unholy matrimony

But the antecedents of the item girl go even further back and are embedded in myths and divine genealogies. A Tamilian legend has it that the famous dancer Madhavi — a character in two major Tamil epics, the Silappatikaram and the Manimekelai — was the earthly descendant of Urvashi, the apsara known to ‘control the hearts of others’, who was foremost among divine dancers at the court of Indra, the King of Gods. Legend has it that the temperamental sage Agastya, exhausted after creating the Tamil language, came to Indra’s court to be entertained by Urvashi. But as she began to dance, her eyes strayed and instead caught sight of the handsome Jayanta, Indra’s son. At that moment, Agastya angrily cursed her and Jayanta with separation. The lovers were full of remorse and could not bear the pain of being parted, which pacified Agastya. But, he could not take his curse back, only modify it so that Jayanta would be reborn as a bamboo plant and Urvashi a dancing girl. The stalk of the bamboo plant, which was also used in Indra’s ceremonial chatra (umbrella), would now be placed onstage whenever Urvashi would perform in a king’s court on earth. Her eyes would not leave the bamboo stalk, and in this way, the lovers would come together in the human realm. So, Urvashi, in her mortal form, is the matriarch of a lineage of dancers that included the heroines of the aforementioned Tamil epics.

This is the myth that connects the court of the gods to the court of mortal kings, divine power to imperial power — and apsaras to earthly dancers. A process of transference occurs between women as they embody this power through their sexuality, and over time, it manifests through the female form. Dancers were therefore not just descendants of celestial beings; they were women who also fell in love and got married and often expressed themselves sexually outside the institution of marriage. But now, instead of acknowledging that agency, we label them as ‘prostitutes’ and, sometimes, as ‘courtesans’ if we attempt respect. As a result, the prostitute and the courtesan have become synonymous with each other, which wasn’t always so.

The courtesan was essentially a female courtier; a woman who moved in high circles, wielded social and economic power and could either afford or choose to remain undefined by her marital status. In many instances, using her sexuality through a marriage or liaison was the way up for her. See the example of the beautiful Georgiana Spencer Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire and Lady Di’s ancestress, whose political activism for the Whigs (which over time became the now-extinct Liberal Party in the UK) brought them into ascendance. She even had an affair and illegitimate daughter with Prime Minister Charles Grey (incidentally, he of Earl Grey tea fame). Or the historical case of Madame de Pompadour, who became the mistress of Louis XV. The story of how she brought herself to notice and gained the title of Marquise de Pompadour is fascinating. She drove herself into the King’s path twice while he was hunting; first, wearing a blue dress while riding in a pink phaeton (a carriage which was the 18th-century equivalent of a sports car), and the second time in a pink dress and blue phaeton. Pompadour’s relationship with the King commenced after their next encounter at a masked ball — she was dressed as Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt. The costume was no coincidence and the metaphor obvious; with her sports-carriages and fashion ensembles, Madame de Pompadour had, in fact, chased the King and hunted him down. A sexual relationship began and continued for many years, eventually waning. But Pompadour remained Louis XV’s most intimate confidante and became officially known as the ‘friend of the King’. Amongst her remarkable historical legacy is the fact that the men Pompadour brought to the king’s attention made France the richest nation in the world in her time.

Contrast this with one of her Indian counterparts, the legendary Anarkali. The belief is that Anarkali was the dancing girl that Prince Salim (later, Emperor Jahangir) fell in love with. This did not meet the approval of his father Akbar, and Anarkali then suffered the distressing fate of being entombed alive inside the palace walls. While this tragic romance has captured our imagination, the truth may be somewhat different. It’s possible that Anarkali may not have been a doomed dancing girl but one of Akbar’s wives or concubines and the mother of Prince Daniyal. And that the conflict over Anarkali may have actually been a father-son rivalry.

The mythical tale of Anarkali, even if historically inaccurate, is a metaphor that captures the way we regard female sexual agency. It has been represented in films such as Mughal-e-Azam in 1960 to the 2012 item number Anarkali Disco Chali — which, interestingly, also features Arora — in Housefull 2. In the legend and film portrayal, Anarkali martyrs herself for her lover’s life, but in Anarkali Disco Chali, this self-sacrifice is subverted. The song opens with Arora in a transparent kurta, sexual yet demure. While the lyrics talk of an alternate life in which the courtesan leaves behind the lane of her lover Salim, this new Anarkali ‘goes to the disco’. And as Arora transforms — she’s now in a short silver dress that she wears like armour — we see an empowered Anarkali, who knows how to use her sexuality but does not destroy herself, yearning for freedom instead. “Mujhko pyari azaadi/ Qaid mein ab nahi rehna/ Zulm zalim vaishi ka/ Ab na mujhko hai sehna.” (Freedom is dear to me. I don’t want to be imprisoned anymore. Injustice is something I no longer want to bear.)