All language subtitles for Snatches.Moments.from.Womens.Lives.s01e06.Pritilata.[MPup]

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.