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Hindustan Times
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Hindustan Times
Reframing the courtesan: Umrao Jaan
Watching Muzaffar Ali's Umrao Jaan restored by the National Film Archive of India was like taking a peek at a favourite Banarasi saree, one that has carefully folded in mulmul wrap, still fresh with the memory of when you last wore it. Rekha in and as Umrao Jaan. (HT Photo) A cinematic classic, the film which returned to theatres 44 years after its original release in 1981, lets the contemporary audience revisit the bygone world of tawaifs in its full complexity. Set in Faizabad and Lucknow of the 1840s, this period drama is about a distinct group of independent women performers who ushered in a unique salon culture during the 18 and 19th centuries. Connoisseurs of the fine life and all its trappings including dazzling jewellery and exquisite silks and brocades, they were often highly cultured and more educated than the average woman of their times. Some played an active role in resisting colonial rule and were active during the Uprising of 1857. Umrao Jaan is centred around the life and times of Umrao Jaan Adaa, one such famed tawaif of Lucknow. The screenplay is adapted from Mirza Hadi Ruswa's semi biographical Urdu novel of the same name. The story of Amiran, a young girl who is kidnapped and sold to kotha owner Khanum (Shaukat Kaifi) and who goes on to become a sought after tawaif – a role assayed to perfection by Rekha – recreates the feudal, decadent society of the period. While her talent makes Umrao Jaan a performer who is much sought-after, she is also repeatedly abused as a bazaari aurat, a woman outside the pale of polite society. A reflective Umrao reminiscences about all that's happened to her: the kidnapping that was a result of a criminal neighbour wreaking revenge on her father, arriving at the kotha, her most intense but failed relationship that has left her broken... It tells of how the talented performer and versatile poet was straitjacketed by patriarchy into being a mere object of desire and little else. Rekha and Farooq Sheikh in Umrao Jaan. (HT Photo) What makes Umrao Jaan beautifully distinct is its near tactile quality with the evocation of historical elements like a gentle silken pashmina draped around the neck never poking the skin. It can be interpreted as a romantic film, a musical about a woman's quest for dignity, a tale about heartbreak, all of which are intertwined strands much like Umrao's beautiful silk parandis onscreen. A cinema of loss, longing, and introspection, it has the protagonist asking the big question, 'Who Am I?' even as she faces a string of harsh life situations. The many poignant scenes with Umrao looking into the mirror transforms the mirror itself from mere prop to vital metaphor. Muzaffar Ali's direction presents the historical moment and the unique ethos of the courtesan's world without overtly glamourising or underplaying it (as in the recent HeeraMandi). His approach ensured that Umrao Jaan was part of the rich list of authentic period films of the era like Junoon (1978) and Shatranj Ke Khilari (1977), which also continue to get better with each viewing. Its continued resonance can be attributed to the excellent Urdu dialogues by Shama Zaidi, Javed Siddiqi, and Ali himself, the sublime song lyrics by Shahryr, Subhashini Ali's painstaking costume design that included heirloom jewellery (now back in fashion), and Ali and Bansi Chandragupta's production design. Though Ali, unlike Shyam Benegal or Satyajit Ray (directors of Junoon andShatranj Ki Khiladi, respectively) isn't too invested in actual history, he employs an element of historicity via the fiercely anticolonial rebel-dacoit Faiz Ali (Raj Babbar). Rebel-dacoits were, of course, involved in the resistance against British rule that emerged after the annexation of the Kingdom of Awadh in 1856, which itself fanned the flames of the conflagration that was the Uprising of 1857. Muzaffar Ali, director of Umrao Jaan (Gokul VS/Hindustan Times) Faiz Ali creates a beautiful twist in the storyline towards the end. Unlike the other men in her life, he accepts Umrao for who she is, a powerful woman. In his company, she is at her gutsy best. His brief presence in her life turns her towards reinventing herself as she walks away from the Lucknow kotha. For the contemporary viewer, Umrao's story is 'modern' and the film's logline could read: 'a successful woman, baffled by existential questions, tries to find herself as she navigates the world'. This is not far off the mark. Ali used elements of love and loss but adds the angle of introspection to open the narrative to more than one generation. This means Umrao Jaan transcends the labels of historical drama or tawaif film. The exploration of her search for identity and her evident dignity helps Umrao's character emerge as a sensitive, emotionally mature and creatively accomplished woman who is not just an 'object of desire' like Zohra in Muqqaddar Ka Sikandar (1978) or so many other depictions of tawaifs as mere gaane,bajanewalis. Pertinently, the pejorative term was coined by the colonial administration to maintain their civic tax ledgers and is a perverse interpretation of salon culture. Viewed almost four-and-a-half decades after it was made, Umrao Jaan remains as fresh as ever. Nilosree Biswas is an author, filmmaker, columnist who writes about history, culture, food and cinema of South Asia, Asia and its diaspora.
