The plot of the film is given a very episodic treatment, and the only thing sustained from beginning to end is the building mental torture that Vaidehi carries from episode to episode to episode. Her journey sees her finding solace first in an honest and nameless thief (Anil Kapoor), which in turn leads her to the first of three secondary protagonists, Maithili (Mahima Choudhary) whose impending wedding becomes a spectacle of humiliation, social hypocrisy, and rabid greed. Vaidehi is temporarily found by Raghu, but she manages a second (and rather incredible) escape, fleeing this time to Sita No.3, Janki (Madhuri Dixit) who features as the star heroine of a local Nautanki run by a seedy chauvinist (Tinnu Anand) who oppresses his wife and suppresses Janki and Vaidehi. Janki's relationship with fellow actor Manish (whose child she carries) is soured by the theatre master and, intoxicated, she demands resolution during a performance of the Ramayan, which incites the fury of the fundamentalist Hindu crowd and eventually costs her the precious contents of her womb. Vaidehi once again finds herself on the run, and lands in a rural arena where the horrors she is confronted with exceed anything our protagonist has hitherto witnessed. After a brief encounter with an angry bandit Bulwa (Ajay Devgan), Vaidehi is taken up by the village midwife, Ramdulari, (a divine Rekha), who serves as mother-protector and confidante for the oppressed women of the village. Her main antagonist is the head of the village, Gajendra Babu (Danny Denzongapa) who maintains the caste hierarchy over the villagers of his domain. When he discovers that his daughter has fallen in love with Ramdulari's son, he rapes Ramdulari and then burns her alive. A devastated Vaidehi exposes Gajendra at a ceremony set up in his honor, calling upon women and men to recognize the injustice of the social order. Fueled by the enlightened sermon of Vaidehi, the women in the crowd come forth to finish off their oppressor. Vindicated, Vaidehi returns to America with a newly reformed Raghu, where the journey concludes with an all too tidy happy ending: Raghu and Vaidehi are reconciled, Janki has become a successful performer, and Maithili has married the thief who saved her from marital doom.

Direction on Santoshi's part is not up to par with the level the story demands. He fails to achieve the necessary sensitivity in depicting the saga of sadness and confronts the issue of misogyny from the side, instead of head-on. Santoshi has recently said that he did not make the film for an international film festival, but rather for the masses of his country. Regrettably, the tackiness shows, and the film too often delves into the action-blood-gore genre that Santoshi specializes in. The film suffers from its jerky, episodic pace and its ending is rather too contrived, even for those of us with liberal tolerances for artistic license. The characterizations of the prominent characters are starkly black and white, and more often than not the film falls into the trap of depicting men as wholly oppressive and immoral. Jackie Shroff (Raghu) is entirely corrupt, Anil Kapoor is forced into corruption, but it is his circumstances that force him to be so, the film tells us. Ajay Devgan is foul and violent, but it is for an apparent good. Danny is simply a depraved monster.

The female cast, around whom the film revolves, is given much kinder and more rounded characterizations. The protagonist is played sensitively by the luminescently beautiful Manisha Koirala who conveys depth, sympathy, helplessness, and resolve with ample confidence. Manisha's confident screen-presence is a gallant relief from the recent rash of forgettable potboilers she has featured in. She proves in Lajja that she is one of our time's more competent leading ladies, and given a proper role and set up, emerges with a truly commendable performance. Her performance in Lajja will indeed figure among her more brilliant portrayals in Dil Se, Khamoshi, 1942 A Love Story, Akele Hum Akele Tum, Bombay, and Yugpurush. One wonders how brilliantly she may have shone had the film been made by a director with the appropriate creative intention and appreciation of the issue at hand. Mahima Choudhary puts in a laudable performance and continues to show that she is an untapped talent, capable of a good deal more than what Bollywood regularly designates for its female component. Her verbal tirade against the soul cracking her family endures in preparation for her wedding is well delivered. Cast as Janki, Madhuri Dixit performs with a never-before-seen fervor and felicity for what truly deserves the name of 'acting.' The role of a street smart performer who finds solace in alcohol and the promise of an unborn child stands as the greatest risk in her cannon of song-n-dance roles which have maintained her marquee status over the past decade. Though the character's flaws are not depicted in the extreme, it is nice to see her trying to expand her capabilities as a performer. Which leaves the final and most disturbing performance in this would-be feminist saga, that of the ceaselessly talented Rekha. Lajja is Manisha Koirala's film, there can be no doubt about that, but it is Rekha who dominates the proceedings in a performance that digs into your bones and sends echoes of terror through the vestibules of your heart. Ramdulari is depicted as both fatefully strong and fatally weak: her moral convictions form the weak back bone of the woman-hating village, but her physical inadequacies prove her downfall, and she is overpowered by the villagers' contempt for womankind. Rekha dazzles as Ramdulari, foregoing vanity and complacency to deliver a performance that is so replete with authenticity and ingenuity that emotional nudity becomes the mantra of this portion of the film. Comparisons are indeed odious, especially when rendered opposite one of the world's great leading ladies, but in the gracious presence of this reigning screen legend the others fade in her shadow.

