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In South Asian cinema, the depiction of tawaifs (courtesans) is a powerful mirror reflecting and reshaping societal desires and norms. The tawaif, historically, was a highly skilled and educated courtesan in Indian society, trained in music, dance, literature, politics, social etiquette, and erotic stimulation (Dewan, 2). Despite their agency and the ability to choose their lovers, tawaifs were denied the status of a wife, living lives of ironic freedom. Elite tawaifs were celebrated as artists and desired as lovers, enjoying significant prestige and wealth. However, their non-marital sexuality and the stigma associated with women in the public eye relegated them to the fringes of ‘respectable’ society (Dewan, 3). As women artists, they enjoyed lavish lifestyles and could entertain the elite, such as nawabs and rich patrons with their performances, but they could never attain the respectability or social acceptance of marriage. Their livelihoods depended on maintaining their allure, trapping them in a cycle of perpetual performance.
Over time, the theme of the courtesan and her unrequited love has remained popular in Hindi cinema. The tawaif trope in Hindi cinema offers filmmakers a way to address societal anxieties related to gender, sexuality, and control. Tawaifs often exhibit more independence and assertiveness than other female roles, with their undefined relationships with ‘respectable men’ and ambiguous personal and sexual histories adding narrative tension and intrigue (Booth 5). The contrast between a “respectable” woman and a tawaif highlights the societal barriers that prevent the tawaif from achieving a happy ending with the hero, creating a poignant, tragic heroine that resonates with audiences (Booth 1). This character aligns with the established conventions and typical roles of Hindi cinema, rendering the tawaif a recognizable and adaptable archetype.
Their heartbreak and unfulfilled desires are spectacularly portrayed through their mujra in films. The portrayal of tawaifs has significantly influenced Indian fashion and dance forms, bringing the courtesan’s elegance and tehzeeb (refinement) into mainstream popularity. These depictions have shaped contemporary fashion trends and dance styles, blending traditional aesthetics with modern sensibilities. Whether it is Meena Kumari tearfully dancing in funeral white on broken glass, with her blood stains visible on the ground, in Pakeezah, or Madhuri Dixit in a traditional green Anarkali with heavy jewelry showcasing her longing in ‘Maar Dala’ from Devdas; their pain and catharsis is visible in their art, captured in an aesthetically pleasing way to captivate the fantasies of the audience. Their dance and fashion have left a legacy that people still hold on to. In recent times, Aditi Rao Hydari’s Gaja Gamini walk and Richa Chadha’s sorrowful kathak in Heeramandi took the internet by storm. The Sanjay Leela Bhansali created web series was well-received for its aesthetics, larger-than-life sets, luxury, and the depiction of tawaifs speaking Hindustani, set against the backdrop of a syncretic India.
However, most cinematic portrayals often overlook the contributions of tawaifs in the Indian nationalist struggle, focusing instead on their tragic love stories and battles with fate. Heeramandi, as an exception, offers another dimension to the depiction of tawaifs in Hindi cinema, showing them as seeking independence from both their fates and the British Raj. This essay will first focus on how the tragic love lives of tawaifs are deeply tied to their art hence resonating with the audience, and then shift to their quest for personal and national independence, rooted in their societal marginalization with reference to Heeramandi.
Heeramandi: The Diamond Bazaar, directed by Sanjay Leela Bhansali, tells the story of tawaifs in Lahore’s Heera Mandi red-light district during India’s fight for Independence. The show centers on Mallika Jaan, the head of Shahi Mahal, a prestigious brothel. Set in the mid-1940s, the plot follows Mallika Jaan’s conflict with her niece, Fareedan, who seeks to avenge her mother’s death. It also features her daughter, Bibbo, a renowned tawaif and revolutionary spy, and her younger daughter, Alamzeb, who romances the rebellious nawab, Tajdar. Another key character is Lajjo, a courtesan battling alcoholism after being rejected by her lover, Nawab Zorawar. The tawaifs enjoy patronage from wealthy nawabs and live lavish lives. Mallika Jaan refers to tawaifs as “queens of Lahore,” reflecting her authority in Shahi Mahal, where everyone, including her family, servants, and other tawaifs, follow her orders. A woman who does sex work is often referred to as ‘Randi’ in the series and is distinguished from a tawaif. Mallika distinguishes tawaifs from sex workers, often using the term “funkaar” (artist) to refer to them and describes Heera Mandi as a place where respect for women is taught. Fareedan, who runs the opposite tawaif residence, Khwaabgah, throws parties for rich nawabs and British officials, donning British goods such as sunglasses, reading newspapers, and conducting a photoshoot displaying a high level of agency among tawaifs.
