It’s usually the other way around. But this time, it was the cop who was being shadowed. Cast at the last minute in Delhi Crime, actor Rasika Dugal began observing a woman probation officer in the Delhi Police to pick up cues for her performance as the eager new recruit, Neeti Singh.
As the actor quickly familiarised herself with the script, she watched her muse breathlessly learning the ropes too—reporting at a thana one day, another the next, practising for a parade, aiding in an investigation. It helped her inform a young character who is sucked into probing one of the most-followed cases in Delhi's history, the Nirbahaya gang rape case of 2012. “She was very idealistic,” Dugal says of the officer she tailed. “Not chasing the power that comes with the job, she really believed she could change the world with it. I thought that was so pure.”
When the series was extended for another season, the actor called up the subject of her attention again and saw how time changes things. The officer had by then been promoted to ACP, the same rank to which Neeti was promoted on the show. Dugal’s muse was more confident now, but had also become somewhat world-weary. “When you realise you have to navigate the system, it brings efficiency, but also a certain degree of jadedness. It is not just about idealism anymore.”
The coincidence continued as Neeti wore the same—less eager, more efficient—disposition on screen, battling burnout in both professional and personal life. “Someone should make a show on our parallel journeys,” Dugal says. Whether that show happens or not, Delhi Crime, created by Ritchie Mehta, will get a third season on Netflix this year.
Reel gets real
Women no longer have to be straight-backed or self-righteous to play cops on screen. As crime procedurals, whether based on real events or invented whodunits, become a top genre on OTT platforms, show creators are exploring new settings and fleshing out characters. This has given rise to more layered depictions of women administrators at various levels and in different contexts in the force.
The last five years account for more than a dozen long-format shows and films with women cops on the trail of serial killers, fighting for their identity, going undercover, or falling from grace. Among them, Soni, Grahan, Imtiaz Ali’s SHE, Hundred, and Radhika Apte-led Forensic, a Malayalam remake.
Dahaad, about a series of sensational murders in Rajasthan, and Kathal, where missing jackfruits lead to a trafficking racket, are the most recent examples featuring women officers in small towns who work amid poisonous beliefs about gender and caste.
“It’s time women occupied spaces and characters that have always been imagined for men in popular culture,” says Yashowardhan Mishra, who co-wrote and directed the Sanya Malhotra-starrer Kathal. Research for the film took him and Alok Mishra, who has previously written for Shyam Benegal, to police thanas in Bundelkhand. Their preconceived notions about women cops were soon shattered.
“I thought they would be aggressive or short-tempered, but they were sensitive and even told us about their love lives. It helped in creating a multidimensional character who leads with kindness instead of violence.”
That protagonist is Mahima, an inspector marginalised both as a woman and as a member of the Basor scheduled caste. Even as the film’s writers were aware of their own gender and caste privileges, Yashowardhan says they had to discuss these questions because they are the patent reality of the region.
Mahima faces a number of dilemmas—tracking the thief of prized fruit from a politician’s garden versus diverting resources towards finding a kidnapped girl, and managing her promotion versus trying to get her upper-caste boyfriend promoted too, so that his family will accept her. A woman lead, says the filmmaker, allowed him to approach these subjects with more sensitivity.
“Whether in (depicting) relationships or work life, I didn’t want to make a film that is caste-blind.” Mahima puts male chauvinists in their place, including one who tells her she could have been a fashion model instead of joining the force: “I’ve always had a thing for breaking bones.”
Making Case for a Shift
Dahaad is not Reema Kagti and Zoya Akthar’s first crime thriller. There was Talaash in 2012 starring Aamir Khan as a grieving father and policeman. But here, the central character is Anjali Bhaati—
a young cop resisting marriage and battling casteist attitudes—played by Sonakshi Sinha.
“We wanted a rookie cop trying to find her way, a woman who questions, and almost has a chip on her shoulder.” By the end of the series, Bhaati, whose father had changed her surname to avert discrimination, reclaims the name Meghwal. Kagti and the team wanted none of the cops to be superheroes. “Anjali is a parallel to the murder victims. She is who they would be if they had agency and choice,” says the director.