The strength of the performances aside, the film falters in some very fundamental ways, the first and most significant being that it does not offer a comprehensive look at the root cause of such unmitigated misogyny. That Indian women are not among the world's best-treated citizens should not come as news to anyone with even an obscure knowledge of social politics. The film does an ample job of exposing the injustice of misogyny, but it goes no further than merely acknowledging that there is indeed a problem with the way Indian women are treated. It is here that the film comes into trouble from the viewpoint of its social value. Santoshi's film fails on one very important point: he offers no solution to the various abuses endured by women. Absolutely no attempt is made at bringing forth any tangible resolution to the plights of the four victims, and the most obvious (education) is not exploited save a very circuitous reference in Rekha's heart-wrenching episode. The revolt that comes of Vaidehi's emotional harangue at the end of the film works well enough in a commercial film, but it is unrealistic to pretend that women will band together and 'beat up the baddies' whenever a Vaidehi happens to incite their blind fury. Perhaps in a nation like India where the western-style Feminism has not yet found fair comprehension and acceptance, such stories ought only to be handled by a director specializing in social and women's issues, and the list of potentials is certainly not restricted to female directors. Indeed, to argue in favor of a creative apartheid based on the sexes would be mere propagation of the examined dilemma. Santoshi, whose track record centers on action (Ghayal) and xenophobia (Pukar), is certainly not the ideal director for such a tale.

The comedy track provided by Raghu's bumbling henchmen (Johnny Lever and Razzak Khan) sent to track down Vaidehi is entirely inappropriate for such a story, and instead of providing comic relief from the more serious moments in the film merely distract and vex the viewer with their distinct lack of comic appeal. There is no real place for filmi clowns in a story that needed to be treated with more respect—the lighter moments supplied by Manisha's cautious flirtation and friendly exchanges with the characters played by Anil Kapoor, Mahima Choudhary, and Madhuri Dixit are fully sufficient in keeping the film from being bogged down with the weight of heavily emotional situations-- why Santoshi failed to see this is a mystery. Pandering to the "peanut-peddlers" ought not figure on the list of concerns of one who plans to make a serious, consequential film about the female quandary.

The musical portions of the film are entertaining, if distracting and meaningless to the development of the story. Anu Malik's score meanders only slightly above serviceable, with Urmila Matondkar's jazzy cabaret number, "Aaiye", as the visual standout. The curiously synthetic "Badi Mushkil" is given a delightful picturisation featuring Manisha and Madhuri in which both are matched step for step and move for move. Sonali Bendre's "Saajan Ke Ghar" is featured during Mahima's episode and is indistinct from other recent songs of wedding celebration.

That Lajja was conceived with sincere intent is evident enough; what failed to materialize, however, was a film that engaged both a dialogue on the abomination of misogyny and its foreseeable resolution. The value of a film that simply states the obvious is limited at best, diminishing its own solemn sincerity and convoluting the level of artistic achievement that could have been.