Within the Shahi Mahal, there is a clear hierarchy. The servants—Saima, Iqbal, Satto, and Phatto—are treated poorly by Mallika Jaan, who cannot tolerate Saima shining as a singer because she wants Alamzeb to be the next huzur of Heera Mandi. This hierarchy can be traced back to the mixed lineages of the characters. When a nawab forms a relationship with a tawaif, any resulting daughters stay with their mothers, while the sons are sold or sent to other nawabs. As Bibbo notes, “Heeramandi mai bahut saare nawabo ki auladein palti hai” (Heera Mandi raises many children of nawabs). Alamzeb herself is the daughter of Mallika Jaan and her chief patron, Nawab Zulfikar. However influential they were as artists, in Heeramandi there is a palpable tension as despite their power and wealth, the tawaifs still desire to return to male-centered domesticity. Jayati Ganguly asserts that the identity of the tawaif is shaped by various constructs such as history, sexuality, education, gender, class, power, politics, ideologies of ethics, economic status, and the “institution of marriage” as a marker of respectability (238). In Heera Mandi, these constructs are vividly depicted, portraying tawaifs both as entertainers and complex individuals influenced by their historical and socio-economic contexts of the 1940s. Their education and cultural sophistication create a paradox: their artistic talents earn them respect, while their non-marital sexual roles lead to societal scorn. In Heera Mandi, tawaifs wield significant control, often tied to their art of seduction and scheming. Despite this, they face exploitation and constraints from patriarchal and colonial forces. Their economic stability is precarious, reliant on the favor of patrons, and they are compelled to follow British orders.
In Heeramandi, the tragic love stories of tawaifs captivate audiences more than political or hierarchical elements. Their narratives of incomplete and unrequited love are vividly portrayed through music and dance (mujra), highlighting their emotional depth and inner turmoil. This depiction reflects their marginalized socio-historical position within a patriarchal society that both values and stigmatizes their art and sexuality. While Heeramandi emphasizes the tawaifs dramatic experiences and uses creative liberties for aesthetic appeal, it also humanizes them, revealing their struggles and state of mind, and transforming their portrayal from mere performers to individuals with profound emotional experiences that translate onto their art.
Lajjo is a renowned tawaif who falls in love with a nawab named Zorawar, a man far above her social standing. She performs a sorrowful mujra at his wedding shortly before dying from excessive drinking and heartbreak. Unable to accept that her “sahab” is marrying someone of his social class, she is even willing to be a co-wife. Lajjo embodies someone deeply and destructively in love suggesting that love for a tawaif only leads to self-destruction. The dynamic of the tawaif’s life as a perpetual performance is especially poignant. She must navigate the expectations of her patrons, who demand entertainment but not aspirations of wifehood while managing her own emotional and economic needs as a tawaif. The societal and economic structures of Heera Mandi (the place) reinforce this separation, as the tawaif’s survival often hinges on her ability to maintain this duality. This is highlighted when other courtesans urge Lajjo not to attend Zorawar’s wedding to perform mujra but Mallika Jaan says, “Iska dil toota hai; ab bani asli tawaif (Her heart is broken; now she has become a true tawaif),” encapsulating the notion that a woman truly embraces the life of a courtesan when her heart shatters. Mallika Jaan believes that heartbreak marks a pivotal moment in a tawaif’s life. This is the juncture where a tawaif must choose between pursuing romantic love (ishq) and continuing her life as a courtesan, a choice often fraught with societal expectations and personal sacrifices. When a tawaif decides to embrace her role over her desires, she channels her emotions and experiences into her art, particularly through mujra. This artistic expression becomes a powerful outlet for her suppressed feelings, allowing her to convey the depth of her sorrow, longing, and unfulfilled desires. This concept is poignantly illustrated through Lajjo’s character. She is seen crying and drunk at her lover’s marriage; the song connects loss with her masoom dil (innocent heart), which is seen as deserving of being broken (issey tod diya jaye). Her lover is bade naam wale (of high status) while she is badnaam (disgraced), encapsulating the forbidden romance between a nawab and a tawaif. However, she transforms her heartbreak into a sorrowful kathak performance at her lover’s wedding, dancing while tears stream down her face. This scene highlights the profound irony and tragedy of her situation—her pain and suffering are laid bare, yet she must perform and entertain because she is a tawaif.
