Locating the Tawa'if Courtesan-Dancer: Cinematic

Constructions of Religion and Nation

Sitara Thobani

Journal of Religion and Popular Culture, Volume 33, Number 3, Fall

2021, pp. 138-153 (Article)

Published by University of Toronto Press

For additional information about this article

[Link]

[[Link]] Project MUSE (2024-05-13 07:13 GMT) University of Hyderabad

 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer:
Cinematic Constructions of Religion and
Nation
Sitara Thobani
Michigan State University — Residential College in the Arts and
Humanities, Michigan, United States

Abstract: The development of the Hindi/Urdu cinema is intimately connected to the history
of artistic performance in India in two important ways. Not only did hereditary music and
dance practitioners play key roles in building this cinema, representations of these perfor­
mers and their practices have been, and continue to be, the subject of Indian film narratives,
genres, and tropes. I begin with this history in order to explore the Muslim religio-cultural
and artistic inheritance that informs Hindi/Urdu cinema, as well as examine how this heri­
tage has been incorporated into the cinematic narratives that help construct distinct gen­
dered, religious, and national identities. My specific focus is on the figure of the tawa’if
dancer, often equated with North Indian culture and nautch dance performance. Analyzing
the ways in which traces of the tawa’if appear in two recent films, Dedh Ishqiya and Begum
Jaan, I show how this figure is placed in a larger representational regime that sustains
nationalist formations of contemporary Indian identity. As I demonstrate, even in the most
blatant attempts to define the Indian nation as “Hindu,” the “Muslimness” of the tawa’if—
and by extension the cinema she informed in ways both real and representational—is far
from relinquished.

Keywords: Hindi/Urdu cinema, nautch, religious nationalism, tawa’if

[[Link]] Project MUSE (2024-05-13 07:13 GMT) University of Hyderabad

The figure of the “Indian” dancer—manifested variously in the image of the devadasi, the ta­
wa’if, and the bayadère—has long captured imaginations on both sides of the colonial divide.
Although often conflated under the catch-all category of nautch, these different incarnations
also encode notions of religio-cultural difference, particularly in the wake of the calcification
of religious boundaries in modern South Asia. I explore the homogenization of the figure of
the nautch dancer in other forms of cultural production elsewhere, but in this paper, I wish to
focus specifically on representations of the tawa’if in “Indian” cinema, and their relation to the
construction of specific national subjectivities. While the question remains as to how such a
“national” cinema should be defined given the history of British imperialism in India, the sub­
sequent Partition of the subcontinent, the postcolonial resurgence of Hindu nationalism, and
the contemporary globalization of the Hindi film industry (see Shankar 2009; Jaikumar 2006),
I show below how the very instability of the “national” is assuaged by this cinema’s contribu­
tion to the ongoing process of nation formation. Focussing attention on the role the tawa’if is
made to play in this project of stabilization, the outlines of the “nation” are brought into sharp
relief.
In contrast to the devadasi (already an amalgam of diverse groups of women ritualistically
associated with Hindu practice) and the bayadère (a European construction), the tawa’if

The Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 33:3, Fall 2021 doi:jrpc.2020-0014
 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer

functions as a meta-category comprising courtesans, musicians, and dancers, such as those as­
sociated with the Lucknavi elite of late eighteenth and nineteenth century Awadh, and the
North Indian Mughal court more generally. The sense of grandeur and courtly culture with
which the ethereal tawa’if is associated has been both captured and enhanced through cine­
matic representation, with the courtesan genre emerging as highly popular within Hindi/Urdu
cinema since the 1930s (see Bhaskar and Allen 2009). Scholars of Indian cinema have drawn
attention to the patriarchal narratives that have framed this genre, and to the nostalgia acti­
vated in its representations of the tawa’if. The tawa’if appears as a contradictory figure in
these analyses, one that both challenges heteropatriarchal forms of conjugal normativity and
functions as the exception to this very rule.1 Building on this work, my aim in this paper is to
trace both the presence and absence of this figure in cinematic narratives grounding the con­
temporary construction of the Indian nation. As I demonstrate, locating the tawa’if, both real
and imagined, in the development of Hindi cinema enables us to probe the possibilities and
limitations of a “Muslim cinema”2 in South Asia; it also allows us to trace the place of Islam in
the contemporary Indian cultural imaginary.

Locating the Historical Tawa’if

Although the tawa’if can be regarded as the progeny of the earlier Mughal courtesan who ap­
pears in historical chronicles from 1556–1748 (the height of the Mughal Empire), it is by the
year 1800 that this figure comes to signify a “unitary meta-community of elite female perform­
ing artists in North India” (Butler Schofield 2012, 152). The Urdu word tawa’if has roots in
both the Arabic word tawaf (which references the circumambulation of the Kaaba) as well as
in the late eighteenth century Persian word for “tribes,” especially tribes of travelling perfor­
mers. The first use of the term in English appears in the 1787 dictionary by John Gilchrist,
who used it in reference to a group of female and male performers; a century later, in John
Platt’s definitive 1884 Urdu-English dictionary, the term came to be identified with the “dan­
cing girl” more specifically (Sachdeva Jha 2015, 142).
From the earliest accounts then, tawa’if-s were clearly linked etymologically, linguistically,
and historically with the Persianate tradition of North India. This link is further solidified
through their strong association with Urdu poetry, which they both sang and mimed/danced
expressively (Qureshi 2006, 321). While Mughal courtesans first performed in the elite spaces
of the court, by the mid-eighteenth century, they were holding performances (mujras) in their
own residences for their elite male clientele (Qureshi 2006, 318). These spaces, known as
kotha-s,3 became the preeminent venue for North Indian Hindustani music outside the direct
control of the princely courts. The kotha thus made accessible the courtesan’s arts to a growing
class of commercial and colonial elites concurrent with the major shifts in the political power
of the day.
With the decline of Mughal power in Delhi, many artists, musicians, and dancers moved
to Faizabad and Lucknow, key urban centres in the Mughal province (subah) of Awadh (Man­
uel 1991, 350). Wielding little political power, the Nawabs of Awadh were nevertheless great
patrons of the arts; Awadh in general, and Lucknow in particular, thus developed a strong rep­
utation for Muslim cultural and artistic refinement. This reputation was solidified during the
court of Wajid Ali Shah (1847–1856), who was arguably the most significant patron of the
tawa’if-s’ arts and who was also known to have married a courtesan (Chakravarty 1993, 280).
Ironically however, even with the annexation of Awadh by the British in 1856 and the conse­
quent exile of Wajid Ali Shah to Calcutta, the institution of the tawa’if-s continued to grow as
more and more women—for example, the abandoned wives of the ex-Nawab and his

