You often see more through a camera lens than with the naked eye. One afternoon, I noticed a woman sitting inside a tiny roadside kiosk, surrounded by pouches of pan masala, soft drinks, mobile recharge coupons, and plastic jars filled with toffees. The Delhi sun had left its mark on her face. Behind her, almost hidden by the dangling rows of colourful sachets, was a glamorous poster of Priyanka Chopra, perfectly photographed, perfectly dressed, perfectly composed.
The two women occupied the same frame.
One had travelled from a small town to conquer Bollywood and Hollywood. The other had probably travelled from a nearby village or neighbourhood to run a kiosk that kept her family afloat. One sold dreams. The other sold the small necessities of everyday life.
A few days later, another image stayed with me. A bus had halted at a traffic signal. A woman sat by the window, her child beside her, one small hand resting on the glass. She stared into nothing in particular. Directly beneath the window was an advertisement featuring the radiant smile of Urmila Matondkar.
Again, two very different women shared the same frame.
I found myself wondering which of them was more empowered. Was there any common thread between their lives? Their struggles and privileges were too different to compare, yet each seemed to represent a different kind of strength.
The actress steps out of a gleaming car. Her arrival is choreographed long before she appears, with make-up artists, stylists, managers, and flashing cameras. She carries not only a designer gown but years of ambition, discipline, and the invisible weight of public expectation. Fame has made privacy a luxury. Every appearance is judged, every wrinkle discussed, every decision dissected by strangers. Success does not exempt anyone from loneliness, failed relationships, impossible expectations, or the relentless pressure to remain desirable in an industry that worships youth. The smiling face on the wall was not Priyanka Chopra. It was an advertisement.
The woman behind the counter begins her day with the metallic rattle of a corrugated shutter, a customer asking for a packet of biscuits, change for a hundred-rupee note, or pays with the familiar ping of a digital transaction. No cameras record her arrival. She is known only within the small radius of her shop. In fact, she is so familiar that people have almost stop seeing her. She could be the woman at the tea stall, the flower shop, the vegetable cart, the roadside kiosk. She exists on the margins of our attention while standing firmly at the centre of her own life. She bargains with suppliers, keeps accounts in a dog-eared notebook, pays school fees, manages rising prices, worries about illness, rent, and whether tomorrow’s sales will cover today’s expenses. Her struggles are evident.
The smiling face on the bus was not Urmila Matondkar. It was a frozen image, preserved forever in perfect light. The woman gazing through the bus window was alive inside a story no advertisement could tell. Their worlds appear separated by wealth, fame, and privilege. Yet both understand responsibility, discipline, and the satisfaction of earning their own place in the world.
Empowerment cannot be measured by wealth, beauty, or hardship alone. A woman commanding a film set may still be searching for peace. A woman running a roadside kiosk may possess a quiet confidence born of resilience. One buys freedom in one currency; the other earns it in another. True empowerment has no dress code. It can wear designer couture beneath the glare of cameras or a faded cotton sari behind a weathered wooden counter. It is measured by agency, the ability to make choices and earn with dignity.
Perhaps Asrarul Haq Majaz, one of the most famous progressive poets known for romantic and revolutionary poetry was speaking of this very idea when he wrote-
Tere maathe pe yeh aanchal bahut hi khoob hai lekin,
Tu is aanchal se ek parcham bana leti to achchha tha.
(The veil upon your forehead is graceful indeed,
but how wonderful it would have been if you had turned that very veil into a flag.)
Photos and text by Prerna Jain.
