogynistic husband. The lyrics are striking and have an irony, and reflect patriarchal thinking with satire. Some parts of it are hilarious and comical, but you wonder whether you must laugh at the inequalities that prompted Jaya’s awakening.

Jaya Jaya Jaya Jaya Hey has some flashes of the much-acclaimed The Great Indian Kitchen of a woman rebelling against regressive minds and patriarchy. But the similarity ends there. A woman does not have to be soumi, shalini, sowbhagya, (docile, demure, lucky, etc) to have an identity. And raises a pertinent question, does every abused woman have it in her to fight back? A brilliant film and a must-watch!