Why Aap Jaisa Koi gets the Bengali woman so wrong

Let’s not lie, Aap Jaisa Koi is ridiculously easy on the eyes. But when a film is this obsessed with its own aesthetic, you start to wonder what it’s trying to distract you from. And in this case, what’s hiding behind dreamy shots of trams, peeling walls, and obsolete Ambassadors is Bollywood’s very old, very persistent habit of turning Bengali women into a shortcut for modernity.

The Bengali woman—a plot device in Aap Jaisa Koi

In Vivek Soni’s new romantic drama, Fatima Sana Shaikh plays Madhu Bose, a French teacher from Kolkata with all the expected accoutrements. She’s liberal, assertive, emotionally articulate, and of course Bengali. The man she’s paired with? Shrirenu Tripathi (R. Madhavan), a 42-year-old Sanskrit professor from Jamshedpur who treats emotional intimacy like Sanskrit verse—formal, distant, and best kept in books. Predictably, she’s tasked with rescuing him. From his worldview, his loneliness, and let’s be honest, himself. And that’s where the fatigue sets in.

Bollywood has long romanticised the Bengali woman as a sort of cultural fixer. She’s cultured. She’s woke. She probably has a French press and very strong feelings about the Oxford comma. But she’s rarely allowed to be ordinary—never awkward, never selfish, never unsure. Always a symbol of enlightenment, of liberal femininity, of vaguely upper-middle-class taste. Aap Jaisa Koi doesn’t subvert this stereotype but it doubles down on it.

Madhu doesn’t feel like a character; she feels like a checklist. Speaks French? Tick. Feminist without being disruptive? Tick. Swoops in to emotionally rehabilitate a man who hasn’t done the work? Tick. This isn’t progressive writing, it’s a reheated Bengali fantasy Bollywood has been microwaving for decades. Her family isn’t much better. They are less people, more Pinterest boards.

Every conversation sounds like a curated Instagram caption. What really rankles, though, is the sheer emotional labour expected of Madhu. She carries the weight of the narrative—emotionally, intellectually, structurally—while Shrirenu coasts on awkward charm and delayed realisation. His transformation feels unearned. Her investment in him doesn’t read as love; it reads as burnout.

The real tragedy? Ayesha Raza, in a sharply drawn supporting role, gives you a glimpse of what this film could have been. Her character, Kusum feels lived-in. Flawed, warm, real. She exists beyond the frame. Everyone else feels manufactured to serve a vibe.

Here’s a thought—what if Bengali women were allowed to be more than the liberal foil to regressive men? What if they were allowed to falter, to unravel, to exist without having to symbolise cultural salvation? Because culture isn’t costume. Identity isn’t set design. Representation should be more than a mood board with subtitles.

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