That sentiment, to move beyond black and white, is evident in several portrayals of today. More makers are staying closer to the research, understanding police protocol, and delving into the inner lives of cops. This adds depth of detail to the well-worn ‘hunter becomes the hunted’ theme that many procedurals follow.
The male colleague in most of these portrayals plays a complementary part. He either undermines the female protagonist, sabotages her, supports her, or becomes a man Friday or protegee.
Woman-led cop dramas have also transformed the careers of some actors. The appreciation for Shefali Shah’s turn as DCP Vartika Chaturvedi, the sharp lead investigator in Delhi Crime who cracks the case in three days, encouraged others to write memorable roles for her too, such as the protective mother Shamsunissa in Darlings and neurologist Dr Gauri in Human. “Vartika was an age-appropriate character, who was not in the heroine bracket and yet went on to become most iconic. It was a turning point for me,” she says.
Shefali met former Delhi Police DCP Chhaya Sharma, the real-life Vartika, for two hours over coffee, but frequently shot questions to her over text: when to wear the cap and when to carry it, whether it was okay to roll up her sleeves. “Something happens when you wear the uniform,” says the actor. “My mind and body language change when I step into those shoes.” The experience left her in awe of women in the force.
“Vartika knows how to handle things. If she has to boost your ego to get the work done, she will do it,” she says. “The same thing applies when people call her ‘Madam Sir’ too. A lot of people ask me, ‘Isn’t that offensive?’ I don't think Vartika looks at it that way at all. Call her madam, call her sir, call her Madam Sir. She just cares about the job getting done.”
In the Line of Duty
While the population of women cops has increased on screen, does it reflect the share women have in the police force in the real world? Women form 11.7 per cent of India’s police forces, and the target for their reservation in 14 states and Union Territories is 33 per cent. Ladakh tops the list at 28.3 per cent and J&K is at the bottom with 3.3 per cent.
The India Justice Report (IJR) of 2022 projects that some states will reach the 33 per cent mark in a few years, while others are centuries away from it. Andhra Pradesh is likely to get there in three years, with Bihar following in five years. In contrast, Tripura may need 554 years to crawl to that level, and Jharkhand 206 years.
Historically, women were either kept out of policing or included for limited purposes. Their earliest involvement in the police is recorded around 1939 when the erstwhile Travancore State added women cops to deal with women offenders.
After independence, the UPSC, which deemed policing unfit for women, discouraged them from applying. That is until Kiran Bedi took up training—the only woman in a batch of 80 men—and broke through to become the country’s first woman IPS officer.
Since then, the number of women in the police forces has risen in some states, but not kept pace with targets.
“If we recruit only 30-33 per cent of women every year, it would take us decades to come to their reasonable representation. We need to have special recruitment drives for women in police and at different levels,” says Meeran Chadha Borwankar, former IPS officer, who retired as Director General of the Bureau of Police Research and Development.
Even so, she appreciates the rising fictional portrayals as a sign of recognition. “It shows women in uniform are finally being accepted as serious professionals.”
Consider how things are shaping up in Madhya Pradesh, for instance, which has a 7.4 per cent share of women, who account for 11.5 per cent of officers. The IJR estimates the state will reach 33 per cent reservations in 43 years.
“The realities are galaxies apart for a person in the IPS and one in the subordinate ranks. The women in the constabulary and police station are at the pivot of policing work and they are underprivileged,” says Anuradha Shankar, ADG Training at MP Police, from Bhopal.
“Although there is a guarantee for housing, the satisfaction rate is 50 per cent so they spend on rent. They have no privileges of an orderly, a driver, or support staff,” she adds. The difference between the female and male constable, Shankar observes, is the man has just himself, but the woman has the whole family. “Even the woman expects to look after the house. Her problems in the job are of no concern to the family, and her problems in the family are not heard at work.”