Lajjo’s dance is not merely a performance but an emotional catharsis, implying that a tawaif’s true liberation and expression come through her art, which serves as both a refuge and a prison. While she may not find fulfillment in personal love, she finds a profound sense of identity and purpose in her artistic expression. This duality underscores the tragic beauty of the tawaif’s existence: her art is both her salvation and her confinement. It highlights the broader separation between the tawaif as an object of desire and her romantic aspirations. The tawaif’s allure and desirability define her identity, yet this same identity restricts her from fulfilling her desires. This paradox functions as a form of imprisonment, trapping the tawaif in a role that denies her autonomy.
Another instance of a tawaif’s tragic romance in the show is the relationship between Mallika Jaan’s younger daughter, Alamzeb, and the rebellious young Nawab Tajdar. Their love-at-first-sight story begins with a shared passion for poetry and quickly intensifies as they aspire to marry, despite their conflicting backgrounds of a tawaif and a nawab. Both Mallika Jaan and Tajdar’s father oppose the match—Mallika Jaan says, “Dil se toh dua nikalti hai aap khush rahe aabaad rahe par hum jaante hain tawaif ki mohabbat ka anjaam” (From the heart, a prayer emerges for you to be happy and prosperous, but I know the fate of a tawaif’s love). She wishes for her daughter’s independence through marriage but also understands the tragic fate of a tawaif’s love. Mallika Jaan often speaks of a tawaif’s destiny, using terms like “muqaddar” and “kismat,” (fate) warning her daughters about the peril of falling in love while being a tawaif. She asserts, “Heeramandi kismat hai aur kismat kabhi chodhi nahi jaati” (Heera Mandi is a fate, and fate can never be abandoned). This dialogue reveals how society imposes an unchangeable destiny on tawaifs. By labeling their role as “kismat,” society limits their choices and reinforces the notion that they cannot escape their predetermined roles. Almazeb is not allowed to be a poetess, Lajjo cannot be a wife, and Bibbo cannot be a revolutionary; they are confined to being performers.
Rebellion surrounds Alamzeb and Tajdar’s love story, with Tajdar forced to choose between his relationship with Alamzeb and his role as a revolutionary who must not put other revolutionaries in danger. The other revolutionaries fear that Alamzeb might come between Tajdar’s duties and become a hindrance to their goal. To which Alamzeb says, “Mohabbat aur bagawat aur ishq aur inquilab ki beech koi lakeer nahi hoti (There is no line between love and rebellion, between romance and revolution).” A tawaif’s desire for Ishq is seen as an act of rebellion. For her, “ishq” (love) becomes synonymous with “inquilaab” (revolution). Thus, the personal transcends into the political realm, with the tawaif’s body becoming a battleground for both personal and national freedom.
Under Company rule, patriarchal norms codified rigid control over female sexuality and emphasized marriage as essential for all women. These norms judged all native women by this standard, punishing any custom-based female sexual activity outside of marriage as ‘incontinence, ‘unchastity,’ or ‘prostitution,’ thereby conflating the identities of tawaifs and prostitutes (Dewan, 48). Perceived as mere sex workers or nautch girls by the British officials in the series, tawaifs struggle to preserve their remaining identity at the brink of India’s independence. In Heeramandi, the depiction of tawaifs places their bodies at the center of a struggle that mirrors the larger fight for the nation’s soul. They are depicted as fighting for both “Tan” (body) and “Watan” (motherland). Bibbo, one of the characters, voices her aspirations to other courtesans, lamenting,
Azadi ki kimat humse zyada kaun jaanta hai? Sharaafat humne chhod di, mohabbat ne hume chhod diya. Ab sirf bagawat humari zindagi ko maayne de sakti hai. Bas ek baar mujre wali nahi, mulk wali banke sochiye” (Who knows the price of freedom better than us tawaifs? We’ve forsaken respect, love has forsaken us. Now only rebellion can give meaning to our lives. Just once, don’t think of us as dancers, but as those who belong to the nation).
