I had intended to do this around the new year but better late than never. I have been thinking about unpaid labours of love, art and so on. Gender stuff aside, I have benefited from other people putting their work and their knowledge into the world for free. They do this via multiple platforms (many people make apps and other software and tech stuff available for free too) and in diverse media. I sometimes get tired of sitting and reading all the time, so the videos and podcasts and explainers made by strangers, friends and acquaintances have not merely enriched my life, but probably helped my physical and mental health, especially over the last three years. I am making a brief list of the ones that come to mind immediately.
People who read aloud fiction and poetry: There's Jameel Gulrays and others at Katha Kathan, and also the Adbi Duniya YouTube channel. Some other narrators have read short fiction that I have heard on Audible and I'm grateful that at least some content is free. Rekhta and its videos bring poetry and fun discussions to me even though I haven't been able to attend. I have watched and enjoyed a lot of Hindi Kavita and Urdu Studio videos too, over the years. Am also grateful for people who organize litfests and music concerts and then share the videos later. So many recordings of shows held in the 1980s and early 90s are now popping up and some of them are a joy. Also people who share Hindi film songs from the 1950s and 60s.
People who do explainers of literary theories or texts: The University of Hyderabad has some stuff up on YouTube. Raja Masood also has some clear videos which help people who are either intimidated by or just totally new to literary theory. Even after you read an essay or book, you may struggle with its context and wonder why these ideas are significant. The videos offer conversational aid, sort of base tutorials, or online engagement for people who aren't getting enough of it within their institutions. I am not a fan of online instruction. However, many people find it impossible to continue formal education. Even those of us who return to education after a long gap, as I have, or those who have jobs but would like to improve their understanding of literature, psychology and gender, do benefit from such videos.
So much thanks to YouTube, for talks from historians and watching musicians and dancers. I really like listening to Amit Varma's podcast Seen and the Unseen. It brings me closer to my community of writers, offers deep conversations with people I cannot meet or talk to in person. Also, a shoutout to Mariyam for her podcast, Main Bhi Muslim, and to heritagetimes.in, and more recently, Ruchika Sharma's Eye makeup and Itihas channel.
Also, thank you to people who put up cooking recipe videos, sewing and knitting tutorials. And those who do how-to videos that help fix errors on heating systems, and how-to cut and sew dresses videos (I have successfully cut and stitched a shalwar during the pandemic by watching 3 different YouTube videos). And people who make memes (I am a top fan of Mad Mughal Memes).
A note of gratitude to stand-up comics too. Many of them young people who have obvious grief lurking in the backdrop of their lives, and who put up at least some of their work on YouTube for free. They have been a much-needed source of laughter at the end of the day, and there must be millions who look for levity in the midst of their gloom, but can't afford to buy tickets too often.
I've also looked for, and found, audio recordings of several plays, some classic and some modern. Some cold reads that popped up during the pandemic. These have helped and continue to help.
I do buy a lot of books. I watch plays when I can. I do subscribe to Netflix and Prime and I do watch the comedy specials and the longer acts. I am hoping all these guys make their fair share of money. But there are many people who cannot afford the subscriptions or the comedy clubs, the tickets to readings, the samplers of literature that help them broaden their horizons. Those who offer to share the little they can afford to share by offering time, know-how, insights for free, thank you.
Behind all funerary efforts and expenses is the urgent need to confront the loss of someone with whom you had (and continue to have) a unique relationship. You acknowledge the person not just as blood and flesh but as someone who was at the centre of a distinct web of relationships, with a distinct place in this world. The food, the sharing of memories, the travel helped the bereaved move past the fact of a death and into the continuum of life.
During a pandemic, however, the last rites do not permit gathering and rallying around. Old friends won’t be sending floral tributes, or condolence cards. There will be no hugs. Grief will hover in the air. Like the virus itself, it might cling to your breath, hair, clothes, the undersides of your shoes.
Yet, grief is not an event. It can’t be cancelled, or even postponed. It has to be worked through, performed, acknowledged.
Please read this brief essay about coping and adapting to make room for grief (or joy) during the lockdown:
Women's day, so I'm linking to the first documentary I made in 2015. It's online and free to watch now. I'll also say a bit about struggling against censorship of an indirect kind, because I feel like that is linked to the overall deterioration in our polity and our self-definition as Indians.
This film was the result of a PSBT grant but this particular grant came from the Public Diplomacy division of the Ministry of External Affairs, which means that they wanted to fund a film that would 'showcase' India. It also meant that, in addition to a filmmakers' committee that gave feedback, I would also have to show the film to another committee put together by the government. The response to an early cut was iffy. I was told the film was depressing. I edited to make the film more positive overall. However, there was still a lot of pressure to get rid of a few aspects.