Home truths
When Constable Anjali Chouhan—drawn to police work, thanks to an interest in sport—was recruited nine years ago in Itarsi, Madhya Pradesh, there were no toilets or changing rooms for women. During the 12-hour shift, women changed behind a cloak of bedsheets, took turns using the men’s toilet while one stood guarding the door, or went to the restroom of a lodge near the thana.
Today, she is posted in Pipariya and while toilets have been built, the lack of consideration continues. “One thing you always hear men say is that women work less. But on the night shift, we are not sent out for patrolling here and we have to mind the police station.
It is true some women take a half-hour break in the day, but they do it to check on their kids at home,” says Chouhan, adding that she is not married. She says women constables are told to look into crimes against women, but rarely into other cases.
Many back out of applying. Extreme responsibility and less privilege mean women feel they will not have time for family. “They think of the police as a male department, where there will be adjustment problems, and it jars with the sense of so-called honour in a place like Haryana or rural south India,” says Shankar.
“When they do get into the special task force or anti-terrorism squad, women are given tasks like making Excel sheets. They put up challenges so that women will withdraw themselves. For instance, very few will say ‘I can use any toilet’ and ‘it doesn’t matter where I sleep’.”
Irmeen Shah, a deputy superintendent of police (DSP) of the Madhya Pradesh Police, was the first Muslim woman among SPs to reach that rank. Irmeen had landed in policing 20 years ago by chance after a rule change left her ineligible for the civil judge exam.
Eager to duck a looming marriage proposal, she gave every exam still open, including for the army and police. She ranked 13 in the latter. It was a struggle to ‘stand at ease’ in fitted pants and wear shirts tucked in. She was finding her feet a few days into one of her first postings, at Misrod, when she was roped into a big case. “I had no experience and I was asked to lead an investigation on a rape that involved an IPS officer.”
It meant facing incensed public and collecting evidence over two months for an arrest, only to see the guilty officer being let off and the survivor who testified in court leaving town. “It was a failure,” she says.
Women police officers know being pushed to the frontline is not always a compliment. Often, it is a nudge towards the glass cliff so women can take the potential fall during a crisis. “Sometimes, you can prove yourself and not be given responsibility. But when it is a sensitive case, women are put on SITs,” says Irmeen. In a more recent posting, in the special police establishment of the Lokayukt organisation, she took a stance against bribes. “Madam, aapne kuan sukha diya hai. (Madam, you’ve let our well dry),” one of her subordinates complained.
Soon, the staff stopped insisting on opening doors for her or bringing glasses of water. She was quickly moved to the training department, where she is now. “It is not all bad,” she reasons, adding, “Young women love to see a woman in uniform and ask to click selfies.”
To make criminal justice approachable for women, Chennai experimented with all-women police stations in the 1990s. These spread to other states, also serving as a way to boost the recruitment of women.
But recent analysis, by police researcher Nirvikar Jassal in Haryana and Uttar Pradesh, found that while “all-women police stations allow complainants to speak freely, they may also diminish the capacity for female administrators working in law enforcement, create hurdles for victims of violence, and, in some ways, marginalise gender issues from the mainstream”.
Jyoti Sharma, who has led the Indore Mahila police station since 2012, believes speaking freely is itself a big win.
“Women come to us with things that are not in our jurisdiction too. They are not comfortable with general police stations. We guide them through.”
Sharma has a favourite on-screen woman cop, she says. Tejasvini (1994) is played by Vijaya Shanthi, who locals call “the only man in the police department”.
Growing wings
The first rounded depiction of a woman cop hit small screens in India much earlier. In 1989, 13 episodes of Udaan arrived on Doordarshan, inspired by the life of the late Kalpana Chaudhary, whose search for agency led her to become India’s second woman IPS officer. Udaan was among the top five DD shows by advertising revenue in that period.
