Original subtitles

Ma, you warned me.

I know you don't want me hanging around here, but I can't help it.

Troublemaker, that's what you call me, but I want to cause trouble.

Shake everybody and shout in their faces.

I can't live like this any more.

I have to breathe.

Europeans only, no dogs, no Indians.

Everywhere I look, I'm reminded of our enslaved condition

in our own country. 150 years of slavery, to be precise.

The country's in bondage.

The British bleed us dry.

They govern us with an iron hand,

tell us it is their God-given right to take our land, force our labour,

make us fight and die in their wars, starve us through famines,

impoverish us, as they grow fat.

They say that the mere colour of their skin

makes them superior to us.

I'm thinking of old Aunt Uma.

She still thinks Bengali women should cover our faces

and live in domestic obscurity.

She calls me Pagali, crazy girl, freak of nature.

Maybe I am.

But I don't think I am the first.

Or the last. Lots of crazy girls out there.

I know you wanted me to marry well and I am sorry

I chose not to follow that path,

but remember when we went to cousin Angeli's wedding last spring?

You know how much I hated the part of the ceremony, where she did

pranam and had to touch the new husband's feet in respect.

You stopped me from shouting, "Don't do it, Angeli."

He, of course, did not return the favour because according the Hindus,

men are superior to women. Why?

Just because they have hair up their fat nostrils and ears,

and a penis between their legs?

Sorry, Ma.

You are shocked because I know what a penis is.

And now Angeli is pregnant.

Younger than me and already looking forward to her life

of producing endless babies.

All of them born in servitude to the British.

And if she has daughters, they will be like her.

Born enslaved to the men in her family, firstly,

and the British, secondly.

Don't we have enough starving, sickly babies in Bengal already?

I feel restless, Ma.

Impatient with a nation that sees us women as...

Actually, we are unseen. Invisible.

We walk through this world caring for the men, giving birth to them,

waiting on them, feeding, nurturing, consoling, encouraging, educating,

and yet, we are ghosts.

And if we try and step out into the light and say, "Hello, I am here,

I have needs too, and maybe a few opinions,

I would like to share with you,"

we are branded as bringing dishonour to the family name.

Such rubbish.

So backwards.

Things are changing, Ma.

I can't be like you.

I have heard you say, "Leave the fighting to the men.

"They are strong."

I am strong too, Ma.

I can wrestle, shoot, drive a car.

I have carried secret letters,

hidden arms and ammunition in sacks of rice,

carried revolvers under the cover of my sari.

As have my Pagali sisters.

I have trained myself physically, learned the martial arts,

run through the jungles, jumped into muddy ditches, climbed trees,

scaled high walls and practised at target shooting.

I am just as inspired to fight for freedom as any Indian man.

And that's what I want to do, Ma.

Fight for freedom.

Uncle Omid thinks I am attention seeking,

but we all know he's a typical Bengali babu.

He sits, feet up, after a hard day's work,

leeching taxes off poor Bengali farmers to give to British coffers.

He's part of the problem.

Keeps saying, "You mustn't break the law.

"You mustn't break the law."

But whose laws are we talking about?

The British murdered and enslaved millions of African people

and propped up their inhumanity through laws.

They did the same in Ireland.

Victory to my brothers and sisters in Ireland.

I heard, in England, even the women have the right to vote

for politicians to represent their hopes in government.

Here, we have no rights.

Not the women. Nor the men.

We are all enslaved.

So we must fight together, no?

Ma?

I'm going to do something tonight.

I don't know how it will end, but...

If it ends badly, please, you must not listen

to any of the vicious rumours you hear afterwards.

I was nobody's lover.

I didn't give myself to our revolutionary leaders.

The British authorities who try to besmirch my name

call me a loose woman, even a prostitute, but I lay with no-one.

I took an oath of celibacy, and I remain true to my word.

It is not that I deny my womanhood, or my desires.

It is not even that I hate men or want to be a man.

We will not give birth to babies to be murdered by the British.

This is what I have noticed.

The British say that one English life is worth more

than one Indian life.

That, as a race, Indians are stupid, childish, simple,

uncivilised savages, unable to govern themselves.

After a while, the Indian man believes this propaganda

and then a whole nation accepts this terrible idea,

and bows down to its white master,

thanking them for their wisdom and for saving them.

It is the same with Indian women.

We now think we are worth less than the men.

I am doing this for you, Ma.

And for all the women in my life.

We must be strong, stand up for our beliefs, love and...

Be proud of ourselves first.

Before we can move forward.

I have something to say to my countrymen.

Many of them may think how is it that an Indian woman

can throw all her education and culture to the winds

and get involved in a gruesome act like murder.

I worked so hard to get my distinction and my degree,

and the British wouldn't let me have it.

The Indian Republican Army has given me strict orders

to lead a group of seven brothers.

The plan is to lead an assault on the European club.

To shoot and kill the Europeans.

And then destroy the place. Burn it to the ground.

And it all must happen as quickly as possible.

Once the mission is accomplished,

all of us must fade away in small groups by taking different routes

into the countryside.

After that, I will have to go into hiding.

So you may not see me for a while.

Ma, think of me as a warrior.

A freedom fighter.

I want to take a stand.

I hope that our sisters will no longer nurse the view

that they are weak,

that armed women of India will demolish a thousand hurdles,

disregard a thousand dangers and join the rebellion,

and the armed struggle for the freedom for India.

We must avoid capture.

Ma, I hope you will understand.

If we are caught the police will torture us for information.

If we are caught they will send us to the Andaman islands,

and you know what a hellish place that is.

No chance of escape.

Thousands of miles of sea on one side, and thick impenetrable jungle

on the other, where female Indian prisoners

are the playthings of sadistic British jailers.

I refuse to be their plaything.

The leader of my movement has given me a cyanide pill

to swallow if we are captured.

I'm going to take it, Ma.

Please see it as an act of strength and not of weakness.

I embrace my martyrdom.

Dear Ma,

The sun is setting over the Bay of Bengal and I'm thinking of you

and all the sorrow I'm about to bring to you.

Please don't cry.

What I am doing, well, about to do,

is for the sake of freedom.

For the sake of truth.

Please be proud of me.

As our Scriptures tell us,

the soul cannot be killed, and death is limited to the physical body.

The soul is reborn into another body until death upon Moksha.

It is like changing clothes.

To the one that is born, death is certain.

And certain is birth, to the one that has died.

It is just one life.

There will be many more, Ma, and we will be together again soon.

Love and pranaam,

Priti.

Check your ammunition.

Let us kiss the ground that has given us birth and say a prayer to

Kaalima, for the early freedom of our motherland.

Vande Mataram. Victory to Mother India.

I, Pritilata Waddedar,

formally declare that I'm a member of the Chittagong branch

of the Indian Republic Army, which is inspired by the ideal

of uprooting imperialistic British rule in India.

All British officers and their families are legitimate targets

because all are here to forcibly take our country's wealth

and to beat our people into submission.

I feel fortunate for being enrolled as a member of an organisation

that is crowned with glory.

Vande Mataram.