First, a reference to (child) widows and their treatment in eighteenth/nineteenth century India, and how that led to a movement for reform. Secondly, they wanted me to remove the word 'Harrafa'. It was initially argued that there was no such word. I sent dictionary references. Then, it was argued that the word shouldn't be used anyway. To deny that word was to deny a big chunk of women's history - their relationship with the written word and disapproval of those who could and did attain learning and literature. There were some discomfort also about some background visuals or the artwork (any sign of an actual body).
I argued back but (with all respect to PSBT, for they did try to argue on my behalf too) PD prevailed. I finally did a shorter version of the film and handed it over to them. However, I also insisted on doing a cut for myself, and to screen whenever I was invited to do so. Both versions (and trailer) have censor certificates.
I am hoping we - women, men and all other genders - will find a way to keep pushing towards equity. The fight for women's rights is tied into the fight for human rights. One cannot have one without the other. May we succeed. I also hope we have the courage to remember our history, the way it actually was, or else we are doomed to repeat it.
My gratitude to all who helped me along the way, to PSBT, my colleagues and the crew, people who agreed to be interviewed (including those interviews where the footage did not make it into the final cut), singers, musicians, friends who agreed to be filmed peripherally, friends who sat through the early versions and gave feedback, others who have hosted screenings and discussions.
Another proscribed poem credited to Bismil in the collection 'Zabt Shuda Nazmein'. About this poem, the editor has added a note saying, this is the simple and sincere poem that was sung in court by the prisoner Prem Dutt during the Lahore Conspiracy Case trial, and that it had reduced people to tears.
Further, Prof Chaman Lal writes here that Prem Dutt Verma was one of the young associates of Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev and Rajguru, and that he was barely 18 years old when he was arrested and accused, among other things, of trying to establish a “Federated Republican Government”. Prem Dutt was listed as accused Prem Dutt alias Master alias Amrit lal, son of Ram Dutt Khatri of Gujarat.
Poem: 'Door Tak Yaad-e-Vatan Aayi Thi Samjhaani Ko'
Hum bhi aaram utha sakte the ghar par rah kar
Humko bhi paala tha maa baap ne dukh sah-sah kar
Waqt-e-rukhsat unhein itna bhi na aaye kah kar
God mein aansoo bhi tapke jo rukh se bah kar
Tifl inko samajh lena jee behlaane ko
Desh seva hi ka bahta hai lahu nas-nas mein
Ab to khaa baithe hai Chittorh ke garh ki qasmein
Sarfaroshi ki ada hoti hai yoon hi rasmein
Bhai khanjar se gale milte hain sab aapas mein
Behenein tayyar chitaaon pe hain jal jaane ko
Naujavano jo tabiyat mein tumhaari khatke
Yaad kar lena kabhi humko bhi bhoole bhatke
Aapke uzv-e-badan hovein judaa kat-kat ke
Aur sad-chaak ho mata ka kaleja phat ke
Par na mathe pe shikan aaye qasam khaane ko
Apni qismat mein azal se hi sitam rakha tha
Ranj rakha tha mahan rakha tha ghum rakha tha
Kis ko parvah thi aur kis mein ye dum rakha tha
Humne jab vaadi-e-gurbat mein qadam rakha tha
Door yak yaad-e-vatan aayi thi samjhaane ko
Apna kuch ghum nahin hai par ye khyaal aata hai
Madar-e-hind pe kab se ye zavaal aata hai
Desh aazaadi ka kab hind mein saal aata hai
Qaum apni pe to ro ro ke malaal aata hai
Muntazar rahte hain hum khaak mein mil jaane ko.
*
From Zabt Shuda Nazmein; page 88
[1 - Bande Matram, 1921]
The poem is credited to Ram Prasad Bismil. But some poems have been mistakenly credited to Ramprasad Bismil in this collection, such as Sarfaroshi ki Tamanna, which was written by Bismil Azeemabadi, so I am not entirely certain which ones might belong to which 'Bismil'.
