Pakeezah and Symbolism

Upon its release, Kamal Amrohi’s Pakeezah received predominantly negative reviews, and was considered a flop by both critics and the public. It wasn’t until the death of the film’s heroine, Meena Kumari, that the film gained popularity amongst Hindi cinema audiences. Now viewed as a classic of the courtesan genre, Pakeezah grapples with notions of female sexuality and the role of women in modern India, and features a wealth of visual and audiovisual symbolism.

             

            The film opens with a shot of Nargis (played by Meena Kumari) dancing around a burning fire in the middle of a kotha. She is dressed in white, a symbol of purity, and appears almost joyful as she expresses herself freely through the artful motions of her dance. “The deepest allure of the figure of the courtesan, Amrohi suggests, lies not in her sexuality per se, but rather in her exquisite mastery of the arts of dance and song, whose expressive purity conveys the essential value of the courtesan.” (Allen, 2009) While traditionally a place of art and sexual freedom the kotha is framed more as a tomb than a stage. “Her body is itself her tomb in the sense that although from her point of view her performative body is conceived as a pure expression of spirit—as evoked in the opening sequence, from the point of view of the largely unseen clients that she entertains, it is, at least incipiently, available for their sexual pleasure.” (Allen, 2009) When Shahabuddin enters the kotha he is backlit by a square of light that makes him appear like an angelic savior. The metaphor of the kotha as a tomb is further entrenched when Nargis flees Shahabuddin’s home in disgrace to take up residence in a cemetery. By taking up residence in a cemetery her environment reflects her emotional state, alerting the audience that she is dead inside. After Nargis passes she is buried in an unmarked grave, which symbolizes her lack of personhood as a courtesan, because according to the film only married women are truly realized persons.

            Nature has served as a metaphor for sexuality in literature throughout time and across cultures, and Pakeezah is no exception, with birds in particular playing a special role in the film. The wealthy Nawab Khan gifts Sahibjaan with a caged songbird, which casts the courtesan life as one in which women are not free to make their own choice, or more accurately, not free to pursue the life of a married woman. When Sahibjaan later frees the caged bird she symbolically communicates that she is releasing herself from the “shackles” of the kotha in favor of finding true love. During the scenes at Salim’s forest camp Sahibjaan is enchanted by the pastoral countryside, which stands in stark contrast to the gaudy décor of the kotha. The countryside symbolizes traditional notions of romantic love, and acts as a sounding board for Sahibjaan’s desires to escape the life of a courtesan and pursue romantic love.

            During the scene where Salim Ahmed Khan first encounters Sahibjaan in the compartment of a train he is enticed by her feet and the jangling of the bells that adorn her ankles. These bells are a symbol of Sahibjaan’s sexuality and her art, but also function as a manacle that tie her to the life of the courtesan. “The courtesan figure camouflages a deep-seated anxiety about female independence from men in its function as a fetishized “other” to the dominant female character, the wife or wife-wannabe, whose connotation is so over determined in mainstream Indian society that her appearance in Hindi cinema seems mandatory.” (Hubel, 2012) In the letter that Salim leaves for Sahibjaan he remarks on the beauty of her feet, and tells her not to let them touch the ground. His entreaty serves to enforce the notion that women should shun independence and self-expression through work in favor of subservience to men as devoted wives. When Sahibjaan reveals herself as a courtesan to Salim the bells, which before sounded so enticing, clang with a clamorous tone, implying that to be courtesan is a deplorable profession, despite all the evidence to the contrary that has been presented up to this point in the film.

            In one of my favorite scenes of the film Salim rides up to his forest camp astride a horse appearing like a knight, a heterosexual paragon of masculinity. The conversation that ensues between Sahibjaan and Salim is conducted through the walls of the Salim’s tent. Salim sees only Sahibjaan’s shadow, symbolizing Salim’s limited point of view; he sees her as a fetishized sexual object rather than a flesh and blood person. Additionally, he sees her as the woman he wants her to be rather than the woman she actually is. The tent serves as a faux veil of purity that surrounds Sahibjaan and cleanses her of her transgressions, but it also traps her within a structure that compels her to perform the role of the demure and doting wife. On the other hand Salim is outside the tent, and, as a man, free to do what he chooses. There is a great shot the shows the Sahibjaan and Salim facing camera and speaking to each other on each side of the tent. The shot implies that the structures of society – the tent – prevent men and women speaking to each other candidly and from understanding each other motives.

