((link)) — Lipstick Under My Burkha

The metaphor extends far beyond clothing or cosmetics. In offices, homes, and university hostels, women wear invisible burkhas every day: the expectation to be polite, to not take up space, to postpone their dreams, to laugh at sexist jokes, to be “good girls.” The lipstick underneath is the startup they want to launch, the solo trip they crave, the lover they choose, the child they refuse to have, or simply the right to say “no” without explanation. Bringing that lipstick out requires courage, because once revealed, it cannot be hidden again.

Critics of the film, including the Indian Censor Board, initially refused to certify it, calling it “lady-oriented” and containing “sexual scenes” that were “lascivious.” Their discomfort was telling. What they found objectionable was not explicit violence, but the celebration of female erotic agency. The board’s initial ban proved the film’s thesis: that a woman’s right to her own body, her own fantasies, and her own lipstick is still seen as obscene. The subsequent public outcry and eventual release with an adult certificate marked a small victory—not just for the film, but for the conversation it forced open. lipstick under my burkha

The film brilliantly unravels this tension through four women from different generations. There is the college girl who wants to be a pop star, hiding her Western clothes and her love for a photographer. There is the young bride trapped in an abusive marriage, who finds escape in erotic phone calls. There is the middle-aged widow, a successful beautician, who dares to fall in love and desire sex. And finally, the elderly woman—the grandmother—who clandestinely reads a trashy romance novel, dreaming of a passion her life never allowed. Each one hides a “lipstick” beneath her own “burkha.” Their stories reveal that the desire for pleasure, autonomy, and visibility is not a matter of age, class, or religion—it is universally human. The metaphor extends far beyond clothing or cosmetics

The image is provocative yet painfully familiar: a tube of bright red lipstick, hidden in the folds of a black burkha. It is not merely a cosmetic; it is a symbol of everything that must be concealed—desire, ambition, sexuality, and the raw need for self-expression. “Lipstick Under My Burkha” is more than a film title; it is a metaphor for the dual lives led by millions of women who navigate the narrow corridors of tradition, patriarchy, and religion while secretly yearning for the same freedoms men take for granted. Critics of the film, including the Indian Censor