---
'दूर तक याद-ए-वतन आयी थी समझाने को'
- बिस्मिल
हम भी आराम उठा सकते थे घर पर रह कर
हमको भी पाला था माँ बाप ने दुःख सह-सह कर
वक़्त-ए-रुख़सत उन्हें इतना भी न आए कह कर
गोद में आँसू भी टपके जो रुख़ से बह कर
तिफ़्ल इनको समझ लेना जी बहलाने को
देश सेवा ही का बहता है लहू नस-नस में
अब तो खा बैठे हैं चित्तौड़ की गढ़ की क़समें
सरफ़रोशी की अदा होती हैं यूँ ही रस्में
भाई ख़ंजर से गले मिलते हैं सब आपस में
बहनें तैयार चिताओं पे हैं जल जाने को
नौजवानों जो तबियत में तुम्हारी खटके
याद कर लेना कभी हमको भी भूले भटके
आपके उज़्व-ए-बदन होवें जुदा कट-कट के
और सद-चाक हो माता का कलेजा फट के
पर न माथे पे शिकन आये क़सम खाने को
अपनी क़िस्मत में अज़ल से ही सितम रखा था
रंज रखा था महन रखा था ग़म रखा था
किसको परवाह थी और किस में ये दम रखा था
हमने जब वादी-ए-ग़ुरबत में क़दम रखा था
दूर तक याद-ए-वतन आयी थी समझाने को
अपना कुछ ग़म नहीं है पर ये ख़याल आता है
मादर-ए-हिन्द पे कब से ये ज़वाल आता है
देश आज़ादी का कब हिन्द में साल आता है
क़ौम अपनी तो रो-रो के मलाल आता है
मुन्तज़िर रहते हैं हम ख़ाक में मिल जाने को।
*
Note: एडिटर ने इस नज़्म के बारे में लिखा था के ये वो सादा पुरख़लूस नज़्म है जो मुक़दमा-ए-साज़िश लाहौर की समा'अत के दौरान में असीर प्रेम दत्त ने गा कर लोगों को रुला दिया था।
ज़ब्त शुदा नज़्में (पेज 88)
[Source 1 - बन्दे मातरम, 1921]
Potentially difficult words:
तिफ़्ल: छोटे बच्चे (infant)
उज़्व-ए-बदन: बदन का हिस्सा, अंग
सद-चाक: सौ बार चीरा गया
अज़ल: अनादि/आदि काल (eternity or beginning )
महन: दुःख
ज़वाल: पतन (decline)
मुन्तज़िर: इंतज़ार में
[Credited to Ram Prasad Bismil. But note: Some poems have been mistakenly credited to Ramprasad Bismil in this collection, such as Sarfaroshi ki Tamanna, which was written by Bismil Azeemabadi, so I am not entirely certain which ones might belong to which 'Bismil']
UPDATE:
Have just been pointed to a link that has the same poem in a much more expanded form. Perhaps the whole thing was not published in Bande Matram magazine from where it has been sourced for this anthology.
Begunaaho.n par bum.on ki be'khatar bauchhar ki
De rahe hain dhamkiyaan bandook aur talvaar ki
Baagh jallian mein nihatto.n par chalaai goliyaan
Peyt ke bal bhi rengaaya zulm ki had paar ki
Hum ghareebo.n par kiye jisne sitam be'inteha
Yaad bhoolegi nahin us Dyer-e-badkaar ki
Ya to hum hi mar mitenge ya to le lenge swaraaj
Hoti hai is baar hujjat khatm ab har baar ki
Shor aalam mein macha hai Lajpat ke naam ka
Khwaar karna inko chaha apni mitti khwaar ki
Jis jagah par band hoga Sher nar Punjab ka
Aabru badh jayegi us jail ki deewar ki
Jail mein bheja hamaare leader.on ko be'qusoor
Lord Reading tumne achhi nyay ki bharmaar ki
Khoon-e-mazloomaa.n ki Sarju ab to gahri dhaar hai
Kuch dino.n mein doobti hai aabru agyaar ki
*
नज़्म - जालियाँ वाला बाग़
शायर - सरजू
बेगुनाहों पर बमों की बेख़तर बौछार की
दे रहे हैं धमकियाँ बंदूक़ और तलवार की
बाग़ जलियाँ में निहत्तों पर चलाईं गोलियां
पेट के बल भी रेंगाया ज़ुल्म की हद पार की
हम गरीबों पर किये जिसने सितम बेइन्तहा
याद भूलेगी नहीं उस डायर-ए-बदकार की
या तो हम ही मर मिटेंगे या तो ले लेंगे स्वराज
होती है इस बार हुज्जत ख़त्म अब हर बार की
शोर आलम में मचा है लाजपत के नाम का
ख़्वार करना इनको चाहा अपनी मिट्टी ख़्वार की
जिस जगह पर बंद होगा शेर नर पंजाब का
आबरू बढ़ जाएगी उस जेल की दीवार की
जेल में भेजा हमारे लीडरों को बेक़सूर
लार्ड रीडिंग तुमने अच्छी न्याय की भरमार की
ख़ून-ए-मज़लूमां की सरजू अब तो गहरी धार है
कुछ दिनों में डूबती है आबरू अग़यार की
* * *
(ज़ब्त शुदा नज़्में; पेज 132)
[Source: पंजाब का हत्याकांड]
Urdu words that might be difficult and some context:
बेख़तर - without danger or fear
बदकार - evil-doer
ख़्वार - Disgrace
ख़ून-ए-मज़लूमां - Blood of the oppressed
अग़यार - Strangers, foreigners, or rivals
Lord Reading was Governor General and Viceroy of India in 1921. The Jallianwala Bagh massacre took place in 1919.