139
 Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 33:3 Fall 2021

noblemen—entered the profession in the second half of the nineteenth century (Chakravarty
1993, 280). With this shift in political power, new sources of patronage emerged amongst the
rising mercantile and colonial elites, many of whom had little knowledge of Urdu.
Not only did the institution of the tawa’if outlive that of the Nawab (Hubel 2012, 221),
tawa’if-s continued to flourish in the high era of colonialism. For example, tax records from
1857–1877 show that courtesans in Lucknow belonged to the highest income bracket, and pos­
sessed substantial property and personal wealth (Oldenburg 1990, 259). With this wealth came
considerable political influence and cultural prestige—it was said, for example, that the educa­
tion of the young men of the elite would not be considered complete without learning the eti­
quette and refinement associated with the tawa’if. The combination of her knowledge, relative
sexual autonomy, and wealth came together to constitute the tawa’if as a threat congruent
with the cultural, social, and political shifts of the time. This notion was further enhanced by
the role tawa’if-s reportedly played in funding the 1857 rebellion that took the British by sur­
prise, a rebellion that was followed by violent retaliation and the subsequent solidification of
colonial rule. This involvement had significant ramifications for tawa’if-s: their wealth was
confiscated in many instances in retribution for their association with the rebels, and in 1858
they came to be classified alongside common prostitutes and thus subject to the biopolitical
surveillance of the colonial state.
Coinciding with these political and social shifts, the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries also saw the rise of a strong reformist movement among Indian elites across India
that targeted performing women such as the tawa’if and the devadasi (for more on the anti­
nautch movement, see Walker 2014; Soneji 2012; Srinivasan 2011; Chakravorty 2008; Allen
1997; Srinivasan 1985). The momentum acquired by this nationalist movement notwithstand­
ing, tawa’if-s continued to proliferate across North India and Pakistan well into the period of
World War II (Qureshi 2006, 318). In several instances, tawa’if-s, their daughters, and their
teachers also began entering (even if hesitantly) professions in theatre, music recording, and
cinema (Pande 2006). Meanwhile, others were compelled by their circumstances to turn to sex
work, thereby giving credence to the movement’s Victorian presuppositions equating all
[[Link]] Project MUSE (2024-05-13 07:13 GMT) University of Hyderabad

nautch with prostitution (see Morcom 2013; Maciszewski 2006). The resulting transformation
in attitudes regarding tawa’if-s and devadasi-s were concretized legislatively after the Indepen­
dence of the nation-state in 1947, the same year the Madras Devadasi Prevention of Dedica­
tion Act was passed. The final blow was dealt in 1957 when the Indian government declared
the salon to be illegal, three years after the national public broadcaster All-India Radio banned
“scandalous” women from singing on (state-sanctioned) national airwaves.

From the Kotha to the Silver Screen

The entry of some tawa’if-s into the modern art worlds of theatre and cinema—themselves
morally liminal spheres of public performance—is not the only nodal point relating this his­
torical figure with Indian cinema. Analyzing the development of cinema in South Asia, various
threads connecting the tawa’if and her arts with this history emerge, threads that are both lit­
eral and representational. For not only did women from tawa’if families go on to pursue pro­
fessional work in the cinema as actors, singers, and—in the case of Fatma Begum4—film
directors (see Vanita 2017), the figure of the tawa’if has also been (re)incorporated into this
cinema through her numerous representations (see Chakravarty 1993; Dwyer 2004; Bhaskar
and Allen 2009). Identifying Hindi cinema as “one of the social, artistic and cultural legacies
of the courtesan profession,” Teresa Hubel (2012, 225) goes so far as to situate contemporary
Bollywood5 (and by extension Indian cinema itself) as a descendant of the kotha, arguing that

140
 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer

this genealogy is the distinguishing feature that differentiates Indian cinema from its global
counterparts (see also Kesavan 1994). While a certain form of essentialization (however posi­
tively intended) may be at play in such a neat assertion, it remains clear that the relationship
between the tawa’if, her representation, and Indian cinema merits careful critical analysis.
Representations of the tawa’if are rife with paradoxes, making her a rich archetype for cin­
ematic depiction. Notable is the extent to which some of the most respected and popular ac­
tresses have played the role of the tawa’if, often at the height of their careers (see Iyer 2020):
from Vyjayanthimala (Devadas 1955), Meena Kumari (Pakeezah 1956–1972), and Waheeda
Rehman (Mujhe Jeene Do 1964) in the 1950s and 1960s; to Rekha (Muqaddar Ka Sikander
1978, Umrao Jaan 1981) and Smita Patil (Ghungroo 1983) in the 1970s and 1980s; and Mad­
huri Dixit (Devadas 2002), Rani Mukherji (Mangal Pandey 2005), and Aishwarya Rai (Umrao
Jaan 2006) in the 2000s. Despite the decades that separate these various productions, these
films share many common traits and tropes in their representations, the repeated citation of
which conjure strong associations between the tawa’if and Indo-Islamic culture. These include:
extravagant clothing and jewellery, the most iconic of which perhaps are the mang tikka that
adorns the side of one’s forehead, and the gharara-s and peshwaaz-s that apparel the female
body (specifically associated with Muslim women in South Asia); a mastery of North Indian
Kathak dance (or at least semi-classical Kathak); a command of Urdu poetry, language, and
etiquette; and familiarity with Indo-Islamic norms and customs (embodied in the salutary
adab,6 for example). Accompanying these representations are also the architectural tropes of
majestic haveli-s (mansions) with arched and latticed windows in keeping with Indo-Islamic
aesthetics, as well as the grand mirrors, chandeliers, and glass lanterns that adorn them. Each
of these tropes, which can be found in the films mentioned above, continue to be strong signif­
iers of the tawa’if, her lavish lifestyle, and her proximity to Indo-Islamic culture (see Caldwell
2010; Chakravarty 1993).
In her various cinematic incarnations, the tawa’if is presented as a figure to be admired
for her cultured refinements yet disparaged for her (potential) sexual transgressions; economi­
cally independent yet still yearning for the affection (read protection) of a man; living a “life­
style of resistance” (Oldenburg 1990) yet ultimately imprisoned by the social mores of the
kotha and wider society more generally. For feminist scholars of Indian cinema (Vanita 2017;
Hubel 2012; Chakravarty 1993), this is not necessarily surprising. Drawing on the work of
Laura Mulvey, for example, Hubel (2012, 226) suggests we regard the cinematic tawa’if as a
fetish that “marks the place where the historical tawa’if, with all her fearsome meaning, has
been suppressed.” In short, representations of the tawa’if point to that which “Indian patriar­
chy is always struggling to keep in check but that ultimately remain outside of its control”
(226). For Hubel, the psychological disavowal of the historical tawa’if was necessary for “a
new monolithic model of womanhood—the heterosexual and middle-class wife [...] to func­
tion as an emblem of the nation” (227). Thus, the tawa’if is often presented as a tragic figure,
one who longs for the security of the heteronormative respectability to which she can never
gain access. Confining this figure to the celluloid realm serves to accommodate that which can­
not be fully repressed but must nonetheless be subject to disciplinary control.
While I am in agreement with the above gendered analyses of the cinematic representa­
tion of the tawa’if, my view is that they underplay the importance of a vital constitutive ele­
ment of this figure. For it is undeniable that the tawa’if’s religio-cultural association with Islam
is an integral component of her identity, especially in the late twentieth and early twenty-first
centuries. Even as scholars of Hindi/Urdu cinema take as significant this relationship between
the tawa’if and her Muslim identity, they are quick to classify the milieu of the tawa’if as “Isla­
micate”, thereby representing the tawa’if in cultural and not religious terms (see, for example,

