In the age of social media, it does not take long for a movement to turn into a trend and for a cause to morph into a hashtag. When the #MeToo movement broke out in the US in 2017 and gathered a lot of momentum in very little time, it seemed that there would be a reckoning across industries on how men abuse their positions of authority and power to manipulate, harass and sexually exploit women. What followed constituted ripples rather than waves, with the power structures that let ‘men be men’ in place for the most part.
With such a political and cultural backdrop in place, not just in the West but also in India, any work of art that deals with the #MeToo movement must have nuance, a sensitive but not sensational understanding of the context in which consent is formed, sustained and violated. Aditi Roy’s Noshtoneer, streaming on Hoichoi, takes up this artistic challenge impressively, and in the space of six episodes, shows how sexual harassment and its revelation can upend one’s preconceived notions of right and wrong.
The thin line between power and coercion
In terms of the plot, the story of Noshtoneer is, unfortunately, something that has already played out in similar versions across several campuses in the country. A professor, Rishabh Gangopadhyay (Shoumo Banerjee), with a sterling reputation is accused by a former student, Godhuli Basak (Angana Roy), of harassment and exploitation. Godhuli, who claims to be pregnant with her professor’s child, admits that they were in a consensual relationship — the professor has a wife, Aparna (Sandipta Sen) — until he suddenly started ghosting her. All she asks of him is emotional support and the basic dignity that is her right as his sexual partner.
Deprived of both, Godhuli tries to take her life. Eventually, she suffers a cardiac arrest and passes away in a hospital. Meanwhile, Aparna, initially very much in love with Rishabh, goes from a fierce defender of her husband to a disillusioned spouse who terminates her marriage shortly after Rishabh is released on bail.
The series begins with Rishabh as the perfect family man who is admired at work. Following Godhuli’s accusation, he cooperates with the police and seems just as puzzled as the rest of his family. But, as the episodes roll on, Rishabh’s hypocrisy is exposed. Students brand him as ‘someone who loves power’ and his conversations with a colleague expose his Machiavellian nature. Here is a man who knows exactly why he had enticed and ghosted a student — she was just an outlet for his sexual needs. Even though he may have implied to Godhuli that he cared for her, maybe even loved her, her death barely registers on his conscience. All he cares about is clearing his reputation and taking charge of the narrative.
In building Rishabh’s character arc, the director-writer team of Aditi Roy and Samragnee Bandopadhyay reveal the thin line between power and coercion. Rishabh becomes an unsettling example of someone who takes their place in the power paradigm as an implicit sanction to behave however they see fit, without any accountability. As long as their professional competence remains unquestionable, personal shortcomings are irrelevant. Or so they think.
Noshtoneer also suggests that men who deserve to be punished may be appealing, even endearing, in other spheres of life, but it is in equations where they think that they wield all the power that their moral switch turns off.
Contrasting studies of women who stand up for themselves
Like Netflix’s Guilty (2020), Noshtoneer opts to centre its narrative around neither the accused nor the victim. In the manner of Kiara Advani’s Nanki, Sandipta Sen’s Aparna is not herself involved in the central event of the story. But it is her emotional journey that forms the core of Noshtoneer. Sandipta brings a sense of poise and clarity to her role, making it easier for viewers to relate to her plight. The fact that Aparna is not depicted as a naive homemaker to begin with makes her gradual transition into a crusader for justice much more believable.
Also evident in her role is the innate multitasking encoded into womanhood. Whether Aparna is trying to release her husband from prison at the start or investigate his crimes later on, she still has a house to run, a child to take care of, neighbours to fake smile at and a society to grapple with, whose backlash, as is typical in patriarchal setups, is directed more at her than her husband. For her part, Sandipta balances each of these demands with a kind of all-encompassing efficiency, bringing out the character’s deep convictions. Aparna wonders, hustles, panics and breaks down but never stops. She keeps believing in herself even when her faith in her husband is lost.
At the other end of the spectrum, Godhuli’s character confronts the stereotypes to which women, especially those calling out men, are often reduced to and carves them open one by one. Having close male friends does not make her promiscuous and standing up for herself does not make her a rebel. It simply makes her a human being containing multitudes. Without subduing Godhuli’s inherent enigma, Angana Roy manages to generate empathy for a character whose only redemption can be posthumous. The writing and direction steer clear of the sort of sentimentality and overt victim complex that could have reduced Godhuli to a caricature, and Angana makes her the touchstone through which the audience’s own morality can be assessed.
Not reducing a movement to moments
The fact that Noshtoneer is directed and written by women means that consent is not just thrown in as a buzzword at regular intervals. Wherever feasible, the show zooms out from the specific story to catalyse a broader conversation: Who decides when consent is given and taken away? How is guilt felt and communicated? Can trust thrive only in the midst of ignorance?
Given how the sixth and final episode ends, it is incumbent on the series to have a second season. The unresolved threads are many, not least how Rishabh and Aparna navigate their relationship now that the truth no longer lies hidden.
As is expected of a show that deals with human flaws, Noshtoneer itself trips up on multiple occasions. Its cinematography feels strained in some shots, while the background score sounds jaded in others. The dialogue, while being crisp and blunt, does not always do justice to the conflict baked into the plot. Dramatic tension is rarely ratcheted up to the point where the audience is prepared for a crescendo. Crises come and go all too soon, with only the expressions of the cast enduring beyond the end credits.
Having said that, Noshtoneer deserves a watch. And not just because it deals with an important topic at an important time. In departing from most shows of its kind, it does not waste its energy in virtue-signalling. Director Aditi Roy knows that the show’s purpose is to generate a debate, not to decide it; to represent a movement, not to reduce it to moments that trade understanding for attention.