'Dyer-e-badkaar' is a reference to General Dyer who ordered the troops to open fire on unarmed people who were meeting or just sitting in the park.
Lala Lajpat Rai was at the forefront of the protests against the massacre in Punjab. The reference to 'Sher Nar Punjab' is to him. He was also known as Sher-e-Punjab. He was President of the Indian National Congress in 1920, and the All India Trade Union Congress. He had been arrested and exiled to Mandalay in 1907.
I am guessing this poem was written in the early 1920s. I could not find much about the poet 'Sarju'. Happy to hear from those who might know.
The answer is obvious – ask before borrowing, and do not go about saying that the goods are your own property. There’s no way of returning borrowed words. The most we can do to avoid insinuations of robbery or mal-intent is to publicly credit the source.
With creative artists, credit is not a straight business. We respond to poems with fresh verses, and build upon foundational myths; we wrench a new politics, a deeper insight out of old tales. With film songs, crediting is especially tricky since much of popular Bollywood music borrows heavily from folk songs and the great Hindi/Urdu classics.
Recently, a very hummable song from Baaghi 2 was being discussed on social media. ‘Allah mujhe dard ke qaabil bana diya’ borrows in two ways. The first is a clean “lift” of one couplet:
“Betaabiyaan samet ke saare jahaan ki jab kuchh naa ban sakaa to mera dil banaa diya”
This couplet is credited to Najmi Naginvi on Rekhta.org, though it is also often credited to Jigar Moradabadi. The latter is a more famous poet and one of his famous ghazals certainly uses the same meter, rhyme and refrain. Sample this:
“Laakhon mein intiḳhaab ke qaabil banaa diyaa jis dil ko tum ne dekh liyaa dil banaa diyaa”
The second way in which the Baaghi 2 song borrows is by taking the structure and similar ideas from Jigar. In the tradition of Urdu poetry, this may not be considered outright theft. There’s a phrase for it: ‘zameen udaana’. Translated loosely, it means, to take the ground in which a poem is rooted. Another poet may take the same rhyme and refrain, and create something new. However, the full verse borrowed is nothing but theft.
The lyric credit for this song on the official T Series channel on Youtube is listed as ‘Arko’. Neither Najmi Naginvi nor Jigar Moradabadi are mentioned anywhere. Interestingly, ‘additional vocals’ are credited but there is no room for the original source of the song’s theme, words, or its lyrical structure.
This is not unusual for Bollywood. The famous song Dillagi ne di hawa, thoda sa dhuaan utha, in the film Dostana, includes a line “Ankhon ka tha qusoor churi dil pe chal gayi”, which is from a ghazal by Jaleel Manikpuri, also sung by Mehndi Hassan.
The question of originality is tricky. In Urdu poetry, there is a longstanding tradition of paying tribute or treating a great master's work as the starting point from where you push off your own lyrical boat. There are even ‘tarhi’ mushairas where a new generation of poets is given an existing line of verse and asked to create a new poem around it.
Gulzar, one of the greatest contemporary lyricists, is rooted in this tradition. He often builds upon a single phrase by an old giant, such as ‘Zeehal-e-miskeen, makun taghaful' by Amir Khusrau, and ‘Jee dhoondta hai phir vahi fursat ke raat din’ by Mirza Ghalib, or changes a ‘Thaiyya thaiyya’ by Bulleh Shah into ‘Chaiyya Chaiyya’. However, these verses are centuries old and there’s no dispute about their authorship.
He did run into rough weather when he modified the first two lines of a poem by a near contemporary, Hindi poet, Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena who died in 1983. Gulzar had changed ‘Ibn Batuta/ Pehen ke joota’ to ‘Ibn Batuta/ Bagal mein joota’ for the film Ishqiya. True, the rest of the poem was totally different but it can’t hurt to list Saxena’s poem as a source of inspiration, since he is not as well known as Gulzar.
There is a long tradition of poets being called out by other poets if their borrowings become apparent. I was speaking with one of the young, upcoming voices in Urdu poetry, Abhishek Shukla, who tells me that even Ghalib was accused of borrowing ideas from Persian writers; a scholar called Yagana Changezi has pointed them out in a text called Ghalib-shikan. There are several such anecdotes about similarity of verses, and there may well be an authentic ‘khayaal ki takkar’, an accidental collision of ideas. Shukla says it has happened to him too and he is happy to acknowledge the similarity of the couplets in print as well as on social media. But some poets hide behind ‘takkar’ when caught shoplifting.