141
 Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 33:3 Fall 2021

Bhaskar and Allen 2009; Dwyer 2004, 82–4; Kesavan 1994, 245–6). Although such a move sig­
nals an attempt to avoid the reification of “religion,” namely Islam, it nevertheless forecloses
any meaningful engagement with the role that religion might and did play in the cultural and
artistic production of the tawa’if, as well as in cinematic depictions of this figure more specifi­
cally. In short, focus on the Islamicate—as opposed to a broadened definition of the Islamic,
which would include the poetry and art it has historically engendered—enables the erasure of
Islam. This tension between the artificial division of religion and culture recalls a key contra­
diction of the mid-twentieth century project to “reform” Hindustani music, wherein Muslim
hereditary musicians were seen to be simultaneously too Muslim (defined in “cultural” terms)
and therefore not properly religious/devotional enough, especially in contrast to the Hindu
musicians codifying the classical “tradition.” De-emphasizing religion, for whatever purposes,
has the power to uphold exclusionary narratives of Islam on the very grounds of religion.
The figure of the tawa’if thus continues to be marked by religion in ways that simulta­
neously overdetermine and undercut Islam as a result, making it increasingly difficult to sepa­
rate this figure from a sense of Muslimness, whatever the religious identities of individual
tawa’if-s may have been, historically and representationally. Indeed, the overwhelming major­
ity of films produced in the tawa’if genre represent this figure as unequivocally Muslim.7 Thus
the tawa’if represents not only a femininity at odds with the chaste middle-class (Hindu) wife/
mother idealized by the nation, but a religio-cultural figure of difference that contests (and is,
in turn, contested by) the Hindu-leaning yet purportedly “secular” balance that currently de­
fines the Indian nation-state.
Recognizing the intersections of the tawa’if’s gendered and religious identities raises a cru­
cial question: What if the disavowal of the tawa’if is attempted not simply on the grounds of
gender, but in relation to her very Muslim identity as well? Given the religio-political conflicts
that have ravaged the subcontinent for decades, increasing in intensity after the 1992 razing of
the Babri mosque by Hindu fundamentalists and culminating in the present with the electoral
successes of the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), this question becomes all the
more vital. Moreover, as I demonstrate below, addressing this question can reveal much about
[[Link]] Project MUSE (2024-05-13 07:13 GMT) University of Hyderabad

the place (or lack thereof) of Islam in contemporary India. It is to this question that I now
turn by way of analyzing two recent films, Dedh Ishqiya (a 2014 blockbuster) and Begum Jaan
(a 2017 flop that nonetheless featured some of the most acclaimed actors of contemporary
Indian cinema). While neither film can be described as sitting squarely within the tawa’if
genre,8 and are selected for the purpose of this paper precisely for this reason, I delineate here
the many traces of the tawa’if that mark the very condition of possibility for these films’ pro­
duction, and therefore of their modes of nation formation as well. As becomes clear below,
even in her relative absence, the tawa’if becomes the fulcrum upon which religio-cultural and
national identities are produced and sustained.

Dedh Ishqiya: Relegating the Tawa’if to History

Dedh Ishqiya is not a film about tawa’if-s. And yet, the figure of the tawa’if, and the culture
she represents, indelibly marks the film, anchoring the very qualities that have led to its criti­
cal acclaim. Described as a dark comedy, an intelligent love story, and a creative feat, Dedh
Ishqiya is the sequel to Ishqiya (2010), a story of two lovable con artists who have a propen­
sity to be conned themselves. In Dedh Ishqiya, we see Iftekhar (Naseeruddin Shah) and his
nephew Babban (Arshad Warsi) continue their attempts to improve their fortunes, this time
against the elaborate backdrop of the pomp and pageantry of nawabi culture. The film fol­
lows the uncle and nephew pair, as the former competes to win the favour of Begum Para

142
 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer

(Madhuri Dixit), a widow whose first husband—the Nawab of Mahmudabad—wished for her
to marry a poet upon his demise. In an attempt to comply with these wishes Begum Para,
along with her companion Munniya (Huma Qureshi), organizes a shairi (Urdu poetry) com­
petition to be held at her haveli. While previous competitions resulted in failed searches with
no winners selected, this year, Begum Para has vowed to choose a husband from amongst her
many poet-suitors.
Posing as the Nawab of Chandpur, Iftekhar enters the competition to steal Begum Para’s
heart only to have his stolen instead. Iftekhar’s feelings are quickly revealed to precede this
encounter with Begum Para at the opening reception for the competition, for he recognizes
her as the dancer who mesmerized him many years ago. The vision of a young Para rehearsing
her Kathak dance sustained Iftekhar’s infatuation over the years, with the poetry competition
now promising him the chance to finally unite with this dancer of his dreams. This particular
backstory regarding Iftekhar’s first encounter with Para—and the use of flashbacks upon
which it depends—is but one aspect of the larger anachronistic aesthetics (as cultural framing)
that make Dedh Ishqiya so distinctive. For, while not essential to the overall narrative arc of
the movie, this storyline enables a kind of temporalizing leapfrogging that blurs past and pres­
ent, an obfuscation that is reinforced visually, aurally, and indeed, culturally throughout the
film more generally.
This temporal play has not gone unremarked. Take for example the following two re­
views which lauded the film’s ability to transport its audience to another time and place. For
example:
The made-up town of Mahmudabad takes you back to a time when there were “nawaabs,” and
“nazaakat” [niceties], and a perennial “mushaaira” [poetry gathering/recitation] swarming
with potential poets desirous of grasping the hands of beautiful women. (Gupta 2014)

Or, perhaps more tellingly:

Through the movie, we see a lot of the faded glory of the world of Nawabs—the decaying gran­
deur of the palatial homes, the beautifully refined Urdu, the courtly manners, the stunning out­
fits and more. (India Opines 2014)

These references to “faded glory” and “another time” do not reflect particularly nuanced read­
ings of the film, which deliberately and unabashedly presents its twenty-first century narrative
as historical fiction. While references made in the film situate it in the contemporary period—
Babban first becomes suspicious of Begum Para’s financial status when he sees Munniya use
her by now outdated iPhone 5, for example—these references do not mitigate the anachron­
isms of the film. Not only are the haveli and those who live (and aspire to live) in it presented
as incarnations of a feudal nawabi order—through their language, dress, and etiquette—
numerous temporalizing tropes create the sense of a dilapidated past being lived out in the
present. From the stiffly posed black and white photographs in Begum Para’s photo albums, to
the dusty picture frames that encase images of her dancing, the antiquated furniture, and the
dimly lit rooms illuminated only by rays of sunlight or oil lamps and chandeliers, the material
objects that comprise this “world of Nawabs” cannot but situate this Muslim present in the
faded past.
It is this representation of Indo-Islamic culture—achieved by and advanced through the
film’s periodizing gestures—that marks its greatest lasting effect. What makes Dedh Ishqiya
truly unique is the extent to which it steeps itself in Indo-Islamic art, culture, and tradition at
a time when the vast majority of Muslim-centered films and/or Muslim characters are

