Perfectly-greying hair, stylishly-draped shawl and a baritone infused with wisdom, Amitabh Bachchan is the perfect Indian patriarch. Like all good patriarchs, what he does best is tell us what to do. In a letter addressed to his granddaughters, he cites the influence of their dadaji and pardadaji — paternal grandfathers and great grandfathers — and their illustrious surnames, Bachchan and Nanda. Millions read the message as it went viral (predictably), neither caring nor realising that aside from being subjected to a subtle promotional campaign for his upcoming release Pink, Bachchan had got his basic science wrong.  

Even a cursory knowledge of basic biology means admitting that a human being is the sum of more than just her male ancestors, as the letter purports. That the grandmothers and great grandmothers, also illustrious but conditioned to live in the shadows of their more famous husbands, are omitted is simply casual everyday patriarchy. More insidious is that a certain Krishnaraj Rai – perhaps not in the same league of fame as the Bachchans and Nandas – but who did contribute his share of DNA, being conveniently left out of the family tree on which Aaradhya blooms. But who cares about science? In the traditional Hindu undivided family, once he has done the kanyadan (literally the donation of his girl child), he has no claims over either his daughter Aishwarya or her progeny. If his surname has to count and his family flourish, he better look to someone other than this granddaughter who is a Bachchan now. Similarly, Jaya Bhaduri’s parents and lineage are ignored, as though Jaya plays no part in the legacy bequeathed to her granddaughters.

But at least the Rais and the Bhaduris – barring their famous daughters – are relatively obscure. What explains Bachchan overlooking a certain Raj Kapoor, who happens to be Navya Naveli’s great grandfather? Just because he’s part of Navya Naveli’s father’s matrilineal heritage, does the legendary actor-director not ‘count’?

A large number of women have applauded this letter, a public relations exercise for the film Pink, whose theme is women standing up for themselves in a world ruled by men. Habituated to looking at the world through the male gaze, the invisibility of the woman (who bears a disproportionate burden of bringing up the child in our culture) is so natural that few find the exclusion of Jaya Bhaduri, Teji Bachchan, Ritu Nanda and Vrinda Rai misogynistic. The suffixing of a husband’s last name post marriage is a subsuming of the entire identity of these woman into the clan, it seems. It’s a sanction, apparently, to ignore their other achievements and contributions.

How ironic that Bachchan, while promoting a film that appears to be about how women are misrepresented, decided to ignore the women in his family altogether.

One can only hope that Pink surpasses this apologetic version of feminism. In a society where the men in charge (and this includes most film directors) see every little concession to women’s rights as a favour bestowed – and many women accept this status quo without question – the messages in popular cinema, are not always about genuinely furthering the female agenda even when they claim to be. However,  feminism has become a ‘cool’ brand in the past few years and the aspiring feminist, however confused and behind the times, forms a large chunk of Bollywood’s viewership, That’s been proven by the success of films like NH10. The film industry has appropriated female empowerment from advertising and going by the number of gushing women who have shared Bachchan’s open letter, it seems to be working.

There’s something else that is hinted at by this letter going ‘viral’ – how tightly patriarchy controls women and the kind of scraps it offers to build a facade of equality. Perhaps the women who shared Bachchan’s letter were reminded of a benign patriarch in their lives – perhaps a father who ‘allowed’ her to study or work, as though these opportunities are not entitled to her naturally. On screen too, it is the hero that usually comes to her rescue, the male saviour complex so ingrained in our cinema that it is taken for granted. It remains to be seen whether this film promoted in the guise of women empowerment truly empowers its female protagonists.

The aforementioned granddaughters, who apparently stay in touch with their grandfather through The Times of India, are growing up in the shadow of this benign patriarchy, even as they come from huge privilege. Luckily for Navya Naveli and Aaradhya, they live in a time and place where baring of their bodies and minds on many mediums is routine. And the choice of their friends and life partners is not restricted, except by narrow minds. Feminism and equality are concepts they live with, and these cut across genders. Addressing the men in the family, catching them young, is probably more urgent than lecturing the women.

While the girls no doubt will have to face their own battles as they grow up female, their challenges are likely to be very different from the ones Bachchan envisages in his open letter. The length of a skirt is hardly going to be an issue in the urban, upper class India that Navya Naveli and Aaradhya populate. It was certainly not much of an issue for their mothers, and even discussion on the subject is passé for the demographic to which they belong.

And yet girls and women continue to be addressed again and again about their clothing, in a way no man ever is. Indeed no letter to his son or grandson – not addressed here perhaps because he falls outside the purview of the film promotion – would ever have any mention on the length of his shorts. Or the reason to marry.

Let’s hope that by the time Aaradhya grows up, this letter from her grandfather won’t be relevant. Let’s hope that by then, women (and men) will have tired of looking down at skirts and will instead, in equal measure, reach for the sky.