There’s a story about Firaq Gorakhpuri at a mushaira, where he heard a younger man recite his (Firaq’s) couplets. Firaq asked if those verses were indeed his own work, and the young man said, yes. But, starting to realize that he had blundered, or belatedly recognizing Firaq, he took refuge behind ‘takkar’. Firaq reportedly said that it is possible that a bicycle collides with another bicycle, or with a horse-carriage, or even a car. But what are the chances that a bicycle will collide with an aeroplane?
In another instance, Khumar Barabankvi was hearing his own ghazal being recited at a mushaira by a younger poet. When he stopped, Barabankvi said aloud: Young man, you may as well read out the last two couplets too.
If a poem is going in print, it doesn't hurt to add a footnote or use quote marks or italics for a borrowed verse. For film songs, however, it is incumbent upon the lyricist to mention it in the credits. If it is a tribute, it is evident only to the well-read who are familiar with the original. In a cultural context where most people do not read poetry but do listen to film songs, to not credit the line is very problematic.
However, within the film writers’ community, nobody wants to confront unpleasant questions such as the nature of creative pursuit, and who deserves how much? Finally, it all comes down to a writer’s personal work ethic. Varun Grover wrote a song based on Dushyant Kumar’s Tu kisi rail si guzarti hai and has acknowledged it. The official Zee Music Company channel on Youtube mentions it. Grover also did the hard work of running about to get permissions from the late poet’s descendants to use two lines, and he reached out to the publishers too. Many others don't want to do the work.
The other problem is that producers are parsimonious when it comes to writers. Even if the sums of money required are small, they are reluctant to pay it. I would not be exaggerating if I said that major production houses hesitate before paying writers even ten thousand rupees, but don’t bat an eye before coughing up two crores for filming the song.
Film writers would do well to stand up not only for their own rights, but also for establishing base rules and norms for writing credits. The merit (and income) of a lyricist is directly linked to an ability to generate fresh words and images, binding them into a succinct verse. If he (or she) chooses to give credit where it is due, he will only gain the respect of his contemporaries. Unless, of course, he is unable to write songs without the help of borrowed lines. In that case, what can other writers offer him except compassion?
It could be that I'm blinded and deafened by the deliberate sexiness of the new Bollywood. But I often feel like feminine desire as depicted in film songs these days has all the charm of the high headlights on a speeding truck. Which makes me wonder how far we come in our representation of women.
I keep watching old Hindi film songs and what I come away with is a gentler view of women's desire. Take the lovely innocence of 'mausam mausam, lovely mausam'. This song, perfect for rainy afternoons, stars a very young Padmini Kolhapure. The way the song has been directed and choreographed leaves me feeling content – as if this is how a
song of adolescent love ought to be. There is a sense of gentleness
and safety, an implicit trust. (It also strikes me that I cannot tell whether the director was a man or a woman, and this is a wonderful thing.)
Or, take a song like 'O phirki-wali'. It has royalty (he is dressed like a prince) chasing after a girl who sells phirkis. Obviously, the power balance is tilted
against the girl, and yet, in the video, it is the girl who has power. This
power does not come from physical strength, or class or caste. It is rooted in
her ability to say 'yes' or 'no', and more significantly, in the man's ability
to take 'no', or to negotiate towards a playful 'maybe'.
The man is pursuing the woman, but not stalking her. She
is fully aware of his presence. She is smiling. As a viewer, you get the
impression that if the on-screen woman expressed fear, the man would
leave. Even though he is a prince, he will not assume that she is flattered by
his attention. That is what makes him a 'hero'.
In these songs, the women's profession – an aspect of their lives which does not
involve a man – is in the forefront. That they work, and that work means stepping out into public spaces, partaking of
the social economy, engaging with strangers – all this was reinforced.
This applies to working class male protagonists too. The factory
worker, farmer, even the army jawaan are no longer at the heart of Hindi
cinema. Now we have the industrialist, the pilot, the gangster, the middle
class student, and sometimes the unemployed (or unemployable) youth. But for now, let us keep our sights trained on women and songs.
It is also true that more women professionals are part of Hindi film
stories now: wedding planners, scholars, academics, bank executives.
But in songs, they're usually depicted in a romantic or familial context. If film songs are intended as an
expression of the inner life of a character, then what does the new Bollywood song tell us?
From
the lyrics, we get the impression that characters are looking to be loved, or
are upset at not being loved. The video
often focuses on the woman's clothes, vibrant colours, interesting
landscapes. But
the visual contours of love, or lust, are cautiously defined. The woman is often depicted running (in
front of the man or away from him), holding up substantial skirts. Or she
stands about, waiting coyly, while the man approaches and makes a romantic or sensual
overture. This is particularly true
of lip-synced songs.