143
 Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 33:3 Fall 2021

presented in the terrorist genre, that quintessential twenty-first-century thriller.9 In this (sim­
plistic) sense, Dedh Ishqiya’s celebration of (archaic) Indo-Islamic culture can be seen as a rela­
tively “positive” representation of this religio-culture and its “other” side: middle-aged
Muslims potentially falling in love over poetry and dance rather than angry Muslim men ter­
rorizing the nation-state, if not the global order. This “other side”—imagined here as a culture
in which beauty, dance, and poetry are valorized—is the very culture for which the tawa’if has
been, and continues to be, fetishized as repository. It is no surprise then that the traces of this
figure are imprinted throughout the film.
That Begum Para was a dancer prior to her marriage to the Nawab of Mahmudabad is not
explained further, nor does her pre-marital life in general receive any elaboration. I do not read
these omissions to suggest that Begum Para was a tawa’if in her former life; instead I am in­
terested in how the archetypal tropes associated with the tawa’if are recalled to make Begum
Para—and indeed the religio-cultural narrative of Dedh Ishqiya—intelligible to the audience.
Begum Para’s embodiment of a cultured, authoritative Muslim woman relies on an archive of
visual and cinematic representations of the tawa’if to situate her firmly within this cultural milieu.
In one scene, for example, she sits in an iconic manner on a diwan, chewing paan, administering
advice to apparent subordinates who sit attentively at her feet. In so doing, she visually embodies
the quintessential manifestation of the authoritative chaudhrayan (head tawa’if/ kotha owner)
who not only oversees the others, but enjoys a seat of privilege—that is, “a seat amongst men.”
But even more than these tropes of clothing, language, and female authority, it is through
her relation to dance that Begum Para becomes most closely aligned with the figure of the ta­
wa’if. After first chastising Iftekhar, who salvaged the photographs of Para as a young dancer
from their dusty obscurity, and who implored her to allow herself to dance freely once more,
Begum Para does indeed return to dance in one scene, secluded in the private confines of her
personal quarters. As she surreptitiously revels in the joys of her artistic self-expression, Ifte­
khar peers through one of the frosted glass panels partitioning the room, taking delight as he
sees her dance in ecstasy. On the mirror in what has now become the site of Begum Para’s per­
formance hangs the lavish necklace that Iftekhar had previously gifted Begum Para, a substi­
[[Link]] Project MUSE (2024-05-13 07:13 GMT) University of Hyderabad

tute for the nazrana (gift) male spectators would offer the tawai’if as tokens of appreciation.
The combination of Iftekhar’s gaze and gift serve to transform Begum Para’s private perfor­
mance into a kind of mujra, leaving Begum Para to embody—even if for a moment—the ar­
chetypal tawa’if.10
The association is taken one step further given that this and a subsequent dance sequence
were choreographed by the legendary Kathak dancer Birju Maharaj, whose bols (rhythmic vo­
calisations) accompany Begum Para’s dance. Maharaj represents a heritage that is both heredi­
tarily and artistically linked to the courts of Wajid Ali Shah, the historical heart of Luckhnavi
artistic (and tawa’if) culture. Not only has he choreographed dances for other tawa’if films
(Umrao Jaan 2006, Devadas 2002), his uncle Luchu Maharaj also had a history of choreo­
graphing mujra scenes for some of the earlier classic films in this genre, including Mughal-e-
Azam (1960) and Pakeezah (1972). Moreover, another of his uncles, Shambu Maharaj, is also
known to have taught tawa’if-s in real life (Hubel 2012, 223). Birju Maharaj’s contributions to
Dedh Ishqiya thus complete the circle relating the film (and Hindi/Urdu cinema more gener­
ally) to the tawa’if, real and imagined.
Rather than simply pay homage to an earlier genre of film, or even a bygone era of Indo-
Muslim culture and prestige, the projection of the tawa’if figure onto the character of Begum
Para is the very keystone of the irony and humour that made Dedh Ishqiya so successful. For
the tables are turned in the film as the tawa’if-like figure ultimately watches the men perform
for her to reward (through the competition that brings them together, for example). Adding to

144
 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer

the witty plot twists and gendered/sexual transgressions that have become a staple of the Ish­
qiya franchise, Begum Para is moreover suggested by the film’s end to be in a lesbian relation­
ship with Munniya.11 This transgressive relationship is explained as resulting from the comfort
Begum Para found in her companion, comfort she desperately needed after her late husband’s
neglectful rejection of her due to his own homosexual/homoerotic desires. In representing the
Nawab and his londay bazi (desire for young boys), the film achieves the emasculation of the
one “real” Nawab of the film, the symbol of the political and social power of Indo-Islamic cul­
ture and tradition. This representation simultaneously draws on (and reinforces) Orientalist
ideas regarding the indulgence and consequent degeneration of Indo-Persian and Islamic cul­
ture. Muslim masculinity is thus undercut in the film for not only is the late Nawab thoroughly
effeminized, but the final joke is on Iftekhar, who watches the woman of his dreams quite liter­
ally ride off into the sunset with her apparent lesbian lover. Together, the emasculation of the
Nawab and Iftekhar—not to mention that of the other minor male characters such as Ifthekar’s
nephew, Babban, as well as his main competitor, Jaan Mohammad, who are presented some­
what comedically as incompetent in their own ways—combines with the sexual transgression
embodied by the tawa’if (including her homosociality, as well as the homoeroticism with
which she is here associated) in Dedh Ishqiya to relegate Islam to the (queer) confines of the
past. Even when this narrative is told in the present, the only space in which it is allowed is in
that ‘other’ side of Islam.

Begum Jaan: Evicting the Tawa’if from the Nation

If Dedh Ishqiya relegates the culture of the tawa’if to the archives of the past, Begum Jaan ex­
pels the tawa’if (and her culture) from the nation entirely. Based on a Bengali film by the
same director, Srijit Mukherji, Begum Jaan is the story of a kotha-as-brothel situated on the
Radcliffe line along which India and Pakistan are to be partitioned. When told by officials of
both states that she must evacuate her kotha in preparation for the imminent construction of
the border, the indomitable owner, Begum Jaan (Vidya Balan), refuses. She appeals to the
local Maharaja (Naseeruddin Shah) to intervene as patron of the kotha, but soon finds his feu­
dal power has been rendered impotent (legally and sexually) in the face of the modern
nation-state. Desperate to have her and her brothel removed, the two state officials—Illias
Khan representing the Pakistani Muslim League, and Hari Prasad representing the Indian
Congress—turn to a local thug, Kabir,12 for help. The conflict turns increasingly violent as
Kabir and his gang advance their threats against Begum Jaan and her establishment, ending
spectacularly as she makes good on her word that she would rather die like a queen in her
kotha than abandon it in defeat.
To be sure, the depiction of the women of Begum Jaan’s kotha is far from the sophisti­
cated elegance or tameez associated with the archetypal tawa’if. Instead, the women are
referred to as randi, a pejorative signifier now akin to the terms “common prostitute” or
“whore” in English. Emphasis is thus placed on the women’s identities as sex workers, conflat­
ing the apparent class, caste, and religious differences that exist between them. Begum Jaan’s
kotha is not a house of artistic pleasure and cultural refinement as were the kotha-s of the eigh­
teenth and nineteenth centuries, but rather the morally liminal space of the brothel where any
man who can afford entry is given access to the women who work there. And yet, subtle refer­
ences evoke the spectral figure of the tawa’if and the courtesan genre to strategic effect. These
initial references, I now turn to argue, make possible the gradual disavowal of the tawa’if,
which is fully achieved by the end of the film.

