Alankrita Shrivastava’s second film Lipstick Under My Burkha opens with a young college student in a burkha Rehana Abidi (Plabita Borthakur) walking through the aisles of a cosmetic store in a mall in Bhopal. There when the cashiers and guards are not watching, Rehana steals a lipstick.

The burkha – her outerwear is a reflection of the conservative family she comes from. As we will learn some five minutes into the film, under the burkha, Rehana wears a t-shirt, jeans and red sneakers.

A voiceover that runs consistently through the film (Ratna Pathak Shah’s narration) reads from an erotic Hindi novel. It is the story of a woman called Rosy and her sexual fantasies, including her attraction to a male neighbour.

“In every girl’s life comes a moment when she craves to be a woman,” the voiceover narrates in the novel’s pulpy language. “Rosy’s desire was blooming like a rose.”

It is the kind of fiction that women and men read across India, especially in small towns. These books can serve many purposes. But the reality is that these books, just like porn magazines and sites on the Internet, exist and are easily available in India. People are free to decide whether or not they want to read them or watch porn.

Shrivastava’s depiction of the lives, desires and fantasies of four women in Bhopal – all of different age groups, is what Lipstick is essentially about.

It is often stated by critics and other commentators that filmmakers around the world tend to make fewer women-centric films. So Lipstick is a rare film from India. It is a strong, angry, often very funny and a smart film that looks at the world from women’s point of views.

And so while it is shocking, I am not totally surprised that the current Central Board of Film Certification headed by the government appointee Pahlaj Nihalani has refused to certify Lipstick because “the story is lady-oriented and their fantasy above life” and “having contanious (sic) sexual scenes, abusive words, audio pornography.”

Much has been debated about what that poorly worded sentence actually means, but the message is more or less clear. Soft porn, trashy films depicting male fantasies, such as last year’s Mastizaade, are tolerated as comedies that adults can watch. And those films are cleared, given adults-only certificates and released in theaters.

Despite the lack of artistic merits of such films, that is the correct decision in a society that respects the right of free speech of writers, artistes, filmmakers and other creative people. Those adults who want to see a film like Mastizaade are free to do so. Other discerning audiences may chose skip it.

But an intelligent, mature film that explores women’s desires in a realistic manner is problematic for a certain section of our society. It rattles their beliefs, their hold on society.

Lipstick is a protest by women who oppose rules and conditions imposed on them by the patriarchal society. That is what makes it so good and important. No wonder director Shrivastava’s chutzpah has irked a select group of government officials.

Instead of giving the film an adults certificate, the CBFC has decided to ban it quoting several sections of their guidelines. So it seems CBFC’s right of free speech only applies to films that focus on the male gaze. And they have a very different benchmark for films that celebrate sexual liberation from women’s point of view.

On Friday, CBFC Chief Executive Officer Anurag Srivastva told India Today that the board was following the guidelines and laws, as they exist. I wonder where in the guidelines and laws does it say that a “lady-oriented” film has to be refused certification?

The current members of the CBFC are no different than the other so-called moral guardians in India who object to women wearing jeans, possessing mobile phones or even eating Chinese food. That is a deadly combination they believe that can impact the moral fiber of Indian women.

Last week, the speaker of the Andhra Pradesh state Assembly K Siva Prasad Rao had a simple solution for women’s safety. Just as cars are parked at home, he said women should also be kept indoors to ensure their safety. “When a vehicle is parked in a garage, accidents can be avoided,” he said.

In Lipstick, Shah plays Usha Parmar, the oldest of the four women, a 55-year-old widow who fantasises about her much younger swimming coach. And she continues in her voiceover narrating the desires of Rosy, the protagonist in the Hindi novel she is reading.

“Rosy stood trapped behind the iron bars of the window,” Usha reads. “Through the binoculars she watched the dazzling city lights. Jeans-clad girls clinging to their boyfriends rode freely on motorcycles.”

It is a kind of freedom that Rehana, Usha, Konkana Sen Sharma’s Shirin Aslam and Aahana Kumra’s Leela Mishra would also like to have.

In an early scene in the film, Rehana joins a protest on her campus against the authority’s decision to ban female students from wearing jeans. When a fellow student interviews her on camera, Rehana goes into a tirade against society, indirectly also speaking about her parents. And then she says what maybe the most significant dialogue of the film.

“Why does our freedom scare you?” she asks.

That is the question I would like to ask Nihalani’s CBFC. Why does the freedom of the women of Lipstick scare you?