Watching them, I realize what I miss most is the 'forward' woman, and
I am not alone. I went to a women's only college and I remember that the songs we girls enjoyed most were the ones where a female
protagonist is flirting, seducing, wooing, complaining.
They allow the character to be a person, and not just a pretty object of desire. And the male protagonists were also allowed to sulk, or have a coy personality that required women to woo them. Look at Tanuja
propositioning Dev Anand directly in 'Raat akeli hai'; or
trying to get closer to a somewhat scared, Jitendra.
The women have a greater degree of control in these songs, and the men seem to be decent human beings with minds of their own – they can be tempted, or not; they are sulky, upset,
nervous, laidback. They were not eternally lustful, nor scornful of women
who pursue them. The woman here is not a tease; she's doing the teasing.
In the 1990s, there were a few instances of videos where female protagonists expressed desire towards 'tough' guys who seemed not very interested: Mamta Kulkarni doing a fine matka-jhatka job of wooing Salman Khan in 'Ek munda meri umr da'; and Raveena Tandon, sinuous in yellow, seducing Akshay Kumar in the rain. In recent years, the only song that
struck me as allowing a full expression of female desire was 'DreamumWakeupum'; it is not only overtly sexy but the director also takes kitsch and the filmy-panaa of the fantasy to an extreme so that you see it for the fun it is. But since the 1990s, there were very few shy or bewildered 'heroes on screen.
Even when the song is romantic, my impression is that the women (or girls) appear more 'whole' in songs from the 1960s and 70s. There is something very significant about the choreography of
love songs. We draw our ideas about love scripts from what we watch, or read,
and we also feed our own ideas into the pool of popular art.The songs I like best show great 'engagement'
between lovers. They look at each other longer – Raj Kapoor and Nargis in'pyaar hua iqraar hua' is the first example that comes to mind. They hold out their arms, hold hands, hug as Sanjeev Kumar and Suchitra Sen in 'tum aa gaye
ho'. There is no doubt in the audience's mind that this is mutual desire. It is not one person
reaching out, and the other person being reluctant or indifferent.
This business of depicting a woman's reluctance or indifference
correctly is crucial, especially when we are struggling with a street
culture that romanticizes feminine reluctance and worships male aggression.
In this regard, older film songs are more balanced. There are songs where romance is in the air, but the woman is not yet responsive, like 'Maana janaab ne pukaara nahin', 'Bekaraar karke humein yoon na jaaiye', or even 'O phirki wali'. Note that in the videos, the
man follows the woman but his gestures never turn threatening. He does not touch the woman, until she does begin to respond. He might be playful but
he is not aggressive. And he does not 'gang up' on the woman, ever.
Since the 1980s, there have been more songs and more where the camera
follows the woman's body, focussing on curves and clothes, rather than
feelings. One of the most annoying and boring examples of this was a song I
stumbled upon. The director forces the poor actress into a white saree,
places her in water, making her touch herself for a very long five and a half
minutes. Yet, the director is not even brave enough to show her body through a wet white saree.
This poses an interesting contrast to Raj Kapoor, who found the
courage to film the wet saree-no blouse song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqVJJym959U) and
the white-saree-under-waterfall songs (here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvuFicZH3Jw ; and here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3AtYcr_6Hw). That
the latter video has millions of views and that viewers have noticed nothing
but breasts is another matter. How people respond to a visual sequence cannot
be controlled by the filmmaker. But his view of society, and of women, is communicated
through the camera. I get the feeling that Raj Kapoor was not afraid of showing off his own liking of women's breasts.
I don't know how women in the 1970s and 80s responded to Raj
Kapoor's wet saree songs (I'd be interested to know) but I personally don't
mind them. Kapoor did not fail these characters by giving them nothing except
breasts. To his credit, he made stories about men's conflicted relationship
with women, and sexual desire, and society's exploitation of women's bodies. He
even included a brief nude scene as part of the schoolboy's fantasy in Mera
Naam Joker. In his time, he must have raised hackles but he have had the
courage to deal with how people received his work.
Now just look at this song from the Sanjay Khan directed 'Abdullah'. It
is an example of what can go wrong when the director is not careful about how
women's sexuality is portrayed. Although the perspective is that of a bunch of
villainous-looking Peeping Toms, the actress is depicted singing, frolicking
in the water with girl friends. But the frolic is choreographed as if it were a performance, as if it were intended for consumption.