145
 Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 33:3 Fall 2021

We are first introduced to the kotha and its inhabitants by way of a song, which in keep­
ing with Hindi cinematic conventions, is used to further the narrative by presenting its over­
all context. The first character to be elaborated is Begum Jaan herself. With the warm
morning light bathing her from behind, Begum Jaan sensually dresses herself, drying her
long locks of open hair and applying perfume before infusing her private quarters with the
scent of incense in this moment of intimacy. This introduction associates Begum Jaan with
the lyrics of the song, which are reminiscent of earlier tawa’if film songs given their themes
of unrequited love and journeys over time and space. The thematic core of these songs is the
tawa’if’s self-reflection on her sense of place and placelessness, reflections that not only result
from the physical journeys the tawa’if has made, but from her tumultuous personal/interior
life journey as well.13
As the song continues, a pastiche of scenes revealing the other inhabitants going about
their daily lives presents the kotha as a microcosm of dynamic activity, a space in which multi­
ple actors conduct various forms of activity (licit or otherwise) simultaneously. This presenta­
tion of the kotha as social microcosm is a noted feature of the tawa’if genre, a reference to the
many people—women as well as men—who lived and worked in these spaces. Also common
is the strategic placement of mirrors used in the song sequence to show both the reflection of
the woman who gazes into it, as well as the woman herself. This time, we see an elderly
woman, presumably a Brahmin widow identifiable by her customary white sari, steal a
moment of personal pleasure by adorning her hair with a flower. As has been noted (see Chak­
ravarty 1993), such mirror scenes act as allegories for the contradictory tensions represented
by the tawa’if, tensions between permissible (patriarchal) love and illicit (female-centred) sex­
uality, between social respectability and personal autonomy. The use of the mirror here, in
combination with the extended time the camera focuses on the reflection it creates, cannot
help but reference the mirror scene made famous in Umrao Jaan (1981), despite its very differ­
ent circumstances. In short, the overall effects of this initial song sequence ground both visu­
ally and aurally the associations (and subsequent disassociations) the film draws between
Begum Jaan and the figure of the tawa’if.
Little is revealed in the film about the backgrounds of the women who live in the kotha,
[[Link]] Project MUSE (2024-05-13 07:13 GMT) University of Hyderabad

and it is left to the audience to deduce the circumstances under which they came to work for
Begum Jaan. Names and other coded signifiers (specifically their use of language, clothing
styles, and dietary restrictions) do however suggest their different religious backgrounds; there
appear to be two Muslim women, two relatively upper caste Hindu women, one ambiguously
Hindu woman, two “untouchable” Dalit women, and a young Kashmiri girl who arrives trau­
matized at the kotha, unable to speak.14 Renamed Shabnum by Begum Jaan, this young girl
remains speechless throughout the film; her real name—and thus her religious identity—is
never known. In addition to Amma, the elderly widow to whom Begum Jaan now provides
refuge and who enjoys recounting stories of (mostly Hindu) women from historical and myth­
ological accounts, the kotha is also home to the young daughter of one of the Muslim sex
workers (who is later claimed as the collective daughter of the kotha); a comedic (likely
Hindu) caretaker who has a love affair with one of the sex workers; and Salim, a Muslim secu­
rity guard who Begum Jaan took in after he was rejected by “his community” for saving a
Hindu man from a Muslim mob during the violence leading up to Partition.
In comparison to the (casually) marked others, Begum Jaan’s religious identity remains
for the most part elusive. The name Begum Jaan is suggestive of Indo-Islamic/Persianate tradi­
tion; connoting endearment in Urdu and Farsi, the suffix “Jaan” also came to be adopted by
tawa’if-s to designate their particular status. Coupled with Begum (Woman or Madam, also in
Urdu), this name is clearly an adopted moniker meant to mark Begum Jaan in reference to her

146
 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer

profession while also distinguishing her from the “randi-s” she employs. Few details of her
previous life provide more insight; all that the men who wish to evict her can deduce is that
she came from the surrounding areas but was taken to Benares as a young widow,15 and soon
escaped to Lucknow where she became a tawa’if. A brief flashback depicting Begum Jaan per­
forming in a lavish mujra—a scene that is replete with the imagery and tropes of Indo-Islamic
aesthetics and fashion discussed earlier in reference to the courtesan film genre—cements her
association with the classical tawa’if, although she does not appear to have continued to dance
upon establishing her own kotha, nor does she train those she employs in the arts. It is only in
a later flashback, also brief, depicting Begum Jaan as a child widow with shaved head being
thrown out of a widow’s colony that we get a glimpse into her previous (Hindu) life. For the
majority of the film then, Begum Jaan is presented as the tawa’if elevated above the other pros­
titutes, her religious ambiguity enabling the continued characterization of the tawa’if as always
already Muslim in this regime of representation.
In its apparent diversity, the kotha is presented (somewhat idealistically and, as will soon
become evident, problematically) as a space in which people of different religious back­
grounds cohabit in relative peace, marked not by religious dogma or behaviour but by the
codes of their religio-cultural affiliations. Even as disputes in which caste is the thinly veiled
catalyst break out between certain characters, these are immediately balanced by assertions—
even if delivered as insults—that the women of the kotha should not be concerned with caste
as they all belong to the same jaat (type/group/caste)16 as prostitutes. Similarly, when first en­
countering what she perceives to be the ridiculous proposition of partitioning “Hindu” India
and “Muslim” Pakistan, Begum Jaan asserts that “jaat [caste], iman [faith], dharma [belief in
Hindu philosophy], mazhab [Arabic word for religion]” make no difference in the kotha.
Referring to both Hindu and Muslim religio-cultural categories, Begum Jaan further high­
lights the hypocrisy of Illias Khan, Hari Prasad, and the states they respectively represent by
pointing out that even the men who frequent the kotha do not ask about the religious identi­
ties of the prostitutes with whom they choose to have sexual relations. Briefly then, the kotha
is made to represent (however uncomfortably) the secular ideal—or at the very least the “reli­
gious” balance—nostalgically attributed to pre-Partition (as well as hegemonically Hindu)
India in the present.
Such representation of the kotha as secular in its “religious” diversity can be read as having
possible historical precedence. In her ethnographic study of surviving tawa’if-s and their des­
cendants in Lucknow, Veena Talwar Oldenburg (1990, 260) argued that the kotha should
be seen as a “secular meritocracy” given the relationships she observed between the Hindu
and Muslim women who not only lived and worked side by side, but partook in each other’s
religio-cultural festivals and celebrations as well.17 Such precedence notwithstanding, the par­
ticular brand of “secularity” conjured in the film—a secularity that is infused with the politics
of the twenty-first century—grounds the first stage of the disavowal of the tawa’if that the film
enables. Problematically rendering the religious identities of the women inconsequential—that
is, something to be relegated to the private realm and therefore of no purported significance to
the narrative—the film nevertheless singles out and thus overdetermines Islam, furthering its
abject status by associating it with the culture of the tawa’if. In other words, it is against the
backdrop of a “diversity” of religious identities, identities that are nevertheless folded into the
sphere of Hindu cultural and political hegemony so as to appear relatively unremarkable, that
representations of the tawa’if’s Muslimness are made to enact the difference of religion.
This first stage of disavowal, premised upon problematic notions of secularity, is achieved
through the film’s correlation of the kotha with Islam/Muslim culture, a correlation that si­
multaneously presents as incongruous the kotha and Hinduism/ Hindu culture. When a