When its run was extended two years later, then personnel minister Margaret Alva noted that the TV serial had contributed to an increase in women in services. For all its eventual accolades, the show centring an empowered woman had actually been tough to pitch, recounts Kavita Choudhry, who directed and starred in the series and is Kalpana’s sister.
One official dismissed it immediately: “No, we don’t need any Jhansi ki rani story.” Another said it was “too Raj Kapoor”. But Choudhry had been researching the subject for years, soon after the Dharamveer Police Reforms report was published. And her protagonist, Kalyani, was not going to be a straitjacketed tough woman. “Before Udaan, both male and female cops were mainly rotating the baton. I wanted sensitivity carried forward,” she says. “Even as a cop, Kalyani had moments of depression.
I wanted to show the bureaucratic soft ground, how soon you start becoming a poor listener, and how it fans your ego. So for some time, Kalyani too became arrogant and pompous.” Rather than powerful soliloquies by the protagonist, Udaan’s drama emerged from the background actors, the outdoor locations, and the troubles of the time.
In a meta moment in Suzhal (2022), the stern protagonist, Inspector Regina Thomas, talks of how the 1990 film Vyjayanthi IPS made her want to be a cop. “The movie had a very 2D character, but she was a hero figure for girls growing up then. They wanted to kick ass like her,” says Gayathri, one-half of Pushkar-Gayathri, who created and wrote the Tamil whodunit.
That scene helped accentuate the 3D predicaments of her show’s protagonist. Regina, played by Sriya Reddy, started as a cop with noble intentions but—in a small town with no big crimes—she gives in to corruption. The strong disposition of this imperfect woman cop unravels more after her son goes missing.
Future files
Even on the big screen, usually reserved for male cops such as in Dabangg and Singham, women cops have marked their presence. Rani Mukerji played Crime Branch cop Shivani Shivaji Roy in the Mardaani series, and Drishyam featured a woman cop across the languages in which it was made, including the Hindi version featuring Tabu as IG Meera Deshmukh.
There were a few notorious woman cop comedies on television too—F.I.R., which ran for nine years starting in 2006, and the more recent Maddam Sir.
Not every show with women cops has been successful or layered. Lara Dutta-led Hundred, Raveena Tandon-starrer Aranyak, and Grahan featuring Zoya Hussain were bumped off after a season.
The trend could be becoming a trope now. Rohit Shetty’s cop universe, known for crashing cars and flying autorickshaws, will soon include a woman cop. Shilpa Shetty will star in the director’s first digital series, Indian Police Force. Ritchie Mehta’s next, Poacher, will have women cops on the trail of elephant ivory poachers in Kerala.
The tightrope walk for series and filmmakers is to humanise cops without celebrating them. On that, the new wave of believable women cops can take cues from Soni.
Directed by Ivan Ayr, the 2019 release about two women operating at different levels in the police avoids any glorification of the force. Instead of a single investigation, the tension in its plot comes from a series of small events where Soni is quick to anger, and her superior ACP Kalpana tries to act with composure. Despite the contrast, they are both affected by the patriarchy and form camaraderie.
“We weren’t making a suspenseful or a procedural or a dramatic film,” says co-writer Kislay. “The idea was about the futility of having special ops. There is no point picking up a few people when something is so steeped in the culture.” In a system that does not support them, women simply continuing to work becomes a form of resistance.
Geetika Vidya Ohlyan, who embodied the titular character Soni, says she made a critical mistake while preparing for the film. She asked a male friend who worked in the police if she could trail him. “The fact that cops are male was so ingrained that I had asked to shadow a man. After half a day,
I realised this would lead nowhere and corrected myself.” She switched to observing a woman station house officer on night patrol the next day. Male cops are often compared to lions—take the names Singham or Simbba, for instance—but her female shadowee’s relaxed yet alert demeanour reminded Ohlyan of a puma.
“I saw that she was not fazed by the high beams of cars, sleep deprivation, and standing for hours. Seeing her on the road reassured other women.” That is why, she hopes, echoing actors, directors and cops alike, more women can take charge off-screen too.