This is bad film direction. It suggests that
the filmmaker was not thinking of the female character as a person whose voice the audience would hear. She was a distraction, a beautiful object. Contrast the 'Abdullah' song with the sexiness of Zeenat Aman in this beautiful rain-dance number.
There is coyness and joyous sexiness, but there is also fun, and a definite engagement
between the protagonists.
Viewers who complain about 'vulgarity' in songs are
unable to articulate why they are uncomfortable with the imagery. Some of it may stem from a sexually conservative upbringing. But many of us are also complaining about 'objectification' and one of the things we instinctively sense is a lack of empathy.
The camera and the choreography tell us something that the video's creators will not – the song puts women at the centre of focus so they may
serve a certain kind of fantasy. In this fantasy, the woman (or multiple
women) have little agency, no special skills, no warmth, no hopes for
her own heart. She's there, at best, seeking to draw attention to her beauty, and, at worst, drawn by the scent of a man's money or power.
We usually tolerate the kind of fantasy described above. But when repeated too
often, it gets exhausting. And some days, when real world people talk or behave in ways that mirror that warped
fantasy world – when I remember that some men would rather kill a woman than
see her take charge of her life, her heart, her body – a film
song can infuriate me. And on those days, I turn to youtube and begin to google old Hindi film songs for comfort.
I have a great love for Ila Arun, specifically the pop numbers she did in the 1990s. One of my earliest memories of serious desi pop is 'Vote for Ghaghra', and one of the naughtiest is 'Nigodi kaisi jawaani'. Today, that's what I want to talk about: Good, unapologetic, plugged-in pop.
'Vote for Ghaghra' is one of our best political songs and certainly the only one I can recall in the post 90s cable era of Indian television. What song before or since has mentioned a chief election commissioner (T.N Seshan)? I instantly fell in love with it for reasons I found hard to articulate as a schoolgirl in Rajasthan. But more than a decade later, I still remember half the lyrics.
When a fellow-writer happened to holler back to the pop songs of that time, I was reminded of the song and began to try and decode why I like it so much. I played it over and over on Youtube and found that each viewing-listening session brought more pleasure. I had forgotten the slightly bizarre opening frames and sounds (a baby crying, then grinning) but by the end, it all made a kind of kitsch-sy sense. Finally, I think I know what makes this song such a great piece of work:
1 - The words. It is called 'Vote for Ghaghra'. The lyrics proceed to explain why by telling us a story. It ends by saying 'mardaan ke aage niklegi janaani' (woman will surpass man). If there was ever an unashamed, riotous, simply stated feminist manifesto in desi pop - haminasto haminasto haminast.
2 - The narrative. It tells the story of a village woman who is happily eating cucumbers in a field when along comes a politically-connected young lout who tries to molest her. She thrashes him. He tells her who he is. She laughs at him. He swears to get back at her, and he does too. He files a case against her!
The cops arrive; she is beaten and arrested. But in prison, she uses her charms to seduce the 'thandedar' (jailor) and - one assumes - gets him over to her side. The truth is leaked to the press. Press and politicians woo her. Other bad men try to bribe her, threaten to kill her (one is left to assume that this is because she has filed a counter-complaint, or told some uncomfortable truths).
Through all this, the woman stands firm. And she is rewarded by getting an election ticket. Since she is now singing 'dilli sheher mein maaro ghaghro jo ghoomiyo', one can safely assumes that she has won the election and her skirts are flying low, swirling brightly over the center of power in India - Delhi.
3 - The visual politics. Look at the video carefully in the Indian patriarchal context. When the powerful lout threatens the village belle, he twirls his moustache, a symbol of asserting your masculinity. The funny thing is, in the video, the lout does not really have a moustache! This adds a layer of incidental - or perhaps, intended - irony, because it immediately makes the fellow laughable, claiming qualities and power that are not his own.
When the belle wins over the police officer, his uniform cap is on her head, as she dances. This is a symbol many films and 'item' numbers have used later. It immediately communicates that the guardian has his guard down, that she is toying with the power the nation vests in men of uniform, so she is taking control in some way.
Lastly, ghaghras swirl as elections are fought, votes are sought, and 'Dilli' is evoked. Dilli has been the seat of power in the Indian subcontinent for centuries now. People marched to Delhi, rallying under the cry of 'ab dilli door nahin' (delhi is not far), and they continue to do so. Similarly 'ghaghra' has been a symbol of feminity for centuries. Skirts and bangles - these are the ultimate symbol of womanli-ness and an implied vulnerability, weakness/powerlessness. When a woman wants to insult a man, she might tell him to wear bangles, or a ghaghra (as the heroine does, in this film song). But Ila Arun is singing of making the ghaghra an election symbol, fighting under the banner of a female garment. Which means - taking the seat of power with womanliness.