147
 Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 33:3 Fall 2021

scandalized group of (Hindu) men complain to the local (Sikh) police commissioner about the
negative influence of the kotha on their young and impressionable sons, for example, the
group leader qualifies his concerns with the allegation that the women drink, smoke, and hurl
dirty insults to signal their impropriety. The sarcastic response of the police officer—“What,
do you think they sing bhajans [Hindu devotional songs]”18—is successful precisely because of
the absurd opposition it posits between the kotha and a pure, devotional Hinduism. This
opposition is further extended through the multiple instances in which Hari Prasad fails to
identify the kotha or comprehend its purpose; at one point, for example, he misidentifies it as
a sarai, a resting place (caravanserai) associated with the vast trade networks across the “Mus­
lim world.”19 In stark contrast, Khan is repeatedly shown, however subtly, to be familiar with
the kotha and is often the one to correct the ignorance of his Indian/Hindu counterpart. More­
over, Khan is the only government official depicted as potentially sympathetic to the kotha, a
sympathy that culminates in his violent suicide at the film’s end (compared to Prasad who
turns to alcohol to cope with his trauma). The connection between India/Hinduism and the
tawa’if is effectively denied, while that between Pakistan/Islam and this figure are presented to
be unequivocal.
While the question of religious difference and secularism facilitates the first stage of the
tawa’if’s disavowal, the second stage is ushered in on the grounds of gender. In dealing with
the Partition of the subcontinent, the film appears to position itself as a feminist critique of the
state, albeit one that relies upon simplistically political clichés. For example, at the stroke of
that famous midnight hour, Begum Jaan does not celebrate the independence India has just
“won” but asks instead what the point of celebrating national Independence (azaadi) can be
given the ongoing foreclosure of azaadi (freedom) for women of all social ranks. The nation,
the film makes clear, belongs to the men who are free to claim azaadi, men whose interests are
placed in direct conflict with those of women writ large.
In this way, the film’s representation of Partition as gendered violence can be read as
echoing powerful feminist critiques of this violence that have emanated from scholars and ac­
tivists alike (see Menon and Bhassin 1998; Bhutalia 2000). And yet the almost pornographic
nature in which the film conveys this violence makes suspect its “feminist” pretenses. In
[[Link]] Project MUSE (2024-05-13 07:13 GMT) University of Hyderabad

another musical montage, scenes depicting the erection of the border are intersected with
those of Shabnum, the young Kashmiri not-yet-prostitute, being readied against her will to
spend the night with the Maharaja after he “requests” her in exchange for his (weakening) at­
tempts to negotiate with the new state on Begum Jaan’s behalf. As the barbed wire that will be
the barrier between the two nations is dragged across the dirt, so too is Shabnum’s body
dragged across the courtyard of the kotha; in a following scene, her eyes are lined with black
kajal, just as lines are drawn on a map dividing the subcontinent. Even more literally, a close
up depicts nails being struck into wooden posts meant to mark the border before cutting to
the Maharaja in bed with Shabnum, forcefully separating her two legs with his. This montage
marks a pivotal moment in the film, for it moves us from the kotha as alleged microcosm of
the secular to one in which the tawa’if is metaphorically—not to mention violently—split
along national borders. In light of Shabnum’s youth and innocence, the exceptional care that
is taken to adorn her with lavish jewellery and clothing (as opposed to the other women
whose encounters with men are presented as “mere” prostitution), and the semi-classical tone
of the song Begum Jaan sings at the Maharaja’s request in the fashion of a baithaki mehfil20
while he violates the young girl, all invoke the specter of the tawa’if in this scene, making her
presence palpably real in this encounter. The body of the tawa’if is here made to stand in for
that of the larger national body that is to be partitioned.

148
 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer

In its visceral and sexually loaded representation of the violent division of the land, this
scene betrays a much more disturbing political allegiance. For the discourses of Hindu nation­
alism (Hindutva) have long framed the history of the subcontinent as that of shameful viola­
tion and forceful penetration of the territorial nation, imagined as feminized motherland (for
example, see Savarkar 1928; for analysis see Bakhle 2010; Menon 2010; Jaffrelot 2007). The
events that unfold subsequent to this scene substantiate such an interpretation. For while the
film provides ample material to critique state patriarchy, it becomes clear by its end that it is
really the Gandhian state (that is, Congress) that is responsible for perpetrating Begum Jaan’s
suffering (alongside, of course, the Muslim League/Pakistan). Not only is the Congress Party
presented as the one negotiating the Partition of the subcontinent, the Gandhian social worker,
who had been earlier providing assistance to the kotha, commits the ultimate betrayal against
Begum Jaan and the (Hindu) prostitute who loved him. Such vilification of Gandhian ethics is
in standing with extreme Hindu nationalist views. While initially overlapping with some femi­
nist discourses, the film nevertheless operates on clearly identifiable religio-nationalistic terms
by its end.
The spectacular climax of the film abandons once and for all the façade of secular feminist
critique, achieving the ultimate disavowal of the tawa’if as a result. Surrounded by Kabir’s
mob, Begum Jaan and the others are not deterred. Bullets from outside the kotha fly across its
inner courtyard, forcing the women to hide behind columns as they attempt to return fire
with the riffles with which they had trained in preparation for this very moment. At one point,
the upper-caste Lata jumps in front of the Dalit woman with whom she regularly fought given
their difference in station, taking a bullet in the back. The problem of caste is thus swiftly re­
solved, with the upper-caste woman risking her life to save that of the “untouchable” and the
latter simultaneously acquiescing by referring to her social superior as ranisa or queen. Such a
resolution is of vital importance to the advancement of Hindutva ideology, a politics that re­
quires populist appeal even as it attempts to consolidate elite power. As recent elections in
India have demonstrated, for example, there has been significant outreach by Hindu national­
ist political parties to incorporate marginalized “Hindus” (Dalits as well as those whose reli­
gions are said to have been born from Hinduism, that is, Sikhs and Jains) into their
movements to strengthen their demographic (and electoral) power. Alongside the disavowal
of the tawa’if then, the film’s climax achieves the suturing of differences within and amongst
“Hindus,” presenting a unified religio-cultural community.
As the mob inches closer, Kabir’s thugs throw improvised Molotov cocktails at the kotha,
causing a large explosion and subsequently setting the entire building on fire. The surviving
women, along with Salim the Muslim guardsman, burst out of the kotha still armed with their
riffles, prepared to continue the fight outside. Salim soon succumbs to a leg injury and is set
on fire by two men. In what is presented as a benevolent gesture, Begum Jaan takes her rifle
and shoots him dead. With the realization dawning that they stand no chance, the women
cease fighting and turn to watch the kotha as it continues to be engulfed in flames. Smiling
through tears, their faces streaked with blood and ash, they calmly walk towards the building.
Once inside, Begum Jaan closes the door behind them, serene in her facial expression as she
seals their fate in this act of collective suicide.
From his perch overlooking the carnage, Kabir curses the women for not surrendering
while Prasad commands him to do more. Khan, who cannot bear the sight he witnesses, isolates
himself from the two men in a grief so complete, it will later drive him to suicide.21 With the
camera still on Khan, the sound of Begum Jaan’s voice from inside the kotha, raspy with smoke,
is heard asking Amma to recount one last story, that of Padmavati. If the visuals of the women
committing their suicidal act in such dramatic fashion are not enough to recall the idea of

149
 Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 33:3 Fall 2021

jauhar—feminized self-immolation with the objective of protecting oneself from dishonour—