            The symbolism in Pakeezah can at times be downright obvious. The name given to Sahibjaan by Salim – Pakeezah – means “pure,” and draws a clear association between marriage and notions of purity, simultaneously casting the life of a courtesan as impure. At other times Amrohi's touch is more subtle and artful. The kite that gets in the tree at the Pink Palace symbolizes the cessation of Sahibjaan’s dream of romantic freedom. When we see it again the kite is in tatters, symbolizing that Sahibjaan has resigned her self to her life as  courtesan. The historical context of the courtesan as a sexually liberated artist stands in contrast to the film's fetishized version of the courtesan as a slave to immoral sexual practices and denied the benefits allowed honorably married women. This combination of obvious and subtle audio and visual symmetry served to make Pakeezah a complex film that extrapolates both the hypocrisies and grace of the courtesan genre of films in Hindi cinema. 

Mother Indian and Feminine Discourse

Released in 1957 to critical and public acclaim, Mother India by Mehboob Khan accomplished feats unparalleled by any Hindi film up till that time. The film engaged the audience in a complicated discourse about femininity in post-colonial India, and portrayed a complex female heroine who experienced transformative change onscreen to become an allegorical symbol for nationalism, morality, and femininity in modern India. “Mother India is most usefully seen as an arena within which a number of discourses around female chastity, modern nationalism, and, more broadly, morality intersect and feed on each other, with significant political effects.” (Thomas, 1989) Radha’s traditional female Indianness in reinforced from the opening scenes of the film. An elderly Radha is first depicted seated on the ground clutching a clod of dirt to her face. This shot immediately establishes her as stature as a metaphor for Mother Earth. In the ensuing marriage sequence her chasteness is well established; she wears a veil that cover her face, and in Ramu’s symbolic lifting of the veil her purity is reinforced. She and other women in the film are frequently filmed hiding their faces with the bangles on their wrists, which serve as a metaphor for preserving honor, or izzat. These and other instances of physical symbolism confirm Radha’s status as the quintessential Indian woman, one who is demure and chaste.

Khan and Nargis beautifully elevate the politics of Radha’s femininity throughout the film. “As Wadley has pointed out, in the Hindu tradition not only does femaleness embody a fundamental duality – woman as bestower and as destroyer – but female sexual energy is always potentially dangerous but can become beneficent (to men) if controlled through marriage or otherwise subjugated to male authority.” (Thomas, 1989) At the start of marriage, Radha massages her husband Ramu’s feet, denoting her service to his needs. She lets her sons drink from her cup, eat from her plate, and sleep in bed with their father while she sleeps on the floor below them further adding credibility to the theory of marriage as a mechanism for female control. However, when Ramu loses the use of his arms after a boulder crushes him, Radha begins to take on the role of the provider for the family. When her husband leaves the family due to his unbearable shame the transformation of Radha from human mother to Earth mother is complete; she loses her sindoor, signifying the end of her marriage to Ramu, and instead she becomes married to the land. Rather than her physical body being a symbol for fertility her metaphorical body – the land around her – becomes the medium for fertility. When her fellow villagers make to abandon the land – the symbol for national pride – it is Radha who convinces them to renew their metaphorical vows to the land. In doing so, Radha unites the families together through the spirit of hard work and ownership of the land, which culminates in the overtly nationalistic shot of pre-division India, enforcing the theory of woman as a metaphor for the nation and nation building.

In one of the most memorable scenes from the film, Radha confronts the moneylender Sukhilal in his home. While the moneylender is clean and well dressed, Radha wears a filthy sari and is covered in mud. This shot challenges the viewer to separate the characters from their appearance and see them for what they represent; Sukhilal, a devious leech who preys on the weak and ignorant, and Radha, the noble martyr who devotes her life to her family and, ultimately, her nation.

“Radha’s defiant refusals of Sukhilal’s advances thus is constructed less as a stand against male sexual oppression of women than as evidence of faith in Lakshmi and as a refusal to dishonor her husband and hence her suhaag.” (Thomas, 1989) At first glance it is easy to agree with Thomas’s assessment. Radha grips the Sukhilal’s shrine, which could be construed as her clinging to traditions, and beseeching help from the gods. Yet immediately after this Radha throws caution to the wind and beats Sukhilal with her bare hands till he falls prostrate at her feet. This use of violence clearly uses fire to fight fire by using archetypal male violence to counter Sukhilal’s villainy. Throughout the film, Radha is seen as being pulled in conflicting directions; she is pulled by Ramu and Birju in the fight over the stolen bangles and the gun, and between feeding her family and retaining her own personal honor. In each instance she performs how best she sees fit, in accordance with how she believes she should act according to her own moral code and the laws of society.

