Then came , a fiery, ambitious girl from a lower-caste family. She dreamed of running away to become a famous singer. But her mother, worn down by poverty, saw marriage as the only escape. Leela’s rebellion was raw and sexual—she seduced her photographer boyfriend, exploring her body as a territory she alone owned. It wasn't just about love; it was about seizing pleasure before life seized her.
First, there was , a young college student and a burkha -clad beautician. By day, she was the pious daughter her conservative Muslim family expected. But by night, she shed the black robe, donned tight jeans and red lipstick, and sneaked into cinemas, swam in crowded pools, and dated a Hindu boy. She wasn't rejecting her faith; she was rejecting the suffocating version of it that left no room for her own skin.
But the story didn't end in theaters. When the film was submitted to the Oscars in 2018, it was disqualified for having "too much English dialogue" (a rule later changed). And the censor board’s original language—"lady-oriented"—entered the lexicon as a slur, a badge of honor. It revealed what the board truly feared: not sex, but female agency. movie lipstick under burkha
But when Shrivastava submitted Lipstick Under My Burkha to India’s Central Board of Film Certification (CBFC) in 2016, the response was a thunderclap.
The film was audacious, funny, and painfully intimate. It showed women masturbating, lying, stealing, and scheming for tiny pockets of joy. It didn't offer heroes or villains. It offered humanity. Then came , a fiery, ambitious girl from
The title itself was a provocation. For some, the burkha was a symbol of piety or oppression. For Shrivastava, it was a metaphor—the heavy cloak of expectation, tradition, and silence that women are asked to wear. And the lipstick ? That was the secret, glittering rebellion of desire.
The film followed four women across generations, each trapped in her own gilded cage. Leela’s rebellion was raw and sexual—she seduced her
In the bustling bylanes of Old Delhi, where the call to prayer mingled with the honking of rickshaws, a young woman named Alankrita Shrivastava was wrestling with a question that rarely made it past the chai stalls: What do women really want? Not in a political manifesto, but in the quiet, cluttered corners of their own minds. Her answer, when it came, was a film. She called it Lipstick Under My Burkha .