The tawaifs fight for independence from being perceived solely as performers with commercial value. A nawab could buy her mujra on the eve of his wedding to another woman, an angrez (british) could command her presence and order her to perform at his place, sexually assault her, and her lover could take liberties by having multiple lovers against her wishes.
In the first episode, Bibbo discusses the dreams of courtesans with Alamzeb and Lajjo, stating, “Soney ke pinjare mai phadphadate rehte hai aur khwab azadi ki dekhte hai” (we flutter in golden cages but dream of independence). This metaphorical representation reflects their yearning for independence beyond their current societal roles. When Lajjo expresses her anticipation of freedom, Bibbo’s response, “Will Zorawar Sahab marry you?” implying that for a tawaif, “Azadi” (freedom) can only be achieved through marriage (wifehood). Later this search for a definitive identity—whether as a poetess, revolutionary, or wife—represents a rebellion against the dual identity imposed on tawaifs. This rebellion is viewed as a struggle both for personal liberation and for the nation. For tawaifs, freedom from their metaphorical “golden cage” entails marrying and embracing an identity beyond that of a performer with commercial value. They seek acceptance of their profession as distinct from their sexuality, a recurring struggle in the show where they constantly remind others of the difference between a sex worker and a tawaif, whom they regard as artists. Lajjo is seen looking for an emotional connection through marriage-as-legitimacy. Meanwhile, Bibbo, passionate about her desire for independence from the British, uses her identity as a tawaif to pass confidential information from her patron to other revolutionaries and often donates her money to the cause. However, none of them are allowed to do so freely. Their overstepped boundaries results in deaths (of Lajjo, Alamzeb’s lover Tajdar, and Bibbo), further illustrating the influence of fate and how it has entrapped them in a cage.
In her book Tawaifnama, Saba Dewan delves into the involvement of courtesans in nationalist movements during colonial rule, emphasizing how deep-seated stigmatization has obscured their participation (Dewan, 86). Due to colonial and patriarchal morality, society stigmatized their non-marital sexuality as “impure” and unworthy of respect, conflating their profession with prostitution. As public entertainers, courtesans were often likened to prostitutes, and their kothas, where they hosted nawabs and other affluent men, were labeled as brothels. Heeramandi transcends the typical portrayal of tawaifs by exploring their tragic fates and the cathartic nature of their art, highlighting their vanishing identity and societal marginalization. The show underscores the irony of a kotha, deemed unrespectable, becoming a critical site for nationalist activity. It invites viewers to recognize tawaifs not only for their artistic and social roles but also for their significant, albeit often overlooked, impact on the nationalist movement.
While continuing the tragic trends of Hindi cinema, Heeramandi adds complexity by linking the tawaifs aspirations with a yearning for Azadi and a unified identity within the national independence movement. Bhansali’s vision presents tawaifs as individuals with agency amd not just objects of desire. The series poignantly captures the duality of their lives—where their art serves as both a refuge and a prison, and their existence reflects cultural refinement and tragic love. Their liberation struggle is symbolized by their bodies becoming battlegrounds for personal and national issues. Through characters like Lajjo, Alamzeb, and Bibbo, Bhansali illustrates the profound impact of unrequited love and the tawaifs’ quest for freedom, making their stories deeply resonant and reflective of their complex history.
Amrohi, Kamal, Director. Pakeezah, 1972, Mahal Pictures and Sangeeta Enterprises, Film.
Booth, Gregory D. “Making A Woman From A Tawaif: Courtesans as Heroes in Hindi Cinema.” New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies ,9.2 (2002): 1-26
Dewan, Saba. Tawaifnama. Context, 2022.
Ganguly, Jayati. “Reading the ‘Tawaif’: A Study of Pakeezah, Umrao Jaan, Tawaif and Devdas.” Middle Flight 7.1 (2018): 237-251.
Bhansali, Sanjay Leela, Director. Heeramandi, 2024, Netflix, www.netflix.com.
Harsh Choudhary is a student of literature, media studies, and international relations at Ashoka University. He is always keen to explore diverse fields and incorporate multi-dimensional perspectives into his work.