4 - The physicality. Note, I do not use the softer, more popular pop word 'sensuality'. This video is not sensual. It is bawdy, funny, wild, mixed-up, physical, sexual. Arun sings: watch my choli, watch my tongue, watch my chunri, watch my ghaghra. And ghaghras fly. Wrestlers wrestle in very tiny saffron langots (underwear?). The camera zooms in to bare pot bellies. The women, and Ila Arun herself, wear traditional cholis where the emphasis of design, cut, embellishment and colour patterns is heavy on the breasts. The belle is not afraid of using her body to woo the cop (and sounds like she is proud of it) and the singer makes distinctly erotic sounds while singing out that part of the story.
[For the same reason, I also like 'Nigodi...' It is breathy and doesn't shy away from husky, blatant expression of desire, placed in the unrevealed bosom of a middle-aged domestic worker. It is desire that likes itself.]
5 - The innocence. You must have noticed the girl in the really short black skirt, gyrating along with another young fellow. There is very little connection between this visual and the rest of the song. The micro-mini was probably tossed into the video because it was India and it was the 90s and cable TV was all over the place. India was waking up to bare legs on TV and shorts and minis were de rigueur if you wanted to catch eyeballs.
Interestingly enough, a decade and a half later, this is still de rigueur. Films, 'items', pop albums - they are full of young women in really limited clothing. And not just one. Usually, there is a horde, usually around one 'hero'. The trend veered towards blondes lately and will probably shift away at some point. But the profusion of bare, gyrating skin on TV nowadays makes this early video look innocent. Note how the young 'modern-urban' couple do not even look into the camera. They are not trying to seduce the viewer. They are just doing their thing like the rest of the dancers in dhotis and ghaghras, looking quite silly, of course, and very happy.
Also, the baby begins to made sense after you view the video four or five times. There are all kinds of non-adult visuals tossed into the mix. There are little girls swirling in their little ghaghras, but they are not sexualized (unlike the kids in present-day dance shows). They are just dancing like little village girls do. There is an old sadhu who pokes his elbow-rest at the camera. Ila Arun preens in her dark glasses like any village woman just back from a tour of the big city.
6 - The visual theme. Spinning. The act of rotating and revolving.
You don't see too many videos in India that actually have a theme going. We totally do not see videos that are intelligent in the way they choose to interpret the lyrics. 'Vote for Ghaghra' works with: '...ghaghra jo ghoomiye... ae ghoomiyo, ae ghoomiyo', but it doesn't remain stuck with swirling skirts, or spinning dancers. Everything is ghoomo-fying.
Ila Arun's fingertip. Dancers' hands. A barber rotates the head of a client getting a massage. Wrestlers move round and round, locking each other in a grip. A leg of chicken rotates on a spit, embedded as a photo in a newspaper. The camel's jaw works in a circular sort of way. Turbans are turned round and round. Lights and shadows slowly move across bodies on the screen. Dancing laddoos. When you have seen it a dozen times, you actually begin to look at the ghoomiyo theme as representing something larger. Everything moves as the world itself does.
7 - A brief list of things to pay attention to: The camel, especially when he eats the newspaper. The moustaches. The turban spinning. The goggles. Ila Arun adjusting the flower garland on her bosom while she stands beside an elderly politician. Ila Arun in a white tee over a ghaghra. The images reflected onto the dancers as a moving shadow around 3 minutes and 38-40 seconds into the video.
For me this song means a feminist high. It mixes up a dozen different elements but it is bold and ambitious and colourful and it places a mature woman bang at the center - visually and contextually - of things. It celebrates her sexuality, even her bravado. It allows her to say 'no' and to punish unwelcome advances. It gives her a backbone. And it gives her a happy ending fixed on her own future, not about her relationship with another man.
I am sick and tired of songs doused in, and set ablaze by, what look like 16-24 year old blondes (or dark girls who want to be the blondes they grew up watching on MTV), dressed in clothes that are cut to reveal skin but have little else to recommend the style aesthetically. The girls all have almost the same measurements. They gyrate and twist in the same predictable way. They all pout. They all stare at you in a seductive, mock-tigress stance.
You might understand what I mean if you watch these videos back to back - first watch 'Choli ke peechhe' (Ila Arun's voice accompanying Neena Gupta on the screen), then Arun's Nogodi, and then a newer remix of 'Resham ka rumaal' which Arun has also sung (but her voice is not on this video). The first two don't have a dull second. I wish someone would tell music video (and film item number) directors that the latter is boringboringboring. The last time a gyrating number was even slightly fun, they had to put in a buffalo into the mix.
There's no accounting for tastes of course. But as a woman, I prefer cholis and ghaghras to buffaloes. They have my vote.
