Imtiaz Ali’s recent film Chamkila builds to a moment where the singer Chamkila’s wife, Amarjot, decides to continue singing with him in akhadas, despite their songs drawing widespread contempt and threats for their perceived obscenity. Amarjot has to cut ties with her family and they walk out amidst prying, scornful eyes. The heaviness of the sequence is broken by an old woman saying, “Every man has the same thoughts running through his head, Chamkila just puts them into words”. A bewildered, young girl asks the old woman whether she listens to Chamkila’s songs. “Bahut se kaam chhup ke kiye jaate hain (Many things are supposed to be done discreetly)”, she says in response. Another older woman chimes in to say that similar songs are sung at weddings. Playful glances follow and the women break into a gidda, singing metaphors of love and lust.
Naram Kalja, arguably one of the best songs in the film, plays at this juncture and we see women, young and old, dancing to the tunes of unabashed desire, looking straight into the camera. We see the timidly portrayed ordinary women of the films declaring that their men are but a tool for their pleasure.
As we gleefully recount this moment in the film, the conversation slips to transgressions by women that both of us have witnessed in our families. Most of our conversations about family have been about control, the negation of agency and the repressed desires of women in our families, including ourselves. This conversation appears as a welcome pause from the shared frustration, just like the unusual placement of Naram Kalja in an otherwise tragic story of a talented singer.
We recalled watching a tradition, rather discreetly, involving the women in our families singing, dancing and giggling over talks of love, sex, desire and relationships. This was not a common sight for either of us. We witnessed a side to our mothers, aunties and grandmas, in the absence of the male members of the family, that we did not see otherwise. The tradition we are referring to takes place during North Indian weddings, predominantly in rural areas, when the men from the groom’s side of the family go in the baraat procession to the bride’s home.
With strict regulations of caste endogamy and gotra exogamy among Hindus in most parts of North India, it is common for the bride and groom to be from two different villages or towns. The men from the groom’s side go in the wedding procession to the bride’s village, where the rituals take place through the night, and return the next day with the bride. In what seems like a symbolic conquest of the bride, the women – including the mother and sisters of the groom – do not accompany them.
The women of the village instead get together at the groom’s house and engage in their own festivities. In a celebration of the wedding happening some kms away, what really follows is a night of abandon. Abandon from modesty measured in the length of women’s head cover and the restraint from the world outside.
Women dancing with abandon in a still from ‘Chamkila’.
One of the women dresses up as a bride by taking a long ghunghat (veil), wears red lipstick and walks in timidly as a bride is supposed to. Another woman, more bold in nature, dons a shirt and pants, paints a moustache with her kohl, ties a turban and takes in her hand some symbol of male authority – usually keys, a phone or a stick and occasionally a belan for his penis. Her entry into the celebratory area draws loud applause and laughter. Another woman playing the priest then organises the wedding rituals with the dressed-up bride and groom.
All the female relatives and neighbours thus get to witness a pretend wedding, in compensation for the real one. Through the enactment of the wedding, there is a constant exchange of jokes, banter and even revelations of people’s private lives. Sometimes, the wedding proceedings are taken forward to the enactment of the wedding night.
The ‘groom’ flirts with the women and draws the loudest laugh when fetching a woman in a taboo relationship hierarchy. The atmosphere appears one of fun, celebration and some awkwardness, especially for younger women, gasping at every crass joke, sexual innuendo and gesture. Daughters, sisters and mothers-in-law, bound by strict codes of conduct towards each other, find a way to breach them and tease the other with an unexpected blow.
By mocking their men, women also find a way to settle score with other women, which might not have been possible in more sober settings. The celebration continues till a few hours before sunrise when the women have to start preparing to welcome the baraat with the bride. The next day, women resume their roles and duties in the family, almost as if the previous night was another part of their responsibilities, not to be taken in any sincerity.
