Listen to this article:

Growing up with a gaggle of maashis and pishis meant there was no such thing as privacy. One could try keeping secrets, but it was futile in the face of their sophisticated surveillance, decryption, and interrogation skills. They could make you throw your pesky cousin under the bus for no good reason or betray yourself cheaply for fish fry and shingaras. Every now and then, our little rebellions would be swiftly crushed with stern warnings, sweet talk or, if nothing worked, emotional blackmail. There was patriarchy, of course, but it was also often subverted by women who talked and laughed loudly.

At the centre of it all was Dida, the matriarch, who held the whole sprawling outfit together with a particular mix of love and tact. And the spirit of Dadu, gone while we were kids, who had left behind material provisions and a philosophy of care that ensured his flock would not be left floundering. I was reminded of all of this and more after watching Anusha Rizvi’s The Great Shamsuddin Family (TGSF).

The family, as a social institution, has earned its terrible reputation. It has been a bottomless and thankless pit for women’s labour. Even the male of the species is not spared the rough edges of the building blocks of an aadarsh parivaar – honour, tradition, duty, etc. – held in place by repression and violence, the quintessential family-building tools. So yes, the family is not a source of comfort for everyone. The difference between a family that holds and a family that harms is often a matter of luck.

Or, to look at it another way, the refuge and the danger are not always different families. They are sometimes the same family, on different days, or for different members. A celebration of family as shelter and........

© The Wire