Auto Queens (Tamil)
Cinematographer-turned-director Sraiyanti’s Auto Queens begins with a bird’s-eye view of Chennai and comes to rest at a safe distance above the bustling city’s coast when we hear two voices munching on fish and talking. “The worries of the world fade away at the beach,” one says.
They are Mohana and Leela Rani, women auto drivers of Chennai who are here to buy a peaceful minute away from the roads of a rough city, one that is hostile and sceptical about carving public space for its women.
Mohana is the president of the first trade union for women auto rickshaw drivers in the state—Veera Penngal Munnetra Sangam (VPMS). The other is Leela Rani, a firebrand provocateur whose chutzpah, to use her own words, is an armour.
Sraiyanti was the cinematographer of Virundhu/The Feast (2024) and Gargi (2022). Her short documentary, Auto Queens, which world premiered in competition at the 2025 International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam (IDFA)—a huge feat for an Indian film—looks at the two auto drivers with incongruent personalities but a shared goal on the road: a mobility revolution for their army of women drivers.
Auto Queens works like a day in the life of these two women. Tamil television and even larger pop culture tend to disproportionately spotlight domestic troubles of women but here is a film that goes out on the streets with them.
The film fancies drone shots and exterior frames that focus on public spaces, traffic and crowds. When it goes inside, it is the union office where Mohana conducts a town hall-like meeting. There she meets various women—those who are already on the road driving or those who are just about to get their autos.
She hears them out on what ails them—both the immediate and philosophical kind—and how they need to tackle those issues. Mohana explains how they face humiliation not only outdoors but also from corporate bosses who claim that handling 50 male drivers is easier, while five women become too much for them.
Sraiyanti’s film is also multidimensional; it doesn’t restrict its lens to the auto drivers’ public life alone. It also focuses on their private spaces. We not only see them on the beach sharing a quiet moment but also at home listening to songs on the radio and phone or singing along and planning to make TikToks.
Their entirely divergent nature slips out in these moments. Mohana is the quieter, introspective one. She listens to music silently as she browses her phone, while Leela, the impulsive one, is more open. Leela sings her heart out, song after song, be it one by Ilaiyaraaja or by Paal Dabba.
The film is deft in using shots within the auto rickshaw, both from the point of view of passengers as well as a shot right in front of the driver, like when Leela is waiting for her passenger and is forced to move by a honking car.
Riders, both men and women, remain curious to find a woman auto driver. Mohana, the astute leader that she is, probes the willing ones further. She asks a woman who works in a hospital about her multiple jobs and how her employers treat her. Two working-class women exchange notes, a moment of solidarity in a film that is filled with them.
The streets of Chennai come alive in this film. Amidst the noise of the markets and the slight drone of people muzzled by overloaded traffic, Auto Queens draws out a simple truth through its images—the public space, like most things in the country, is dominantly male.
Mohana parks her auto and minds her own business as we hear men in a tea stall gossiping loudly. Everyday issues come to light, such as men so curious that they feel compelled to film Leela and Mohana on their phone cameras. Leela handles them with her usual aggression while Mohana tries to reason. Even their own brethren breed contempt; male auto drivers in the auto stand behave with hostility and parking the rickshaw in the city during their downtime comes with its own economic problems.
The film finds an inventive way to incorporate diegetic sound, mainly through the ubiquitous radio ads one hears in public transport. We hear advertisements related to fertility, home loans for women, and maternity hospitals. All of them sound respectful but also possess a hint of condescension. At the same time, they are far away from the zip code of Leela and Mohana’s problems and that of their other women auto drivers.
In the town hall, a question comes up—how do we change men at home? Someone says divorce pannalam (we can get a divorce), to which Mohana’s advice is to leave domestic problems at home before stepping out. The beasts on the streets might be familiar but are made of a different mould.
Aditya Shrikrishna is an independent writer and film critic.
Disclaimer: This article was not paid for or commissioned by anyone associated with the film. Neither TNM nor any of its reviewers have any sort of business relationship with the film’s producers or any other members of its cast and crew.