As part of our Retro Review series, we revisit ‘Pakeezah’, the swansong of two great artists, Meena Kumari and Ghulam Mohammed, composed like an elegy for a forgotten era.

• Film: Pakeezah (1972)
• Cast: Meena Kumari, Raaj Kumar, Ashok Kumar, Murad
• Director: Kamal Amrohi
• Music: Ghulam Mohammed, Naushad
• Box-Office Status: Super Hit
• Where to Watch: YouTube
• Why to Watch: For its painting-like frames, lavish sets, poetic dialogues, and the haunting melodies that linger like unforgettable dreams.
• Moral of the Story: A husband and wife can create magical romance on the screen, even if their marriage is a tale of sorrow

‘Pakeezah’ is a journey into an India that once was, and a lament for an India that can never return. It is a picture postcard from a languid era of thumris, shayari, poetic repartee, and a culture defined by the refinement of language and decadence of Nawabs. It makes you nostalgic for the tik-tik of tongas, the whistle and whoosh of railway engines. It makes your heart beat to the khanak of ghungroos and the taal of tablas. ‘Pakeezah’ isn’t just a film, it is a chapter of forgotten history, a romantic musical singing a lyrical past.

‘Pakeezah’ is a feeling like holding a petal soaked in morning dew to the lips, tasting wine that’s been ageing for decades, or hearing the rustle of fine muslin on a silken body. Only the memory lingers like a bittersweet pain of an experience bygone. Defining it requires the magic of Kamal Amrohi, who started this haunting masterpiece as an ode to Meena Kumari, his wife, but ended up creating a poignant memorial to the great tragedienne, a celluloid shrine to her eternal talent.

A Poetic Legacy

Kamal Amrohi, the film’s director, producer, and writer, was born in Uttar Pradesh’s Amroha, a town famous for its abundant mango orchards. Kamal’s cousin Jaun Elia is one of the foremost shayar of Urdu, with a cultish following among fans. Poetic flourishes, it seems, ran in the family. Kamal, though a filmmaker, treats every frame of ‘Pakeezah’ like a painting, nourished with the nazakat (delicacy) of a nazm.

(Credit: IMDb)

The film establishes its poetic metier from the outset with a refined, lyrical screenplay and evocative visuals. It opens with a leisurely voiceover in Amrohi’s luxuriant tones, segueing into a breathtaking scene. On a bustling street in a city of Nawabs, a horse-drawn coach slices through the crowd, its hoofs’ clatter weaving a sonorous jugalbandi with the chime of ghungroos (ankle bells).

From a row of havelis adorned with jharokhas (overhanging windows), the strains of a thumri and the rhythmic thaap of tablas drift upward, crafting a symphony of a bygone era. In each jharokha, at least a dozen in number, dancers in swirling anarkali ghagras perform kathak. Moments later, Lata Mangeshkar’s voice rises above the melodious clamor, heralding Sahibjaan (Meena Kumari) in pinks and gold, her presence a nostalgic blend of beauty and sorrow.

‘Pakeezah’s vibrant colours and rich strokes make every scene a Raja Ravi Varma painting. Sahibjaan pines for Salim (Raaj Kumar) in flaming reds as yellows and greens sparkle over turquoise water. When they romance, in fleeting moments, waterfalls gush through hills, and the silhouette of a boat floats under a silver moon. When her heart breaks, a lone red kite dangles from a barren tree on a dark night. Every scene plays out to the sound of an alaap, or a thumri, creating lilting imagery.

The Silence of Music

Even in silence, there is music and poetry. Despite its absence, the film forces you to imagine it. In one scene, Sahibjaan, a courtesan, is sitting in her mehfil (social gathering). The musicians start playing their sitars, mandolins, and tablas, and wait for Sahibjaan’s vocals. As the patrons twitch nervously, Sahibjaan, lost in her lover’s thoughts, stares with a pained expression. There is a stunned silence, but seeing her plight, you can feel Amir Khusrau’s ‘Chhaap Tilak Sab Chheen Li Moh Se Naina Milayake’ pulsing in the background.

This sequence, incidentally, ends with an ode to cultural refinement. Instead of getting upset with Sahibjaan for not performing, the patrons leave her mehfil with a poetic complaint:

“Majboor Dil Bhi Kya Shah Hai, Usne 100 baar dar se uthaya, Main phir bhi 100 baar chala aaya.”

The film is most remembered for Raaj Kumar’s iconic lines about Meena Kumari’s feet. But every word in the aforementioned scene is an undiscovered gem.

A Tribute To Meena Kumari

With its visuals and words, the film is a triumph of Amrohi’s vision and grandeur. When it was released, he was panned for the opulent sets, the riot of colours, and pious dedication to detail. Fifty years later, it is the template for costume dramas and musicals, and filmmakers like Sanjay Leela Bhansali pay regular homage by imitating Kamal’s art. (Heeramandi is almost a sequel to ‘Pakeezah’).

(Credit: IMDb)

When Amrohi conceived the film in the early 1950s, he had just married Meena Kumari. He wanted ‘Pakeezah’ to be a tribute to his love. Meena Kumari, in her early 20s then, was stunningly beautiful, a vivacious, playful girl of films like Baiju Bawra. By the time ‘Pakeezah’s filming began in 1969-70, her life had turned into a tragedy of a painful marriage with Amrohi, failed romances, and alcoholism.

Yet, at the age of 40, battling with life-threatening cirrhosis, she pulls off a performance laced with subtle dances, suppressed smiles, and swallowed tears. Her eyes, heavy with unspoken grief, mirror the soul of Sahibjaan, carrying the weight of her own unfulfilled dreams.

In one scene, when asked her name, Raaj Kumar calls her Pakeezah, the pure one, an apt description for her portrayal of a tawaif (courtesan)waiting for someone to rescue her.

The Purity of Art

Like Sahibjaan, the film also went through an agonising, almost tragic, wait of two decades. Its music composer, the unheralded Ghulam Mohammed, died a decade before the film went into production. He created immortal melodies whose success he couldn’t savour. And Meena Kumari died within a month of release.

(Credit: IMDb)

History is a study of change. ‘Pakeezah’ serves as a chapter of history because it tells us many things. Apart from being a chronicle of Meena Kumari’s life, it reminds us how our cultural contexts have changed in the past decades.

‘Pakeezah’ is a Muslim social drama. Its idiom and language is inspired by Urdu. Its plot is simple: a courtesan’s quest for acceptance by society, and a Muslim patriarch’s reluctance to do so, a bit of an anachronism for the swinging 1970s. But the film ran for 50 weeks in India, 33 of them were house-full. When Meena Kumari, born Mahjabeen Bano, died, Indians flocked to theatres in a spontaneous outpouring of mass grief.

That India was culturally a ‘Pakeezah’, the pure one. It was a nation that knew art can’t be seen through ugly prisms of narrow identities. Pakeezah is, thus, a requiem for Meena Kumari, Kamal Amrohi, Ghulam Haider, and Indians who made the film immortal. Because of them it remains a timeless ode that invites generations to rediscover the purity of art that transcends time.