The Women of Rifle Club

Over the decades, Malayalam cinema has often used female characters to uphold male protagonists, reinforcing the power dynamics in favor of men. This pattern, normalized and celebrated as long as the hero “wins” the situation, has shaped narratives for years. However, in recent times, audiences have begun to unlearn this ingrained bias, recognizing it as something that needs to be critiqued rather than celebrated.

Aashiq Abu’s Rifle Club breaks away from this mold, igniting the fiery tension of a wild war in the Western Ghats. What sets this film apart is its portrayal of women— each female character is uniquely strong and layered, claiming her identity with confidence. From being mocked for being “just a woman” to owning the scene, characterisations of women in Malayalam cinema are beginning to emerge as unstoppable forces.

Society often perpetuates the stereotype that women, being emotional, are inherently weaker or less stable in grave situations. Instead, the movie shows that women, like any other gender, are fully capable of navigating complex emotions—love, lust, hatred, rage, disgust— while making decisive and impactful choices.

Every female character in Rifle Club possesses agency, and their self-worth is not only acknowledged but celebrated by those around them. Remarkably, the male characters within the household are neither threatened by their power nor dismissive of their abilities. Instead, they create space for these women to shine, supporting them in asserting their strength and proving their mettle to outsiders. This dynamic, presented without diminishing other genders, feels revolutionary and refreshing on screen.

Watching these women, clad in sarees and dresses, tie their hair back, wield powerful rifles, and deliver sharp, cutting one-liners without batting an eye is truly exhilarating. Their presence is commanding, leaving even the antagonists visibly insecure.The comeback of Vani Viswanathan and Ponnamma Babu is unforgettable, making one wonder why they hadn’t been cast in such fierce, ideal roles before. Too often, these actresses were relegated to roles mocked for their upper hand over the hero or reduced to housewives dismissed for their ambitions.

While Rifle Club is undoubtedly a step forward in gender representation, it also highlights how much further Malayalam cinema must go. True progress will come when more narratives empower women authentically, moving beyond tokenism, to ensure their roles are meaningful and multidimensional, without sidelining them or limiting their depth.

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Shuli’s Love

Shuli washed her hair twice that day. One for her love to cleanse all impurities of reality and one for herself. She took a nap twice that day. One for love that took her melatonin, And another to forget. Shuli laughed twice that day. One on behalf of her tainted Love, And another on her botched brain cells. She cried a quarter that day. Half a quarter filled with anger, and the other half with shame. She danced twice that day, One for lost time on love, And another for her love for dance. Shuli wrote twice that day, One for her heart and Other for her brain. She gave two hugs that day, One for her wet pillow And another for herself. Shuli played hostess twice that day, One for her pain and the last for her sanity.

Little Poem

My procrastination ends here, While the urge to write chokes my throat, My hands get paralysed as in a trance, I find excuses to write a little poem, I make up a lonely man, a distressed woman, a lovers’ quarrel, an unrequited love, But they are reluctant to play the part, Maybe i should give them a raise, Or throw a party at midnight, Maybe a few drinks might work, Only if they don’t puke. I can expect a little vandalism, Some damage to the property and a mini scandal, Possibly out of rage. But at the end when I bring my weapons, Sometimes they get scared and back off, Some may never come back, Others find it funny and mock at me, And opportunists, seeing my desperation, Attacks me with manipulation. And all these while, my three panic attacks talk to me in a different language, I try to write a little poem With a racing heart and flowing eyes, I write my little poem, tortured and broken, I end my little poem, Like a mighty warrior, Who had a pyrrhic victory.

Madeline’s Mirror

Madeline’s mirror told her she’s fat, It appalled at her shapeless dress, Covering a chunk of flesh. She looked at her broad shoulders And big breasts, which reminded her of a pile of clothes that no longer fits her. But Madeline smiled and applied her eyeliner effortlessly. Her mirror sneered at her chafing thighs kissing each other when she moves. Madeline’s mirror found her plush lips contradicting the pair of flesh on either side of it. It spotted the two chins fighting for space like contestants in the combat zone. Madeline admired her freckleless skin, and applied her favourite lipstick. The mirror reflected her flabby arms complementing her saggy belly. Madeline moved closer to her mirror, which still in oblivion, started to produce sympathetic smiles at her legs. It mirrored how her legs carry all the weight, hiding under her flowy dress. Appreciating her silky hair and perfectly manicured...

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