It is quite apparent that women use this opportunity when all men in their and neighbouring homes are away, to express some of their desires and frustrations. The cloak of one tradition allows the transgression of other traditions. The jokes are also used to express doubts, frustrations, anger, amusement as well as love and the hate for their partners. In the company of all women, the laughter can be loud, the pallus can slip, words be brash and actions be indecent. The humour can be informative of sex and sex-lives. In recreating a hetero-patriarchal marriage, some homoerotic desires can bloom as well.
However, the jovial account of this tradition should not mislead the reader in understanding the lives of women in this part of the world. This tradition neither shows that these women are sexually liberated nor that they are a homogenous, oppressed group. The transgressions are often limited to traditions such as this one.
In the enactment of a couple’s relationship, the portrayal of sexual exchanges appears aggressive. The woman playing the man portrays him as an abrasive, violent character who demands the intimate company of the wife. Occasionally, the ‘wife’ reverses the role and acts with aggression and lust. The impossibility of the situation commands a loud cheer. The aggressive nature of the act possibly mirrors real lives.
Furthermore, the tradition is not just about fun and the expression of sexuality. Women’s gathering on the night when all or most men of the village are away also serves as a security measure. Women not only keep each other company but also protect themselves and the children against any kind of attacks. This rationale might not seem legitimate in towns anymore, but in villages with areas explicitly marked by castes, the threat is serious. The groom’s house also has gifts, jewellery and dowry that need to be protected.
While there are many similarities in how this tradition is practiced across regions, it is still dictated by caste, class and regional dynamics. The tradition goes by many names: khoiya, khoriya, nakta, bai-baba, ratjaga, tuntiya, domkach, behlaul, jalua, naktora, ratauli and so on. In different parts of North India and among different caste groups, it can even take different forms.
In some parts, it has taken the form of folk singing and dance performed by men and women together. However, women and their sexual expression through the enactment of a heterosexual relationship, remains central to it. Prem Chaudhry writes in the context of wedding songs of erotic nature sung by women, that they are performed by women from both dominant and marginalised castes, but the content depicts their social situations.
Through the examples of wedding songs of Haryana, she shows how for upper caste women, the working-class lover becomes the object of their desire. Chaudhry also records how there have been wide attempts to shut down traditions where women engage in ‘obscene’ behaviour. Caste panchayats in Haryana are known to have taken up the subject but could not ban it due to its wide prevalence across caste groups and the sanction of tradition. On the other hand, Sharmila Rege argues that the reformist movements in Maharashtra succeeded in banning the ‘lewd’ lavani performances, because they were predominantly done by lower caste women and men.
As curious as we felt on seeing khoriya, the template is not as unusual. Many popular folk dances and theatre performances have traditionally involved men enacting women and performing on erotic themes. From launda naach in Bihar to nautanki in Uttar Pradesh and saang in Rajasthan and Haryana, the theme has existed for long. While many kinds of all male erotic performances have gradually developed into folk art, the same cannot be said for women.
Much of what is classified as vulgar and obscene depends on what is profitable for the market and what the dominant castes and classes consider the moral order. Erotic performances in films through ‘item numbers’ are widely enjoyed, even if they do not conform to established moral codes, due to the significant investment in and revenue generated from them. The khoriya of rural women in this case takes the form of ladies’ sangeet and becomes an acceptable, celebrated cultural practice.
In the film Hum Aapke Hain Kaun, Madhuri Dixit appears in a purple embroidered saree, dancing with a young Salman Khan who has made his way into a women’s gathering. However, the fun and banter women have, gathered at night before a wedding in a small town of Uttar Pradesh, is not to be discussed the following morning.
The abandon of the night and the silence around it the next day are a testament to how women in this part of the world are imagined to lead their lives. It also sends a message to younger women like us witnessing the tradition. Within the confines of a longstanding custom, one is allowed to express desire and sexuality, and have fun doing so. The condition is that it must not spill beyond the tradition or disrupt the everyday morality expected of women.
Sonu Bagri and Shiva Singh are PhD Scholars (Sociology) at Indraprastha Institute of Information Technology (IIIT), Delhi.
