Interview | Courage Is A Shapeshifter: Renuka Shahane On Loop Line

I’ve always been fascinated by animation. But without a visual arts background, I never actually imagined making an animated film—especially since animation in India is usually reserved for children’s stories, mythology, ads or as embellishments in live-action work. But as I was editing the script, I kept returning to the protagonist’s quiet acts of escape or her internal world and they kept appearing to me in an animated form. Initially, I thought of blending animation with live-action, but I realised that might end up looking gimmicky or uneven. Instead, I began to think about the possibilities of envisioning this story entirely through animation.

For me, animation served two purposes—it brought a rare visual lens to an Indian woman’s emotional interiority, and it created a vital distance. It gave me the distance I needed as a storyteller and mirrored the emotional dissociation of the character herself. This woman’s only true freedom exists in the world within her head. Animation allowed us, and her, to observe that world without intrusion. I reached out to Soumitra Ranade at Paperboat Design Studios, who immediately told me how rare it is to make animated films for mature audiences in India—primarily because of the financial risk. But after the pandemic, I decided to back it myself, knowing I won’t get my money back. It’s my passion project, after all.

I had completed my Master’s in Clinical Psychology before fully committing to acting, and right after that decision, Surabhi (1990-2001) happened. There was hardly any time to pause and reflect on what I really wanted to do. But I always knew that direction was something I was drawn to—I had already assisted Dr. Vijaya Mehta on Lifeline (1991), and that experience made me realise how passionate I was about being behind the camera. Still, back then, life was moving quickly, and I was caught up in figuring out whether acting was even the right path for me.

The idea of creating something like Loop Line just wouldn’t have crossed my mind then—not only because I was younger and less experienced, but also because I hadn’t yet developed the emotional maturity or depth of observation needed to tell stories rooted in other people’s lives. Over time, with age and reflection, those layers started forming. It became possible to step back and say: this story may not be revolutionary in plot, but it must be told—because it still resonates. And the responses to Loop Line have been deeply affirming. People across ages have written to say how it made them notice and appreciate the often-invisible labour of women at home, especially mothers.

I often see Rita (2009), Tribhanga (2021), and Loop Line as connected—not quite a trilogy, but certainly linked in spirit. That intergenerational ripple effect—the way one woman’s voice or silence shapes another’s—is something I’ve always wanted to explore, especially through the lens of gender politics and the search for equality. Loop Line continues that thread, even though its tone and style are different. At its core, the protagonist’s surreal escape into her imagination is about the need for space to express her authentic self.

That said, my recent writing is beginning to shift. I’m moving beyond stories rooted solely in gendered experience to themes that are broader and more structural—racism, casteism, capitalism. My upcoming Marathi feature explores these, and one of my scripts is predominantly male in its cast. So yes, I’m evolving—stepping into more cerebral terrains, though always guided by heart. The heart can never be left behind.

Marathi has always had a deeply rooted literary tradition—whether in novels, poetry, or especially playwriting, which is quite rare and precious in today’s landscape. Because of this rich foundation, Marathi audiences are incredibly receptive to layered, meaningful content. There’s no need to dilute storytelling to the lowest common denominator; in fact, experimentation is welcomed. You can be niche, nuanced, and still draw people in. A recent example is Ata Thambaaycha Naay (2025), which revolves around the lives of BMC workers—hardly a conventionally entertaining premise, yet it struck a powerful chord and was widely embraced. That says a lot about the Marathi audience’s openness.

However, challenges persist—especially in the shadow of the Hindi film industry, which dominates theatres and audience spending in Maharashtra. Unlike other regional industries like Tamil, Bengali or Malayalam, Marathi films face direct competition with Hindi cinema, making it hard to secure screen space or sustain box office runs. Financial limitations also mean Marathi filmmakers can’t afford large-scale productions or pan-India releases. Despite all this, the industry continues to push boundaries, particularly in terms of content. The hope now is for wider accessibility— especially through subtitles and OTT platforms—to let these stories travel.

In the early days of working in Hindi films and television, I noticed a clear double standard—when I asked questions about the script or my character, it was often seen as being difficult or overly assertive. The same curiosity from a male actor was praised as commitment and depth. I’ve always been someone who likes to understand what I’m a part of, but not everyone was comfortable with that—especially when it came from a woman. I’ve encountered people who simply didn’t like taking instructions from a woman, or who would dismiss a woman losing her cool as being quarrelsome, while a man doing the same was seen as commanding and authoritative.

It took me a while to understand this bias, especially since I came from a household where both my brother and I had an equal say—so this kind of gendered response was a shock. Over time, though, I’ve seen that begin to shift. It’s heartening to witness so many women now working behind the camera, even in traditionally male-dominated roles like cinematography or lighting. As more women enter these spaces, the narratives also shift—there’s a deeper sensitivity in the stories being told, and a growing balance in how voices are heard and respected.

When I was working in television, I was often the highest-paid person on set—not because I asked for it, but because the medium inherently told women’s stories. Most television shows revolve around female leads, so the industry was structured in a way that, at least for lead roles, women often earned more than their male counterparts. In that sense, I was fortunate—I didn’t have to fight for equal pay the way many women still do. In films though, if a male lead is known to bring in a larger audience, it’s only fair that he’s paid more. Payment should reflect the draw and demand, but where both actors bring equal value, compensation should be equal too. Unfortunately, women’s work is still often seen as a side gig or hobby, especially if they’re also managing a household. That bias runs deep.

As for the recent debate about working hours for young mothers, I believe it’s highly individual. I’ve seen actresses return to work just three months after giving birth, with systems in place to accommodate their children on set—but these are usually women in lead roles with enough influence to negotiate such terms. But in a cutthroat industry like ours, this kind of flexibility is a privilege. One would be shown the door for making demands. A junior artist can’t tell her employer, “Mera baccha chhota hai, toh main sirf aath ghante kaam karungi.” Most working mothers don’t have that privilege—that power lies only with a few. The corporate world isn’t kind to them either—there’s judgement, lack of support, and very little structural flexibility. In cities where double incomes are essential, it’s frustrating that we don’t make it easier for mothers to stay in the workforce. When we fail to accommodate them, we’re not just being unjust—we’re wasting immense talent and potential.

Luckily for me, I’m in a marriage that isn’t loveless—so when I found myself caught in a kind of emotional loop, I was able to put my foot down and say, “I need out of this pattern.” Of course, the immediate response was, “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” But the truth is, so often we assume that the people closest to us will just understand what we’re going through, without us having to spell it out. That rarely happens. I’ve always had a voice, and I’ve used it in the past, so asserting myself came a little easier to me.

But my protagonist in Loop Line doesn’t have that same agency or confidence. It takes a different kind of courage to speak up—and honestly, an equal kind to stay and endure. Both choices are brave in their own way. After I had children, I stepped away from consistent work in television because we’re a nuclear family, and raising the kids became my priority by choice. I had to be extremely selective about projects. But now that my children are older, I finally have the space to return to work more fully. That’s why people are seeing me more, especially since 2022, with web series and other exciting projects that are thankfully proving to be very fulfilling at this point in time for me.