The relationship between Birju and Radha becomes an intricate landscape where masculinity and femininity are navigated with increasing intersexuality. From the get go Birju is set up to become a dacoit, or armed outlaw. He is an aggressive and disobedient child whose first answer to any problem is always violence. As an adult Birju’s overt masculinity and violent behavior becomes magnified. He is frequently pictured wearing a red turban at a cockish angle, a sign of his rakishness. On multiple occasions Birju throws stones at the water pots carried by the unmarried village women, which is his way of blindly lashing out at an unjust world regardless of the consequences. Despite all Birju’s bad behavior he is also seen to be interested in learning to read, a symbol that one villager sagely warns can make men weak. He also refuses to violate Chandra’s chastity when he raids her wedding caravan; he lifts up her veil, but lets it immediately fall, keeping her purity intact. Throughout it all, Birju remains Radha’s favored son; she admires his strength and passion, and in many ways he takes the place of her late husband. Birju returns her pawned wedding jewelry to her, signifying the restoration of her lost honor, and he fights the battle against Sukhilal that no one else is willing to fight. In the end it is only Birju’s attempted rape of Rupa that drives him away from his beloved mother; this most grievous breach of honor and morality is intolerable by Radha, who by the end of the film has become symbol for all the women of the village. She becomes the embodiment of the female God and destroyer Kali when she confronts and kills Birju, restoring the delicate balance that Birju has upset. Just as Birju was once the protector of his mother’s honor, Radha becomes the protector of female chasteness and honor.  

Pyaasa and Filming Hunger

            Directed by Guru Dutt, Pyaasa is one of the most cherished films to come out of India in the past century. The movie tells the story of Vijay, a troubled young poet searching for recognition of his art. Vijay experiences a taste of fame only to have it stripped away from him by the scheming of his employer, brothers, and supposed friends. Pyaasa is a social film that reflects the feelings of loss and disenfranchisement felt by many in postcolonial India. In particular the theme of hunger is of particular importance to the film; hunger is not only an important plot point, but inspires critical compositional themes that set the tone for the entire film. The title, Pyaasa, translates to thirst, and is a perfect metaphor for the film, that of longing for what you need to live, but also suffering. The film includes lines like, “In life, besides love and poetry, there’s hunger,” which further underscores the motif of hunger.

           

            Pyaasa is a film of shadows and light, and represents a monumental achievement in natural cinematography. Dutt and Murthy used natural lighting and shadows to create scenes that are full of depth, and skillfully draw the audience’s attention to certain areas on screen while carefully veiling others. The use of shadows and light enhance the motif of hunger, as the exchange of what is seen and unseen creates an imbalance that leaves the audience yearning for realization. When Vijay first encounters Gulab he follows her through the columned walkways and alleys of the city as she lures him to her home (and place of work); there is mystery and allure in this scene, as our eyes are pulled to the dark places where we can not see but our hearts encourage us to search. The dark and unknown spaces are fetishized throughout the film to such an extent that the cinematography even bleeds into the writing. Vijay’s book of poems for which he achieves great fame is entitled “Shadows,” harkening to the influence of shadows on the Guru Dutt’s vision for the film. When Vijay reveals himself to the crowd at his memorial service, his frame is backlit, so his features are hidden in shadow; this speaks to the fact that he has lost his identity, and has become disembodied through the betrayal of personhood by his family and friends. During the ensuing riot brought about by the revelation of his existence, shadows are used to highlight the intensity of the scene, as people in the crowd lose their defining features and become more like monsters or beasts lurking in the shadows, hungry for the opportunity to lash out in the confusion of chaos behind a veil of anonymity. The final shot of the film depicts Gulab and Vijay walking hand in hand away from the camera and into a hazy mist; their identities become blurred, and we recognize them as allegories for the lost and disenfranchised voices of their generation.

