Heeramandi, Where Nawabs Are Just Footnotes In A Woman’s Narrative
heeramandi, where nawabs are just footnotes in a woman’s narrative
Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Heeramandi: The Diamond Bazaar, the maverick director’s foray into the world of online streaming – painted in shades of myriad crimson, cerulean, greys and blacks (both within and without) – is opulent, magnificent and an intricate and layered look at gender politics within the hallowed halls of courtesans as tawaifs and nawabs play a bitter game of power in between the tinkling of ankle bells and satin sheets.
The eight-part series, being both applauded and criticised in equal measures, meanders across the bylanes of Lahore, shimmery halls of the diamond bazaar and crumbling walls of nawabs – slaves in the hands of both the courtesans they woo, and the British Raj they serve. What sets Heeramandi apart is its unapologetic portrayal of female agency and empowerment. In a society where women are often relegated to the sidelines, Mallikajaan, Fareedan and their entourage emerge as formidable forces, navigating the treacherous terrain of patriarchy with poise and determination.
As Heeramandi commences in the middle of the night, a young Mallikajaan’s newborn son is snatched from her bed as Rehana Appa (Sonakshi in a double role), gives him away. Shrouded in a blanket of dark, perhaps this act echoes the relevance of men within the narrative framework of Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Heeramandi – always sidelined, mostly absent.
On the contrary, Mallikajaan’s interactions with the women under her care – be it her daughters by blood or destiny, and the men navigating the periphery — offer glimpses into the intricate dynamics of power and companionship, where trust is both a weapon and a shield.
This redundancy of the male is perhaps best exemplified through the tragic love story of Tajdaar (Taha Shah Badussha) and Alamzeb (Sharmin Segal). Poised for doom in its very inception (the brewing romance between courtesans and nawabs are best left as fairytales), when the love needs validation the most, Tajdaar is unable to find a convincing voice, leaving Alam at the hands of fate and mercy – a destiny where she finds saving through the machinations and sacrifice of Mallikajaan.
Sharafat humne chor di, mohabbat ne hume chor diya, ab sirf bagawat humari zindagi ko mayne de sakti hai. Ek baar mujre wali nahin mulk wali sochkar dekhiye.
Aditi Rao Hydari’s Bibbojaan and Fardeen Khan’s Wali Mohammed are perhaps other exemplary instances of the doomed destiny of men in Heeramandi. Despite genuinely having affection for her Sahab, Bibbojaan’s tryst with destiny perhaps plays a greater role in her decisions, as she discards her patronage at the insistence of Mallikajaan. Their story serves as a microcosm of the larger themes explored in Heeramandi – the fragility of human desires in the face of destiny, and the intricacies of relationships forged in the shadows of power and influence.
Hum chaand hein jo dikhta tou hai khirki say magar kabhi kisi kay baramday main utarta nahi hai.
The only ‘male’ who holds a sway in the tainted courts of the courtesans is perhaps Indresh Malik’s Ustaadji, a pimp, who, incidentally , is not all man. A middleman between the women of Heeramandi and the nawabs, his heart thumps at the sight of the fair-skinned Cartwright even as he secretly hopes for a nath-uthrayii himself. A pawn too, at the hands of the women, he, however, does not fear having his voice heard, or change alliances, for what he believes he needs to do, to survive.
The men in Heeramandi, hold power, but never absolutely so. They seem more enthralled by a false sense of might than actually wielding any. Be it Shekhar Suman’s Zulfikar or his and Mallikajaan’s illegitimate ward Zorawar (Adhyayan Suman), their force births and fizzles at the whims of the tawaifs they woo or shun. Often these ladies, living amidst changing times, where they are viewed both as teachers of love and etiquette and wanton women, hold more power than the blue-blooded nawabs of Heeramandi.
And this is perhaps both material/tangential, as it is emotional.
Despite her tragic character arc, Richa Chadha’s Lajjo, sans direction and agency, perhaps best represents the indomitable spirit of Heeramandi’s women. Though her storyline is undeniably brief, it resonates like a sudden storm disrupting the narrative’s tranquil structure. Lajjo, characterised by her alcoholism, romanticism, and unpredictability, inflicts tragedy early on, leaving a lasting wound despite the story’s progression. Much like Julius Caesar, who died in Act III, Scene One, Lajjo’s death remains, her will remains, and in her tragedy, Bhansali sets the tone for choice that the women of Heeramandi can exercise, even in death, as nawabs, men, like yapping dogs, circumvent the periphery, always hungry, always jealous, always a bit short.