Sep 21,1998
|
|
|
|
LIVING: MUJRA A Defiled Art The romance and dignity of the ancient dance form of Rajasthan give way to cheap and vulgar entertainment with role models derived from films. By Rohit Parihar
Here in Jaipur's Chandpole Bazar, tradition is being mauled, convention brutalised. Once singers, dancers, lyricists romanced an ancient art on these lanes, spinning fantasies in kothas every day between 7 p.m. and 11 p.m. It is all gone, the tradition of the mujra has taken flight, carried away on a hot desert wind. Painted faces loll in corridors, crooking their fingers seductively beckoning at passers-by. Few go, for the present no longer has the promise of the past.
Television, that omnipotent, insidious beast, has assisted in changing all this. Baywatch, 60 minutes of remote-controlled prime flesh, is the more appetising culture; to lounge for four-five hours (at a cost) is less appealing, and in this collision of cultures the tawaif has had to compromise, mujra has had to bastardise itself, to survive. The serious dancer of kathak or ghoomar-based mujra can still be found, but as for an endangered species it requires a careful search. The other dancers who can be seen peering through window bars have become less discriminating, dancing and gyrating in imitation of a Kajol film clip. In Corner Wali Bai's kotha, the flaking paint makes the walls look wounded, only smudged lines stand as memory of the enormous mirrors that once hung there. As she summons her best student, Shabana, she says, "Even she is very fond of dancing to filmi numbers." Spirits of tawaifs passed on must cringe at the sound of Bindiya chamkegi echoing from the lanes. Karisma Kapoor has replaced Allah Jila Bai. Too much has changed. Like a beautiful painting surrounded by an equally exquisite frame, the elaborate etiquette of the mujra was as becoming as the performance itself. The rituals of courtesy like the perfume sprays, the trays of betel nut, the understanding that money was a recognition of grace, never to be demanded, have died. Now, customers are expected to pay at regular intervals, even to talk requires monetary compensation. And to watch a girl bend on her knees and use her teeth to pull away a currency note from between a man's lips is to mourn the passing of custom. To "keep distance" was once honourable. These lanes where soft voices bounced off the walls and a distant rustle of a ghungroo sent a man's heart racing are now quiet. Question shopkeepers, whose rent was determined by the elite clientele visiting kothas in their area, about tawaifs and they feign ignorance. Maybe there is guilt in that silence. These were women of uncertain but not easy virtue. As a university teacher, who returned to the kotha after a decade, recalls, "In my young days a tawaif instructed me to leave and concentrate on my studies." Later though, for some locals, the word "artiste" was replaced with "whore" -- one woman alone entertaining so many men offered only one conclusion. An art was quickly debased. Kothas were often raided by the police, searching for prostitution when none really existed. Scared, the tawaifs would inform the police about their "husbands" -- it was honourable to be the keep of a married man -- to keep them from being persecuted. The raids demeaned the profession. And was the cause for Banno Begum's retirement. "I could not digest a constable raiding my place," she says. For the elitist audience too, the police were a distasteful presence, and as they withdrew it was the commoner on whom the tawaif depended for survival. Those bound tightly to the past refuse to compromise, they just shut down their kothas. Of the 37 kothas of the 1950s, only 29 remain, these too bifurcated into tiny rooms defeating the very idea of a gathering. Thumri singer Hindon Wali Mynah, once the admitted paramour of a prince, now forbids her granddaughters from performing. "I am happy it is coming to an end in my family. There is no honour left in it." Others struggle on. Though a stage appearance backed by an orchestra was blasphemy -- not art but vulgar entertainment -- now it has become religion. At marriages and birthdays, it is the orchestra which is summoned and tawaifs have flocked to join them. Now, ironically, those who scorned the tawaif, appreciate her as a stage artist. In Dubai too, this modern mujra is preferred entertainment. As Mohinder Sharma of Parasmani Orchestra, just returned from a three-month visit there, explains, each member earns Rs 60,000 a month there, not to mention free boarding, lodging and air fare. Back home, they earn Rs 800 a show -- as tawaifs they would earn less. Yet, for all the Gulf's financial lure, so powerful is the pull of the past that some, only a few, believe that dignity is retrievable. Farida, a tawaif herself once upon a time, feels compelled to restore a maimed tradition. She valiantly defends her tribe, even the ragged custom of becoming the keep of a "married" man. Her daughters too, she swears, will follow her on to the kotha floor: "The dresses and atmosphere that a mujra demands are unaffordable given what customers are willing to pay. But we are carrying on a family tradition, we love it." In Farida's mother's kotha too, this culture is being cosseted, elegance kept alive. Jora Bai, with a voice that sounds divinely acquired, is an old-world singer and desperate to revive a forgotten time. In her kotha, where her two grand- daughters, Nargis and Shaira, dance, some measure of etiquette remains. As visitors enter, she sprinkles lime on a betel leaf and passes them to her granddaughters who must serve them. Money is never asked for, here the mujra is art. "I do not let my grand daughters go to the orchestra or Dubai," she says. "We will carry on the tradition here only." Is it defiance, or more the lament of a dying tribe? In the kotha round the corner as Shabana -- the lover of film songs -- performs another mujra sequence, nostalgia seems to overcome Corner Wali Bai. As if suddenly drawn by some primitive power, she runs on to the floor and begins to dance, song after song, as if it should all never end. Shabana watches in silent bewitchment, and then Corner Wali Bai asks Sitara Begum to sing for her. She does: "I am about to break off from the branch, hold me; It is a song of mourning; it sounds like an epitaph. |
|
|
Issue Contents | Write to us | Subscriptions | Syndication INDIA TODAY | BUSINESS TODAY | INDIA TODAY PLUS | COMPUTERS TODAY © Living Media India Ltd |
 |
 |
Using a water pipe as a
banister, the gentleman walks up steps that have been worn through time by the tread of
anxious feet. Some things are as they were. The room is well lit, the mattress and masnad
(bolster) positioned neatly on the floor, musicians straddled across a harmonium and
tabla, and two tawaifs awaiting him. But this is all, the last perfume of the past that
lingers. As Tanuja, the elder tawaif, begins to whirl around in her salwar-kurta, he is
aghast. "Where is the Rajasthani mujra dress?" he asks. Surprised, for some
girls dance in western skirts, she replies, "Yahan to sab chalta hai. We have to
arrange a mujra dress tomorrow if you want it." The tragedy goes on. A third girl,
Sabra, arrives and with a coy wink starts dancing. Not to the sensual strains of a thumri
but to the metallic sound of Dil to pagal hai, dil diwana hai. 
"Gentlemen, the world
has changed," says Banno Begum, 65, a well-known maand singer now faded by time. In
her home, where the harmonium has a "Made in Paris" label and the telephone
instrument appears to have been borrowed from Alexander Bell, nostalgia reigns. But only
that. "This is no longer an exclusive showroom where specialities are offered and
courtesies bestowed on elite customers," she says. She should know. In those days
when maharajas were to be taken seriously, she recalls Queen Elizabeth strictly adhering
to a dress code when attending a majlis organised by Raja Man Singh. Diwali meant a black
dress, Dussehra a pink, and wearing artificial jewellery an unpardonable slur. The mujra
was the dance of suggestion, a sophisticated cabaret with clothes on. To display less was
important, it demanded more from the imagination. Which is why in Pakeezah, Raj Kumar fell
in love with Meena Kumari's feet. 