            The music of S.D. Burman plays a very prominent role in Pyaasa, particularly in heightening the melodrama of particular scenes or creating moments of cognitive dissonance. For example, when Vijay is first spotted by his mother walking the streets of the city at the beginning of the film, Burman’s score soars to a dramatic crescendo, with all the strings plying to imbue the scene with a sense of pathos and longing; it lets us know that this encounter is meaningful, and painful, particularly for Vijay’s mother, who feels as if her son has abandoned her. Her only desire is to feed him, to provide sustenance for her favored son, and in doing so to give her life meaning as a mother. Later, I was struck by the shrill quality of the speaking voice of the masseuse, Abdul Sattar, particularly in comparison to his pleasant singing voice. There is a clear disconnect hear, with Guru Dutt and Burman saying that appearances are not always as they seem. Ambient sound also plays a subtle role in the film. We often hear the chirping of crickets in night scenes involving Vijay, which beckons the audience to view him as in communion with nature. The sounds of nature such as the crickets are a reflection of the emptiness inside Vijay as he searches for recognition that he hopes will give his life meaning; he is ravenous for artistic achievement, but is met only with the sounds of silence. When Vijay is committed to an insane asylum for claiming to be himself (ironically), there is a great scene where we see Vijay sitting on the floor surrounded by his fellow inmates. Dutt masterfully uses sound and silence to create beautiful tension on screen; despite being the only sane person in the room, Vijay is the only one who is quiet, refusing to project his frustration.

            Eyes are extremely sensual objects. Over the centuries, stories about eyes have emerged insinuating that eyes can bewitch men, turn people to stone, or even kill. In Pyaasa, Guru Dutt uses the close up, particularly drawing attention to actor’s eyes, to create scenes of tension and expressiveness. “To get proper expressions from the artist, to convey to the audience the intensity of those expressions. Shooting mainly in mid or long shots would not have given those expressions in that way. For him, everything had to be in close shot. (Murthy, 1999) Dutt utilizes close ups through a large portion of the scene where Gulab and Vijay first meeting, focusing particularly on Gulab’s eyes, which are sharp and alluring. Gulab’s hypnotic gaze entices Vijay to follow her to her home, where she hopes to make him a customer; her eyes are not glamorous, but that of a cunning albeit playful predator. She enamors Vijay, and we can see the hunger in his features as he stumbles seemingly without choice after her; his curiosity creates a burning desire inside him to learn how she knows of his poetry. Later, when Vijay and Meena encounter each other in the elevator, Dutt and Murthy use a close up to create the impression that they are the only two people in the elevator. They drink up each other’s faces, and become lost in the carnal orgy of reverie over their past romantic relations.

            Movement and framing are other important compositional elements to the film. Unlike many other directors of the time, Guru Dutt utilized movement to create dynamic shots that personified emotional undercurrents of the film or created dramatic tension. “Others just used to keep the camera fixed, have the actors perform the song, walking in or out of frame and have a few cut to close-up shots, that’s all. But Guru Dutt was not like that at all. He emphasized movements and that too in close-up shots.” (Murthy, 1999) For example, during the scene where Vijay and Meena meet in the elevator, as Vijay is leaving the elevator screen closes shut and Meena is left behind. Her face is framed by the bars the screen, giving the impression that she is trapped against her will; she is like a caged animal, her eyes hungry with sensual yearning for times past. Later, Dutt and Murthy uses movement to create wonderful tension in the scene where Gulab runs away from a police constable; beginning with successive shots of Gulab’s and the constable’s feet, followed by panning shots of the two running, the scene is reminiscent of a scene in nature, that of a hawk bearing down on a helpless field mouse, hoping for a kill. My favorite shot occurs when Vijay’s paper are scattered by the wind in Gulab’s home after his supposed suicide; his poetry assaults her, and she is shocked by the onslaught of his words as they now drift about without him. We can sense her longing for his presence, and the words – which one comforted her – now bring her pain, but she clings to them nonetheless, because they are all she has left to remember him.

            Pyaasa broke a number of conventional cinema norms upon its release; the use of camera movement in musical shots, a female heroine who is also a prostitute, an unhappy editing. The film is a powerful melodrama that utilizes unique compositional elements designed to propel the emotional tension of the story. In Pyaasa, hunger becomes a motif that speaks to the disenfranchisement of the common man, and the desire for self actualization that – for most – never materializes in the face of overwhelming societal pressure to perform and be productive.

Shri 420 - Nationalism and Citizenship

In Shri 420, Raj Kapoor navigates themes of nationalism and citizenship through the story of Raj, the oft-misguided but sympathetic hero of the film.  Released in 1955, Shri 420 is typical Hindi melodrama with a social conscience, a product of both the influence of Charlie Chaplin’s filmography on Kapoor as well as the state of affairs in post-colonial Indian. This period, known as the Nehru years, bore witness to a significant change in the socioeconomic and political climate in Indian. “The Nehru years (1945-1965) witnessed the welling up of post-independence optimism as well as its ebbing away.” (Sahai, 1987) We see the optimism of the common man reflected in the aspirations of the footpath dwellers, whom, upon meeting Raj – or Raju, as he is affectionately called – espouse their belief in his ability to achieve success in Bombay. “Listen, I told you the poor man’s ‘Raj’ will come some day.” This statement reflects the desire of the common man to see one of their own overcome the odds. We later see Kapoor deflate this optimism during one of Raj the tramp’s musings. “To see this wretched world you have to look at it upside down.” In this statement, Kapoor coyly undermines the moral fabric of the Hindi film universe by casually asserting that to get ahead in life you have to consider the immoral, the perverse, and the untraditional.

