THE mujra as a dance form is traditionally performed by tawaifs (courtesans) at the mansions of the wealthy or in public places known as kothas. In its original form, it incorporated elements of kathak, thumri and ghazals – and hence, the performers were looked at with a modicum of respect. One can wonder why these tawaifs should be denied the social respect that, say, any other stage performer gets. Both categories of artists perform for money. In films like Satyajit Ray’s Jalsaghar(1958), one observes a lot of respect being paid to the performers. Probably, somewhere down the line, mujra performances became a facade for prostitution. The other reason for the discrimination is probably that one is a tawaif rarely by choice. It is implied that these girls did not have access to formal education or any other vocational skills. Often the dancing skills are handed down from mother to daughter.
And Hindi films did the rest. Over time, Hindi cinema transformed the art form of a mujra as something to be looked down upon. The Hindi film nautch girl is generally a desi version of ‘the vamp’. Her role is usually limited to dance performances in kothas, which would often invite lecherous looks and salacious remarks from her customers. In some films, however, she is treated with compassion, especially when she is the central character. Kamal Amrohi’s Pakeezah is one such film.
Pakeezah is the story of Sahibjaan (Meena Kumari), a much-sought-after courtesan, who, apart from living a life of comfort and fame, is privileged enough to enjoy a love life as well. It begins with a train journey, when Salim Ahmed Khan (Raaj Kumar), a forest ranger, enters a railway compartment only to find her sleeping there. He reads from the book Sahibjaan had left on her berth before turning in for the night. As the wind sings against the windowpane, Salim falls in love with Sahibjaan’s feet, which peep out from under her blanket.
When Sahibjaan wakes up at Sohagpur station, she discovers the lines Salim has left for her. ‘Your feet are lovely. Please do not place them on the floor, lest they get dirty’. Something about the lines, perhaps the tangibility of the paper on which these are scribbled, makes Sahibjaan hold on to them as an article of faith.
Amrohi does not specify the time period, but it is evident that it is sometime in the early twentieth century when no cars ran on the roads of Lucknow or Delhi. And the steam-engine train can be seen chugging through major towns. Its shrill whistle forms the connection between Sahibjaan and Salim.
Soon it is back to the life of a courtesan for Sahibjaan, who is now lost in thoughts of a life outside her kotha. ‘Chalte chalte yunhi koi mil gaya tha’, a song she croons absently to her customer (Kamal Kapoor) one evening, echoes her state of mind vis-à-vis her unknown admirer. Kaifi’s lyrics have a leisurely gait. They create a happy, relaxed and soothing atmosphere. Ghulam Mohammed was one of the finest tabla players, and the rhythmic pace is unaltered throughout the song to denote, perhaps, the steady momentum of a running train. To highlight this, the number trails off with the train whistle.
Meena Kumari hardly dances in this mujra. Her dancing skills were not exactly legendary, and she was unwell when this song was shot. It is the setting – the kotha, and the use of the instruments, the sarangi and the ghungroo – and not the dance per se, which actually imparts the sense of a mujra. Composed in major scale, Ghulam Mohammed also uses the Teevra Madhyam in the antara fleetingly, giving the song the desired passion while underlining the nature of the evening. ‘Chalte chalte’ is a mujra without the sleaze, soft enough to be a lullaby, sweet enough to be a delicate love song, dreamy in its essence, and passionate without any hint of amorousness.
‘Chalte chalte’ was one of the four mujra songs that made it to the final print of Pakeezah. ‘Thade rahiyo’, the Maand-based mujra, was choreographed by Lachhu Maharaj, and is, perhaps, the best representation of the form in the film. ‘Aaj hum apni duaon ka asar dekhenge’, the climactic song, has an intensity that is difficult to replicate. ‘Inhi logon ne’, the iconic mujra, where we find the vibrant use of the Keharwa tala on dholak and the tabla, was one of the first songs to be shot – in black and white. After seeing the rushes, Amrohi decided to reshoot the song, and the film, in colour. When one set, erected specially for the colour camera, had been exposed, it was further decided to shift to cinemascope, to capture the grandeur of Kamal’s four spectacular sets – Gulabi Mahal (outdoor), Gulabi Mahal (indoor), Gali Qasim Jaan and Bazaar-e-Husn.
When it was started in 1956, with ‘Mausam hai ashiqana’ being recorded early that year, Pakeezah was a venture widely followed by the media. By mid-1959, many scenes, including the film’s final sequence, had been shot on the outskirts of Bombay and also in Kashmir. ‘Chalte chalte’ was also composed and recorded in the late 1950s. Lata’s voice had the fragile demeanour and childlike simplicity needed for the song’s lovesick character. By end-1963, all the main songs of the film were recorded and 8,000 feet of the film shot, including a couple of song sequences.
