Heeramandi review — is there anything beyond the glitz, glam and fairy dust?

Within the fabric of Lahore’s walled city lies a historically rich tapestry — stories of tawaifs etched in the sand, reminders of dance against the clink of chooris and renditions of various versions of womanhood.

Opulence is probably the first word that comes to mind when thinking of the new Netflix show Heeramandi. Sanjay Leela Bhansali ticks all the aesthetic boxes — the show immediately reels you into a fantastical Mughal rendering of spacious mansions, intricate outfits and dreamy lighting. Past the elaborate and maximalist world-building, I found myself deeply immersed in this world and yet, I wasn’t constantly engaged. I was searching for a story that didn’t fully take flight. This could have been a story that shifted the narrative when we look back at the history of Heeramandi.

Of course, creative direction deserves its due, but there were too many things that didn’t work and for an audience looking for a story, it isn’t so easy to be distracted by “oneiric”. Watching the series was meant to be a portal into the past of Heeramandi and yet, it fell short. Of course, historical fiction comes with room for liberties, creative direction, aesthetic shifts and more but at its core, the show lacks storytelling. Initially, the plot geared us for introspection into the lives of the tawaifs of Heeramandi which swerves towards a Ram-Leela-level love affair and spirals into a Devdas-style revolution.

The women

That’s not to say Bhansali didn’t do a lot right, the women of Heeramandi carry the narrative (minus our nepo baby Sharmin Segal who plays Alamzeb). Mallikajaan (Manisha Koirala) resides as the Huzoor (Madam) of Shahi Mahal — she would live and die for the women of Heeramandi. She is fierce, unforgiving and relentless; her acting carries the show.

Bibojaan (played by Aditi Rao Hydari), Mallikajaan’s daughter, is a rebel passionate about revolution. Her beauty resounds on the screen and while the eyebrow lift is jarring, her character arc is one I could get behind. From her revered mujras to her late-night escapades with the revolutionaries, Bibojaan becomes the heroine of this story.

Alamzeb, also Mallikajaan’s daughter, dreams of being a poet and leaving the shackles of her destined future as a tawaif. She meets the dreamy nawab, Tajdar (Taha Shah Badussha) and falls quickly and deeply for him. Their love story is cruel, dramatic and honestly, a little bit too on-the-nose. She reads him verses laced with a forced Urdu and passion that just didn’t hit the mark. While we do have mentions of Ghalib and Niazi, in a story that was meant to centralise the women of Lahore, we don’t hear of Amrita Pritam or Ismat Chughtai whose works highlight the plight of marginalised women.

Then, we have Fareedan (daughter of Rehana, who was murdered by Mallikajaan). Fareedan (Sonakshi Sinha) is ferocious, harsh and out to avenge her mother’s death, destroy Mallika and gain control of Shahi Mahal. Her growth over the episodes was expansive and cultivated into the comraderie that always makes for a happy ending. She rules the screen, her sharp eyebrows and thirst for power awaken the story. Who doesn’t love a good anti-hero?

The history

Historically, Heeramandi was a place that taught artistic prowess. Here lies a community of woman who are the bearers of art, dance and music. Here lies a community of women known as the Queens of Lahore — they are the gatekeepers of craft, revered guardians of refined manners and aim to pass down their knowledge.

The women were empowered to make their own choices and it was only after the onset of the British Raj when nawab culture was overthrown that Heeramandi became a home for sex workers. It was a crux of cultural heritage, where people came to appreciate and learn the power of dance, music and poetry.

“Both the hereditary and newly trained tawa’ifs strategically deployed their shared identity as skilled performers to rise in social status vis-à-vis their power dynamic with the patrons. Apart from their artistic expertise, an essential aspect of their culture was the secret ‘art of nakhra, or pretence’ that they deployed to exploit wealthy patrons.” (Oldenburg, 1990, p. 274).

The courtesans were respected and played an integral role in the preservation of the arts. In some artistic circles today, there is still talk of the enrichment that was passed down from the Mughal era (through Heeramandi).

And while pieces of this history are entwined in the story, the sad reality is the lack of the raw oppression of these spaces shown in Heeramandi. It almost seems to be glamourised by fairy dust where the oppression never reaches the light — the khalas and aapas and ammis of Heeramandi are decked in jewels and lavish clothes and the suffering that should have soaked the narrative is overly glamorised.

The perfection that emanates from the walls of Heeramandi is almost uncomfortable. While patrons of art, their destinies are tied to the Nawabs of Lahore. They bring the money, the jewels, the luxury. It’s a tale as old as time — women’s fates controlled by the men around them. While outwardly queens, there is a constant reminder of the misery that walks within each of their souls. The magical realism of the sets and costumes do not make up for the filmy dialogue, melodramatic poetry and lack of plot — these women have stories to tell but they seem chained to a narrative that does not want to tell it.

The sounds of the ghungroo form an eerie score for the show — a Heeramandi woman adorns her ghungroo once she has had her debut as a tawaif. Bhansali highlights the sublime, yet sweeping over the human experience to make it transcendental and evocative acts as an erasure of important stories; the plight of the women of Heeramandi (their pain, their living conditions), the Muslims living in the Subcontinent (their disconnect is confusing) and the language (the poor pronunciation and lack of fluidity of dialogue).

Body politics in tawaif culture

In a lot of fiction, the body is used as a metaphor for society. And Bhansali’s period drama is no different. There was room to delve into the body politics of 1940s India and comment on the lives of the tawaifs — the overarching male gaze on one hand, the ability to speak freely of sexuality on another — where does the conversation lead? There is a layered focus on desire within the story and while the tawaifs themselves have their own desires, we only see the one reflected back to us through the male gaze.

During this period, the arts were deeply connected to social class and identity (the courtesans and creators on one hand and the entertained on the other) — a transactional relationship that was steeped in the fabric of society. Music and dance act as tools to create communities and the tawaifs played a large role in that — one that must not be brushed over. Music became a part of the social construction of identity at the time and yet the show doesn’t seem to aid that narrative. Maybe Bhansali wanted to create a story that appealed to a greater audience but let’s not forget that women are the backbone of every form of creation. The tawaifs and their journeys will not be forgotten, no matter the glamour used to doll it up.

Every story about a woman is a story of resistance. The end of the series was beautiful and powerful and probably one of the few scenes that left an imprint on me. The closing narration: “Like birds in gilded cages, these tawaifs knew the value of freedom…But a woman’s struggle never ends” served as the perfect culmination to a series that relied so heavily upon being perfect. And while Heeramandi explored a facet of that resistance, it too remained akin to a bird in a gilded cage, never truly showing us the cost of freedom.