Begum Jaan’s request leaves no room for equivocation. The (mythical) story she requests, that
of the medieval (thirteenth–fourteenth century) Queen Padmavati (Padmini), has enjoyed resur­
gence amongst the Hindu nationalist right for the Islamophobic interpretations with which it is
presently associated.22 Although several versions of the story exist dating to the sixteenth cen­
tury onwards, the narrative presently popularized revolves around the alleged lust of Alauddin
Khilji, the Muslim Sultan of Delhi, who allegedly sought to conquer the Rajput kingdom of
Chittor after hearing about the beauty of its queen. Rather than surrender to the Sultan after the
death of her husband, Padmavati, accompanied by numerous women from her court, commits
jauhar. Padmavati has thus become a symbol in the Hindutva imaginary of the chastity, purity,
and strength of the ideal “Hindu” woman who chooses death rather than concede herself or her
abode to the supposedly brutal barbarism associated with Islam. This final correlation of Begum
Jaan with the Hindtuva icon Padmavati at the very moment of the kotha’s (and by extension,
the tawa’if’s) demise speaks volumes.
Having effectively relegated the tawa’if and her kotha to Islam/Pakistan in the first and
second stages of disavowing this figure, the film ultimately ensures that any remnants of the
tawa’if and her culture in post-Partition India are completely and utterly destroyed in its con­
clusion. At the same time, Begum Jaan is cleansed of any alleged (religio-cultural) depravity,
re-converted into a symbol of “Hindu” purity in this blatantly nationalistic narrative of Pad­
mavati. In so doing the (Muslim) tawa’if is obliterated through her transformation into the
sati, a figure who, though produced in death, secures the lifeline of heteronormative Hindu
patriarchy. As the embers cool in the closing scenes of the film, the camera pans through the
charred ruins of the kotha, revealing the broken glass of the lanterns and chandeliers so
strongly identified now with the passing of the tawa’if. Not even confined to the past, she is
here completely annihilated in the cinematic making of this post-Partition nation.

Conclusion
Against the backdrop of Partition and the birth of the independent nation, Begum Jaan ad­
[[Link]] Project MUSE (2024-05-13 07:13 GMT) University of Hyderabad

vances disturbingly nationalistic narratives through its treatment of the tawa’if. As I have
shown, the film enables the gradual disavowal of this figure on the intersecting grounds of gen­
der and religion. Bifurcating the tawa’if, the film’s conclusion evicts this figure to “Muslim”
Pakistan while ensuring the absolute destruction of any traces that might remain of her in
India, problematically presented as “secular” despite the Hindu religio-cultural supremacy that
has come to define it. It is through this very process that the new Indian nation is presented as
coming into being. In contrast, set in post-Partition India, Dedh Ishqiya revels in the (Muslim)
grace and romance associated with the historical tawa’if. However, it too enables a disavowal
of this figure by relegating her to the confines of the past through its anachronistic representa­
tions. Not only the tawa’if, but the rich religio-cultural traditions she represents—traditions
that undoubtedly contributed to the development of Hindi/Urdu cinema in real life—are con­
tained and re-written through these celluloid representations as a result. The figure of the ta­
wa’if (along with her palpable absence) grounds the very nation that has no room for her and
all that she represents.

Notes
1. Ansari (2008) examines these contradictory representations with specific focus on questions of
agency.

150
 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer

2. I am aware that the task I have set out for myself in this paper risks reifying Islam and its appear­
ance in India, as well as perpetuating problematic and artificial religious dichotomies that contra­
dict the historical evidence of Hindu and Muslim syncretism in South Asia. However, given the
resurgence of anti-Muslim nationalism in the region, I believe this is a task that must nevertheless
by attempted.
3. The literal meaning of kotha is villa, however the term is often translated in the present as urban
salon.
4. Fatma Begum is considered to be the first female film director of Indian cinema for her 1926
Bulbul-e-Paristan; she also established her own studio, Fatma Films.
5. Referring to the present-day Bombay-based Hindi film industry, the term Bollywood encapsulates
the traits associated with this cinema since the economic liberalization and subsequent globaliza­
tion of India in 1991. Most simply, it can be seen as an extension of the Hindi film industry.
6. Originally created as an areligious alternative to the Hindu namaskar and the Muslim as-salaam
alaykum, the gesture of the adab (raising of cupped hand to one’s forehead) has nevertheless
become a key signifier of Muslim identity and etiquette.
7. To be sure, there have been film depictions of Hindu tawa’if figures, and historically a number of
real life tawa’if-s were Hindu. However, as Dwyer (2004, 84) notes, in those instances when the ta­
wa’if is Hindu she is a minor character, while the tawa’if-s that have been presented as protagonists
are always Muslim.
8. The tawa’if or courtesan genre is associated most popularly with films such as Umrao Jaan (1981
and 2006) and Pakeezah (1972), and is characterized by the mujra performance of the courtesan; the
mehfil or gathering of (mostly) men who watch her perform; the aesthetics and architecture of the
performance space (replete with rich carpets and elaborate arches); the tehzeeb or etiquette of the ta­
wa’if and her patrons; the poetic use of the Urdu language; and the overall nawabi (aristocratic) life­
style in which the tawa’if and her kotha are deeply ensconced.
9. Examples of the terrorist genre include, but are not limited to, Fiza (2000), Mission Kashmir
(2000), Fanna (2006), New York (2009), and Kurbaan (2009). Even films that attempt to counter
the representation of Muslims as terrorists, foremost of which perhaps is My Name is Khan (2010),
nevertheless hinge upon this association.
10. This association of Begum Para with the dancing tawa’if is brought out even more during the final
credits of the film, which are accompanied by Madhuri/Begum Para dancing in a style that is unde­
niably in reference to contemporary presentations of mujra dances (see Devdas 2012, for example).
The song to which she dances is a remixed version of Begum Akhtar’s thumri, Hamari Ataria,
which plays on Begum Para’s gramophone in the film (another temporalizing gesture referring to
tawa’if culture).
11. The relationship between Begum Para and Munniya gives rise to readings of the film as paying
homage to the 1942 short story, Lihaaf (Quilt), by the renowned Urdu author Ismat Chughtai.
12. Speaking to the religious ambiguities of his name, which is used by Hindus and Muslims alike, he
refers to himself as “double-duty Kabir.” However, the Brahmanical white thread Kabir is shown
wearing suggests he identifies/is identified as Hindu, even as he claims in one scene to follow only
one religion, that of money.
13. Perhaps the most iconic example of this kind of song is from the 1981 film Umrao Jaan, entitled
“Yeh kya jagge hai dosto” (“what place is this, friends?”).
14. However blatant, the significance of the young woman’s identity as Kashmiri, not to mention the
sexual violence she experiences prior to coming to and at the kotha, is nevertheless noteworthy
given the ongoing conflicts in the region.
15. Including this backstory of Begum Jaan as a widow, along with the reference to Benares, one of the
holiest cities of Hinduism, can be taken as suggestions she came from a Hindu background.
16. Jaat is also the term used for caste, allowing for this play on words.