Scroll.in
08-06-2025
- Politics
- Scroll.in
‘A Queer Reading of Nawabi Architecture and the Colonial Archive': Guide to Lucknow's queer history
'… Wargue that the cultural vibrancy of Lucknow was due to its debauched nature. Nawabi architecture materialised – in pleasure palaces, harems, and other spatial types – as a gradual adaptation of existing formal archetypes to accommodate theatricised ways of dwelling; deviant practices of power politics; gender-bending forms of dance, theatre, poetry; and performed non-normative sexuality. The EIC targeted the nawabs' race, gender, sexuality, physical appearance, cultural pursuits, and architectural expression – to refute the nawabs' efficacy as political rulers – gendering the superiority and credibility of a political leader.' When Nawab Asaf-ud-Dawla shifted the capital of Avadh from Faizabad to Lucknow in 1775, he had no idea that he and the last of his successors would turn out to be two of those rulers whom the British loved to hate. Historians still debate why Asaf shifted his capital: some say it was to get away from his mother, Bahu Begum, others that it was to establish a more prosperous city. Whatever the reason, the result was that Lucknow gained a unique culture, some of which survives in its architecture, by way of an independent style that Asaf established during the 22 years of his reign. That style would come to an end in 1856 – the year before the Uprising of 1857 – when the East India Company (EIC) took over the kingdom, and the focal point here is that takeover, for it was done under the cleverly named Doctrine of Lapse, under which the British could decide to take over kingdoms that were either misgoverned, or had no legitimate heir to the throne. And since the Nawab of the time, Wajid Ali Shah, had a son, the British had to establish some measure of misgovernance to justify using this doctrine. With the end of Wajid Ali's rule also ended one of the most colourful periods of India's colonial history. A Queer Reading of Nawabi Architecture and the Colonial Archive looks at the architecture of Lucknow during this period, particularly under the reigns of Asif and Wajid rather than the six nawabs who ruled in between them. The queer influence Post-Independence Indian historians have put forth substantial evidence against British claims of misgovernance by the nawabs. To quote Dr GD Bhatnagar in his book, Awadh Under Wajid Ali Shah, 'Wajid Ali Shah's character was complex. Though he was a man of pleasure, he was neither an unscrupulous knave nor a brainless libertine. He was a lovable and generous gentleman. He was a voluptuary, still he never touched wine, and though sunk in pleasure, he never missed his five daily prayers. It was the literary and artistic attainments of Wajid Ali Shah which distinguished him from his contemporaries.' What these historians have omitted is the queer influence on the culture and architecture of Lucknow. Asaf was an accomplished Urdu poet, and in some of his work, he reveals his longing for men, a longing that the straight-laced British of his time found abhorrent. But that poetry also established the difference between the way most rulers conducted their politics and the way a queer ruler might do it. And so, while this book might be about a queer look at architecture, it also contains a look at the power play amongst four different players towards the end of the rule of the Nawabs: on the British side are the East India Company (EIC) and the Crown, and, on the Indian, the Nawabs of Lucknow and the fading Mughal dynasty. A queer city To start with, the book is divided broadly into two sections, the first about methods and the second about the architecture of the buildings covered. Methods matter, because parts of the city were wiped out in the Uprising. So were some of the writings of the Nawab's historians, and perhaps of the Nawabs themselves. The authors have followed up with many archives: the remaining Lucknow archives, the written works of these two Nawabs, archives of the East India Company and the Crown, and, of course, archives of the Government of India. One of the more appealing illustrations here is a single chart that offers a timeline that shows Nawabs, British Residents, British Governors General, and various plans and sketches of the city, all in one, offering the reader a bird's eye view of the history of the city. The British archives show their contempt for the Nawabs and the queerness of their culture. The British were contemptuous of queers until well into the second half of the 20th century: witness their imprisonment of, say, Oscar Wilde in the 1890s, or their encouraging Alan Turing's suicide in the 1960s. Thus, some of history reflects their resistance to the British: to quote the authors, 'Despite this [contempt], the two nawabs continued to hold their political position through acts of transgression, resistance, and even sometimes by playing ignorant. Both the nawabs furthered an urban cultural environment that rejected macho military standards of politics and embraced arts as central to shaping the city.' The second section covers the actual shape of the city. Covered here in some detail are the major works of Asaf and Wajid: Asif's architectural legacy includes the Machhi Bhavan, the Daulat Khana, and the Bada Imambada, while Wajid's works include the Qaiserbagh, perhaps the most substantial of the precincts covered. The descriptions are illustrated in detail, and the reconstruction of destroyed parts of these buildings is meticulous and layered, which would appeal to the architect. But what appeals to the layman and the historian in the occasional sidelight that livens up the narrative: to quote, again, 'The British army was disoriented by the labyrinthine interiors of the zenana but found its flat roof quite navigable because of its continuity'. And so, for anyone with more than a passing interest in architecture, history, or Lucknow, this book is a small treasure house and a guide to the chequered history of one of the most important cities of the British Raj. Shashi Warrier is a novelist. His latest novel My Name is Jasmine was published by Simon and Schuster India in 2025.
