It’s often said that if men were the ones to menstruate or give birth, the rules of the world would have been entirely different. Much has been written about women’s strength and multitasking abilities. Hindi cinema itself coined the famous line, “Woh stree hai, woh kuch bhi kar sakti hai.” But can we step aside from these mock-consolations for a moment and ask why women need such reaffirmations in the first place? Director Suparn S. Varma’s Haq is a harrowing tale of a woman who reaches the highest court of the nation seeking what is rightfully hers as a wife, a mother, and a woman.
Alimony remains a tricky subject, surrounded by misinformation comparable only to caste-based reservations. In both cases, detractors (men in one, the upper castes in another) echo the same line: “Why do they need it? Can’t they work hard? Aren’t we living in the 21st century?” The very concept of alimony is born from an ecosystem that glorifies a woman as a “homemaker” or “ghar ki lakshmi” while denying her the freedom to dream or earn for herself. Haq, set between 1967 and 1985, is a Muslim social film where the role of women can, without hesitation, be described as one of the lowest in Indian society.
In one of its most powerful moments, Shazia Bano (Yami Gautam Dhar) declares that women occupy the lowest rung in the social order. It strikes deep because it reeks of truth. Shazia has reached the Supreme Court of India seeking maintenance for herself and her children from her husband, Abbas Khan (Emraan Hashmi).
Varma’s film dexterously examines the slippery slope that exists between the secular law and the Muslim Personal Law. How does a nation like India, with its assortment of religions and cultures, deal with it when ideologies clash? How can lawmakers safeguard a community’s cultural identity while protecting victims within that very community? The answers are difficult, and the film’s climactic courtroom battle drives that point home with moving and heartbreakingly staged precision.
Haq opens like a romantic musical as Shazia and Abbas marry, build a home, and raise a family. The lovely songs, with a distinct Bhansali-like warmth, linger for a while. Abbas, a successful lawyer, goes to work while Shazia becomes a mother to two children and carries a third. The writer, Reshu Nath, layers in sharp metaphors — like the husband’s habit of replacing, rather than repairing, pressure cookers. Was Shazia herself replaceable, like an old utensil that had served its purpose?
The screenplay is structured as a grand mainstream drama with little room for ambiguity. Varma’s storytelling is direct, as the plot naturally twists and turns. Haq builds several powerful moments meant to empower not only women but also others marginalized by faith, patriarchy, and ambiguous laws.
One of the highlights is Shazia’s fiery confrontation with the Muslim Board, mediated by her father, where she accuses the men of twisting the Holy Quran to serve their convenience. It’s a powerful sequence where the woman stands alone behind a curtain, covered in a niqab, seeking opinions from a group of men on the intimate issue of her marriage. It’s a moment when we fleetingly wonder, aren’t there any women in positions of power?
The first major shock comes when Abbas marries another woman during a trip to Pakistan, leaving Shazia shattered. With Saira’s (Vartika Singh) arrival, Shazia is suddenly relegated to the backseat as the ‘first wife’. Amid the revelations that follow, the woman holds on to her broken heart, not to let go of the remnants of her life.
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Despite its larger revolution in focus, Haq finds tenderness in the fragile bond that forms between Shazia and Saira — a rare instance of female solidarity in a film dominated by male perspectives. So much so that, at one point, Abbas tells Saira, “Keep your opinions to yourself.” The only other female figure in the narrative is Shazia’s advocate, Bela Jain (Sheeba Chaddha), who is the standard revolution-seeking lawyer type (no, I’m not complaining). The final act slows down slightly, and a few sequences blur Abbas’s motives. Did he ever truly love his children? That question lingers.
Varma’s direction, however, holds the film together. His filmmaking is unmistakably massy yet emotionally intelligent. In a masterfully staged scene, we see Shazia questioning her husband about the ‘new wife’ situation. She is at the center, the mother-in-law behind her, and her husband in front. To every question she shoots at him, it is the her mother-in-law who answers, while Abbas stays still and quiet. Somewhere deep, this mix of hurt and the shift from the pinnacle of happiness to the trough of sorrow reminded me of the Kashibai track in Bajirao Mastani.
Several key sequences begin with Shazia’s close-up, to soon reveal the world around her – projecting a confident (and heartwrenching) picture of a solo woman finding her place in an oppressive system. The choice of colours and the amount of lights that fall on its protagonist’s face make it easy for us to immerse easily into Shazia’s mindscape.
The cinematography (Pratham Mehta), with its zooms and unique angles, is among the film’s most creative departments. The costumes (Ashley Rebello) and the production design (Abhijit Gaonkar, Sonam Singh) help transport us to a bygone era without the unnecessary layer of glamour or cultural appropriation. In a film built around predictable set pieces that the audience can sense well in advance, it’s refreshing that the technical departments — cinematography, music (Vishal Mishra), and original score (Sandeep Chowta) — are consistently sharp and cohesive. The editing somehow feels off frequently. While the frame selection can be termed apt, the transitions with a basic black fade-out lack gravitas.
And, finally, Suparn S. Varma’s film would be incomplete without its thunderous central act by Yami Gautam Dhar. We already know how capable a performer she is, but it’s rare for a role this well-written and authentic to find an actor so perfectly suited to it. To Yami’s credit, she fills the screen with honesty and sensitivity. While the climactic speech is something we expect her to deliver, it’s in the smaller moments that she truly soars — the spats with Abbas, the shopping trip with Saira, and the quiet instances where she interprets the Quran for the ignorant or indifferent. She is magnificent throughout, delivering what is easily her career-best performance.
Emraan Hashmi, who appears untouched by time, gives a nuanced turn as Abbas. Though not a typical villain, the manipulative streak in Varma’s chauvinistic protagonist is rendered with unsettling realism by the actor. Vartika Singh makes a pleasant debut and gets her breakout scene fairly early in the film. Danish Husain has a comforting air about him, whereas Sheeba Chaddha’s no-nonsense lawyer is a winner from her very first appearance.
Haq opens with a long disclaimer, read word for word, revealing that it’s inspired by true events. The film carefully phrases and paraphrases the idea that it is a divorced woman’s right to seek maintenance, as if determined to make sure its message reaches the right ears. The climactic courtroom sequence, while extremely effective in conveying its message, lacks any exchanges, making us wonder if the characters were exhausted from their relentless war of words. That said, even as the film takes such safe narrative choices, the director’s conviction shines through, carrying forward the feminist discourse once ignited by films like Lipstick Under My Burkha, Pink, Mrs, and Thappad.
A relatively modest film in scale, Haq carries a queen-sized heart with pride and deserves packed theatres and industry recognition. As for Yami, where do we begin the campaign for her National Award? Time to dig out my angry rants from when her sparkling turn in Bala was cruelly overlooked. Wait, do Indian awards even matter anymore?
Rating: ★★★★
