Singing Of Shringaar: Negotiating Female Desire In 20th Century Hindi Cinema

      In Casablanca (1942), Ilsa makes an impassioned plea to Rick, “Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time.” Leading ladies in Hindi films, unfortunately, are rarely afforded the same frankness and have historically been confined to more subtle means of expressing their longings. The celebration of feminine desire on-screen is rare; rarer still are women who take the onus of their own desires. Gyrating hips or bashful glances, wanton vamps or comically aggressive cougars – female sexuality is constructed on-screen either to echo male fantasies or to be the butt of the joke. Remember Sweetu from Kal Ho Naa Ho? 

      While male sexuality and male fantasies of female sexuality are veritably normalized, any instance of women expressing their needs and fantasies inevitably raises hackles (and eyebrows).  Caught forever between the Virgin/Whore dichotomy, women in Hindi cinema of the twentieth century found the song-and-dance sequence as the solitary site where they could negotiate their desires and fantasies. 

    The much-maligned song-and-dance sequence—a quintessential fixture of Hindi films since the inception of the talkies—are often considered superfluous interruptions rather than important narrative devices. But when used skilfully, these sequences can be powerful storytelling tools packing a punch that scores of dialogues or lengthy visual scenes cannot match. Take ‘Ek Haseena Thi’ from Karz (1980), for instance. Sure, the song sequence could easily be swapped out for a few minutes of dialogue. But can that ever produce the same dramatic effect that the song sequence delivers?The iconic song-and-dance numbers of Hindi cinema have their origins in ancient Sanskrit dance-dramas and regional theatrical forms such as Nautanki, Khyal, and Parsi theatre. From the traveling Urdu-Parsi theatre troupes of the past to the grand productions of today, the tradition of “singing out stories” has been an integral part of Indian storytelling. Historically, music traditions have often provided a space for women to explore their desires, even in a patriarchal society where female erotic desire is seen as transgressive. A notable example is the Thumri from Hindustani music, which frequently conveyed women’s desires and experiences through sensual and sometimes erotic verses. This tradition of musical storytelling found its way into Hindi cinema and became a cornerstone of the industry. 

    Song sequences in Hindi cinema often open up a realm beyond conventional narrative constraints. While the primary storyline needs to adhere to logical progression and societal norms, musical interludes are not subjected to the same rigidity. These scenes can whisk characters away to picturesque locales or provide a subversive space where women can confess love and indulge in physical intimacy that would be considered taboo in the main narrative. Songs served as a language for the inexpressible, enabling characters to articulate emotions that might otherwise remain concealed. At times, they publicly declared love, while in other instances, they offered intimate confessions.

    It is perhaps only in a song that a demure housewife like Sudha in Ijaazat (1987) can declare “Pyaasi Hoon Main, Pyaasi Rehne Do” (If I’m left thirsty, let it be so) or Sandhya in Woh Kaun Thi? (1964) can say “Lag Ja Gale Ki Phir Ye Hasin Raat Ho Na Ho” (Embrace me, for this beautiful night may not come again) without transgressing the bounds of propriety.

     Depicting the nuances of female sexuality and desire proves to be a herculean task for mainstream media that oscillates between the extremes of either silencing women’s desires or commodifying them through ‘item songs.’ Ironically, Indian cinema is nothing if not verbose, with its grand dialogues and long-winded soliloquies. Yet, it seems to falter when it comes to giving a voice to feminine desire. If there is one thing that unites the female characters in Hindi cinema of the 20th century, it is their depiction as almost sexless creatures. This reflects a broader cultural context where sexuality, though central to human experience, has forever been relegated to the realm of taboo. In a society so allergic to discussing women’s sexuality, these song sequences, even when crafted by male artists, became vehicles for navigating the complex terrain of female desire on screen, often featuring symbolic expressions of eroticism without making their puritanical audience seek their smelling salts.

    In ‘Aaiye Meherbaan’ from Howrah Bridge (1958), Madhubala sways sensuously to O.P. Nayaar’s music. Though set in a hotel, the song departs from the typical cabaret number, opting for a subtler scene of seduction. Madhubala smiles coyly at Ashok Kumar, likening his gaze to a lightning bolt striking her heart:

Dekha Machal Ke Jidhar, Bijli Giraa Di Udhar

Kiskaa Jalaa Aashiyaan, Bijli Ko Ye Kyaa Khabar

Wherever your playful gaze fell, a lightning bolt struck there

What does the lightning care about whose home it burnt