151
 Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 33:3 Fall 2021

17. It is important to point out that Oldenburg carried out her fieldwork in the 1970s, nearly two dec­
ades before the razing of the Babri Mosque in Ayodhya, which marked a watershed moment in the
resurgence of Hindu nationalism in India and the “crisis of secularism” that ensued. Of course, the
concept of secularism in India has a complicated history, and has often abetted ongoing inequities
based on religious difference. Invocations of the term thus merit scrutiny, especially in the context
of Hindu cultural supremacy. More recently, film director Madhur Bhandarkar described how,
while conducting research for his film, Chandini Bar (2001), he “was surprised to find out that the
kotha is actually the most secular place, where there is no divide whatsoever. Neither the Hindu-
Muslim nor the rich-poor divide. There is a strong camaraderie and emotional bonding here that
stands out in stark contrast with the rest of society” (cited in Chakrabarty 2011, 136).
18. All translations of the film’s dialogues are my own.
19. Interestingly, the English subtitles of the version of the film I watched translated sarai as mosque.
While anecdotal, and indicative only of the anonymous subtitle author’s own interpretations, this
instance is telling of the ways in which Hari Prasad’s misappellation was further misunderstood
(understood?) in English to similar effect.
20. This form of performance, with its focus on the song of the performer who remains seated, is a sta­
ple of the tawa’if genre (Bhaskar and Allen 2009, 54).
21. It is noteworthy that the only two Muslim men in the film, Illias Khan and Salim Mirza, do not
survive.
22. One year after the release of Begum Jaan, controversy erupted with the 2018 release of the film Pad­
mavat, based on this same story. Ironically, the film was boycotted most strongly (and violently) by
Hindu nationalists for its depiction of the Queen. This reaction detracted attention from the bla­
tantly Islamophobic representation of the Muslim Sultan. Padmavat thus provides an illustrative
example of the discourses that currently frame this story.

References
Allen, Matthew Harp. 1997. “Rewriting the Script for South Indian Dance.” TDR 41 (3): 63–100.
Ansari, Usamah. 2008. “‘There Are Thousands Drunk by the Passion of These Eyes’. Bollywood’s Ta­
wa’if: Narrating the Nation and ‘The Muslim’.” South Asia: Journal of South Asian Research 31 (2):
290–316. [Link]
Bakhle, Janaki. 2010. “Country First? Vinayak Damodar Savarkar (1883–1966) and the Writing of Es­
sentials of Hindutva.” Public Culture 22 (1): 149–86. [Link]
Bhaskar, Ira and Richard Allen. 2009. Islamicate Cultures of Bombay Cinema. New Delhi: Tulika Press.
Bhutalia, Urvashi. 2000. The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India. Durham: Duke
University Press.
Butler Schofield, Katherine. 2012. “The Courtesan Tale: Female Musicians and Dancers in Mughal His­
torical Chronicles, c. 1556–1748.” Gender & History 24 (1): 150–71. [Link]
0424.2011.01673.x.
Caldwell, John. 2010. “The Movie Mujra: The Trope of the Courtesan in Urdu-Hindi Film.” Southeast
Asian Review of Asian Studies 32: 120–28.
Chakrabarty, Bandana. 2011. “Celebrating the Courtesan in Hindi Films: Umrao Jaan and Pakeezah.” In
Muslim Culture in Indian Cinema, ed. Jasbir Jain, 132–39. New Delhi: Rawat Publications.
Chakravarty, Sumita. 1993. National Identity in Indian Popular Cinema, 1947–1987. Austin: University
of Texas Press.
Chakravorty, Pallabi. 2008. Bells of Change: Kathak Dance, Women and Modernity in India. London:
Seagull Books.
Dwyer, Rachel. 2004. “Representing the Muslim: The ‘Courtesan Film’ in Indian Popular Cinema.” In
Jews, Muslims and Mass Media: Mediating the ‘Other’, ed. Yulia Egorova and Tudor Parfitt, 78–92.
London: Routledge.

152
 Locating the Tawa’if Courtesan-Dancer

Gupta, Shubhra. 2014. “Movie Review: Dedh Ishqiya.” Indian Express. 10 January. [Link]
com/article/entertainment/movie-review/movie-review-dedh-ishqiya/ (accessed 14 April 2018).
Hubel, Teresa. 2012. “From Tawa’if to Wife? Making Sense of Bollywood’s Courtesan Genre.” In The
Magic of Bollywood: At Home and Abroad, ed. Anjali Gera Roy, 213–33. Thousand Oaks: Sage Pub­
lications.
India Opines. 2014. “Dedh Ishqiya.” [Link]
(accessed April 14, 2018).
Iyer, Uha. 2020. Dancing Women: Choreographing Corporeal Histories of Indian Cinema. Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Jaffrelot, Chrisophe. 2007. Hindu Nationalism: A Reader. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Jaikumar, Priya. 2006. Cinema at the End of Empire: A Politics of Transition in Britain and India. Dur­
ham: Duke University Press.
Kesavan, Mukul. 1994. “Urdu, Awadh and the Tawaif: The Islamicate Roots of Hindi Cinema.” In Forg­
ing Identities: Gender, Communities, and the State in India, ed. Zoya Hasan, 244–57. London: Rou­
tledge.
Maciszewski, Amelia. 2006. “Tawa’if, Tourism and Tales: The Problematics of Twenty-First Century
Musical Patronage for North India’s Courtesans.” In The Courtesan’s Arts: Cross-Cultural Perspec­
tives, ed. Martha Feldman and Bonnie Gordon, 332–51. New York: Oxford University Press.
Manuel, Peter. 1991. “The Popularization and Transformation of the Light-Classical Urdu Ghazal
Song.” In Knowledge, Performance, and Transmission in South Asian Folk Traditions, ed. Arjun Ap­
padurai, Frank J. Korom and Margaret A. Mills, 347–61. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania
Press.
Menon, Kalyani. 2010. Everyday Nationalism: Women of the Hindu Right in India. Philadelphia: Univer­
sity of Pennsylvania Press.
Menon, Ritu and Kamla Bhassin. 1998. Borders & Boundaries: Women in India’s Partition. New Delhi:
Kali for Women.
Morcom, Anna. 2013. Illicit Worlds of Indian Dance: Cultures of Exclusion. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Oldenburg, Veena Talwar. 1990. “Lifestyle as Resistance: The Case of the Courtesans of Lucknow,
India.” Feminist Studies 16 (2): 259–87.
Pande, Mrinal. 2006. ‘“Moving Beyond Themselves’: Women in Hindustani Parsi Cinema and Early
Hindi Films.” Economic and Political Weekly 41 (17): 1646–53.
Qureshi, Regula. 2006. “Female Agency and Patrilineal Constraints: Situating Courtesans in Twentieth-
Century India.” In The Courtesan’s Arts: Cross-Cultural Perspectives, ed. Martha Feldman and Bon­
nie Gordon, 312–31. New York: Oxford University Press.
Sachdeva Jha, Shweta. 2015. “Tawa’if as Poet and Patron: Rethinking Women’s Self Representation.” In
Speaking of the Self: Gender, Performance and Autobiography in South Asia, ed. Anshu Malhotra
and Siobhan Lamber-Hurley. Durham: Duke University Press.
Savarkar, Vinayak Damodar. 1928. Hindutva: Who Is a Hindu? Bombay: Veer Sarkar Prakshan.
Shankar, Bhaskar. 2009. Mourning the Nation: Indian Cinema in the Wake of Partition. London: Duke
University Press.
Soneji, Davesh. 2012. Unfinished Gestures: Devadāsīs, Memory, and Modernity in South India. Chicago:
University of Chicago Press.
Srinivasan, Amrit. 1985. “Reform and Revival: The Devadasi and Her Dance.” Economic and Political
Weekly 20 (44): 1869–76.
Srinivasan, Priya. 2011. Sweating Saris: Indian Dance as Transnational Labour. Philadelphia: Temple
University Press.
Vanita, Ruth. 2017. Dancing with the Nation. New Delhi: Speaking Tiger Publishing.
Walker, Margaret. 2014. India’s Kathak Dance in Historical Perspective. New York: Routledge.

153