Things came to a standstill following the Meena Kumari– Kamal Amhori rift in 1964.This was followed by Meena Kumari’s alcoholism and her departure to London for treatment. On 16 March 1969, exactly five years and twelve days after she left, Meena returned to the sets of Pakeezah. She had undergone treatment for liver disease under Dr Sheila Sherlock at the London Hospital (the name later changed to The Royal London Hospital in 1990). She was now staying alone at Bandra seaface.
No mention of the film can be complete without talking of its music, both its songs and the background score. Ghulam Mohammed died years before witnessing his crowning glory, Pakeezah, come to life. Mirza Ghalib (1954) had won him early fame in the form of the National Award for Best Music, but his role as assistant to Naushad and his inability to market himself were major obstacles in his career.
Ghulam Mohammed’s death in 1968 led to the baton being handed over to Naushad for the title and the background score. It was, in keeping up with the music in the film, remarkable. It might just have a history. Naushad probably had a score to settle with Filmfare where reviews hardly mentioned the contribution of composers. Starting the mid-1960s, Filmfarehad started reviewing films in a more serious manner to fall in line with the norms used by international film reviewers.
In the issue of Filmfare dated 24 May 1968, Naushad had written a letter to the editor questioning the outright ignoring of music in film reviews. Part of Naushad’s letter is reproduced here: ‘I notice, too, that in your reviews, you are constantly avoiding comment on the work of the music directors. No doubt, there is much to be desired in an average Indian film. Yet there is no denying the fact that the contribution of the music director to a film is considerable. I feel the omission of my and my colleagues’ names from your reviews are not justified. Because on the one hand you deprive us of a wholesome good advice; on the other, a much needed pat on the back.’
The critic replied: ‘Mr Naushad is right, in a general sense, in saying that the contribution of the music director is considerable. But as far as Hindi films are concerned, I am afraid that the contribution of the music director is considerably overrated. Too often the music is a downright intrusion – either failing to evoke the mood of a scene or providing a bad substitute for natural sounds or for plain silence. The reviewer’s job is to judge the film as a whole – not to concern himself with the ego of the individuals associated with it.’
Perhaps this curt reply from Filmfare came as a shock to Naushad, and one can see his best emerge in the background music of Pakeezah, the project he took up after Ghulam Mohammed’s demise.
Naushad used a number of traditional songs, composed a few himself, and fitted the same into the film. The amazing title music, in Raga Piloo, had, among others, Bhupinder playing the twelve-string guitar like a sarod. The songs – ‘Nazariya ki mari’ (Rajkumari), ‘Kaun gali geyo shyam’ (Parveen Sultana), ‘Yeh dhuaan sa kahan se uthta hai’ (Naseem Bano Chopra, as confirmed by Biswanath Chatterjee, author of Hindi Film Geet Kosh, Volume V) or ‘Saajan sauten ghar aaye’ (Vani Jairam) – have been woven seamlessly into the film, giving the period drama a feel as authentic as any.
One can, however, question the use of ‘Yeh dhuaan sa kahan se uthta hai’ as it is originally a Mir Taqi Mir verse set to tune by Saleem Shahid of Karachi (as confirmed by music aficionado Professor Zahoor Chaudhary of Lahore), and made famous by Mehdi Hassan in the late 1960s. Given that both the songs have the same tune one can argue about how a tune composed in the late 1960s can possibly be part of a period film set in late 1890s or the early 1900. However, the probability of the tune already existing before cannot be ruled out, as not much is known about its origin.
Pakeezah was not a rage on its release in February 1972. But the death of its heroine Meena Kumari got the crowd flocking for one last glimpse of the tragedienne. Ironically, when she died penniless in St. Elizabeth’s nursing home in Bombay, there was not a soul beside her. It has been widely held that Meena Kumari’s personal doctor cleared her dues. However, in an interview with the authors in 2012, Gulzar revealed that it was N.C. Sippy who had cleared the hospital dues: ‘N.C. Sippy was a very generous man. He did not want Meena-ji to leave any dues behind.’ Kamal Amrohi’s Pakeezah was a mournful adieu to quite a few personalities who had contributed to the film. Apart from Meena Kumari, there were Ghulam Mohammad and cinematographer Josef Wirsching. The real heroes of the film.
The ‘Chalte chalte’ story will remain incomplete without the mention of Mangesh Desai’s work on the re-recording table. Amrohi needed the train whistle to follow the song like a coda, and Desai did the impossible by altering the pitch of the whistle and making it sound almost like an offshoot of the song. They did not have ready-made computers and pitch correctors in 1970–71.