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The PadMan protagonist, modelled on grassroots innovator Arunachalam Muruganantham and played by Akshay Kumar, has a question for his nonplussed wife: you make such wonderful malpuas for me, why can't I make sanitary pads for you? The interesting, if rather odd, quid pro quo is necessitated by the serious health hazards that the newlywed village woman exposes herself to by using a filthy rag when she is on her period.
Lakshmikant Chauhan - yes, Arunachalam inexplicably morphs into a central Indian school dropout in R Balki's PadMan - buys a pack of sanitary pads. It costs a bomb. His wife, Gayatri (Radhika Apte), is aghast. We'll now have to forgo milk, she argues as she wonders why her mechanic-husband should fret over a 'woman's problem'. She swears by the community's reeti riwaaz (traditions) and segregates herself on those five days of the month. It is now the man's turn to look askance. Lakshmi, too, cannot fathom why sanitary pads are so expensive. Itni halki cheez ka itna bhaari daam kyun (Why should the price of something so light be so heavy), he asks the medicine store salesman. The latter has no answer. So Lakshmi resolves to device a way of producing cheaper napkins to prevent the family budget from going haywire and, of course, to protect his wife from harm.
He runs into a series of hurdles: scepticism, superstition, ridicule, condemnation, and finally even banishment from the village. But he continues to chip away regardless. His obsession spells trouble. He is branded a mad man and eventually ostracized. His wife is yanked away from him, his mother threatens to leave home, and he is compelled to take off for Indore.
This, broadly speaking, is the first half of the 140-minute PadMan. Until the intermission, the film remains largely true to Arunachalam's real-life story. But despite the undeniable urgency of Lakshmi's onerous mission, neither the single-minded reformer nor the goal that he sets himself assumes the heft it should have.
This, however, has little to do with the overall quality of the film. PadMan is well-made; the writing (by the director himself with additional inputs from Swanand Kirkire) is generally neat; and both the cinematography (P.C. Sreeram) and the editing (Chandan Arora) are first-rate. PadMan is by no means a bad film hiding behind the cloak of social relevance.
The decision to relocate a Tamil Nadu story to a part of central India is the least damaging of the film's missteps. The most off-putting aspect of PadMan are its uneven tonal shifts: it goes back and forth between being earnest and facetious, when it isn't jarringly ceremonial.
Lakshmi, when he is down and out, receives a fair bit of help from a character that Balki injects into the plot - a talented female tabla player and MBA grad Pari Walia (Sonam Kapoor), who turns her back on the promise of a cushy career to become an active associate of the rural change agent.
Lakshmikant Chauhan is an ordinary man with extraordinary courage. The screenplay contrives a scene for Amitabh Bachchan, playing himself, to laud the hero's yeoman work. The Americans have Superman, Spider-Man and Batman, India has PadMan, he grandly declares at a National Innovation Fest in IIT Delhi. Riding on the famed baritone, it sounds great. But this sort of ersatz triumphalism seems out of place in a film about a common man who masterminded a real-life movement, sacrificing much - his wife, his mother, his village, his atma samman (self-respect) and 90,000 rupees, as Lakshmi himself enumerates - in the bargain.