If you want to find a model for the ideal Indian identity in Shri 420 you may look no further than the two female heroines of the film, Ganga Ma and Vidya. Ganga Ma, played by Lalita Pawar, is the very likeness of the typical mother figure in Hindi cinema, although she is not Raj’s actual mother; she is always pictured wearing a plain sari; her sexuality is never in question; she espouses quaint rural wisdom; and, she even sports the quintessential cross-eyed look so popular of rural mother figures in Hindi movies of the time. “The use of the mother figure, however, also points up a metaphor that is never far from the surface in Indian discourses on both femininity and nationalism: mother as motherland, Mother India, Mother Earth.” (Thomas, 1995) Vidya in turn is the archetype for female virtue. In typical Bollywood fashion, Vidya serves are Raj’s moral compass, and always strives to do what is just for society. Vidya represents what it means to be a good wife, just as Ganga Ma represents what it means to be a good mother. Betwixt the two they serve to paint a portrait of the ideal Indian woman.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, Seth Dharamanand and the showgirl Maya serve as the villains of the film.  “The villain lacks any pride in Indian culture, usually represented either by his being a complete outsider or by his grossly parodied aping of Western mores.” (Thomas, 1995) Seth Dharamanand dresses in Western attire, drinks, and whores, but his greatest sin (according to the universe of Hindi cinema) is his willingness to cheat his fellows and prey up on the naivety of the common people. Similarly, Maya drinks, smokes, and dresses immodestly, all inappropriate behaviors for a young woman. Together, the two represent the corrupting influence of Western values and greed that serve to undermine the Indian values of modesty, hard work, and respect for tradition.

The subject of clothing is explored to such an extent in Shri 420 that it effectively becomes a metaphor for citizenship and patriotism. The opening song of the film, “Mera Joota Hai Japani,” was a smash success following the release of the film, and became a popular patriotic anthem. The chorus of the songs translates to: “My shoes are Japanese, my trousers are English, my hat is Russian, but my heart is Indian.” Through this song, Kapoor’s character of Raj the tramp positions himself squarely in the middle of the conversation of what it means to be a modern Indian man; he may wear clothes from other countries, but at his core he is a son of India, and that is where his allegiances lie. Later in the film we see Raj posing behind a fashionable Western suit in the window of the laundry where he works. When he appears in front of Vidya dressed in his normal shabby clothes, she questions his attire. Raj scolds her, saying, “Man wears clothes, clothes don’t wear man.” In this Kapoor is saying that appearances are deceiving, and that what is truly important is what a man (or woman) does through action and deed. When Raj buys Vidya a beautiful black sari with dirty money given to him by Dharamanand, Vidya is pleased at first, but later resents the gift, because it is a product of the corrupting influence of money and power. She imagines a snake slithering in the folds of the cloth, symbolizing the treachery of placing too much faith in material wealth.

Throughout the film, Kapoor toys with the duality of opportunity and corruption. With his country values, naivety, and desire to find honest work, the Raj who first arrives in Bombay is presented as the future of Indian prosperity, a man dedicated to find honest work in the promised land that is urbanized India. Yet, it is not honest and hardworking Raj who hits it big, but rather Raj Kumar, the 420, who realizes these ambitions of power and wealth. “In Shri 420, Raj Kapoor has sought to bring out the moral and metaphysical dimensions of urban corruption.” (Sahai, 1987) Still, in keeping with tradition, the movie ends happily; Dharamanand and his cronies are taken off in a paddy wagon, Vidya and Raj are reunited, and Raj repents for his misdeeds. Through his errors, Raj learns that life is a 420; you may cheat, steal, and lie to the top, but this success is hollow and will bring you no happiness. Rather, it is only through hard work and organization that can one hope to achieve prosperity. This sentiment echoes the nationalism and opportunism of the time, a reflection of the hope harbored by a fledgling democracy striving to find its place in modern world while clinging to time honored traditions.