Numerous songs of nationalism often get lost in the crevices of history, overshadowed by the intricate layers of cultural oppression. The tunes that achieve popularity often consist of mechanical drum beats and straightforward lyrics. Conversely, achingly beautiful and poetic verses go unnoticed due to their profoundness, intricate composition, and the often-overlooked artists who birthed them. The politics of identity reveal themselves when the art of resistance takes centre stage. Various strategies and roles have been employed by those who never found a place in the conventional Indian society, rife with diverse layers of stratification.
The Indian struggle for independence spanned over a century and claimed lives beyond mere numbers. It is no secret that only a privileged few are acknowledged for their lifelong devotion to fighting tyranny, while the majority remain in the shadows of this allure. A considerable portion of those relegated to the abyss of history are the Tawaifs—women who were once esteemed for their art, conduct, and autonomy. They were accomplished classical dancers and singers who entertained royalty. During the nation’s most critical period, the fight for independence, they played a significant role by contributing wealth, support, and inspiration to the fighters. Unfortunately, their stories and voices have been pushed to the periphery of the freedom narrative due to questions raised about their honour and chastity.
Colonial rule, while responsible for depleting India’s priceless resources, introduced Victorian moral standards that persist in society. When the British Raj encountered Tawaifs—women with agency and autonomy—they were confounded and threatened, unable to categorise this community within their social divisions. Misrepresentation labeled them as prostitutes, attaching notions of being ‘loose’. Twisted laws like the Contagious Diseases Act of 1864 tightly controlled Tawaifs, attributing the spread of sexually transmitted diseases to them.
Throughout history, the views and experiences of women have often been disregarded, a phenomenon glaringly evident in the case of India’s female performers. These women consistently endured unjustifiably negative reputations, even within the broader context of historical marginalisation by their own countrymen. Despite sporadic mentions of Tawaifs during the uprising, their significance was largely overshadowed by the rise of the Indian National Congress (INC) and its emphasis on moral values in the 1920s. Consequently, the resistance displayed by Tawaifs, characterised by its quiet, resolute, and courageous nature, was often ignored. The blow to their livelihoods forced some into prostitution, thus cementing the rumours propagated by the colonisers.
To challenge the evident gender bias in erasing the Tawaifs from history is to consider how the responsibility for prestige and dignity was shifted onto their bodies. Bodies that were once exclusively under their own control became symbols of respectability for households, communities, and society as a whole, owing to the shrewd strategising by the British Raj. To uphold the colonial hangover of respect, women such as Baijis, Tawaifs, and Nartakis—women allegedly of questionable character—were sacrificed as unsung heroes.
Courtesans, skilled in both music and dance, formed the core of the subcontinent’s art and culture. Their involvement in the freedom struggle demonstrated political expertise, military strategies, pride, courage, and an unwavering dedication to the motherland’s cause. In June 1857, when the Indian soldiers, filled with righteous fury, encircled the British soldiers of the East India Company as they mercilessly laid siege to Cawnpore (Kanpur), they were joined by a courtesan named Azeezunbai. Her presence was a bittersweet reminder of the tangled web of fate that entwined her with these warriors dressed boldly in male attire and her position in the hierarchy of social construct.
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Forgotten Tawaifs and their contributions
Azeezunbai’s captivating tale lives on through archival reports, local legends, and a handful of research papers. She was a spy, a messenger, and a fierce fighter, born in Lucknow to another courtesan. Her house became a hub for sepoys to gather and strategise. She organised a group of courageous women who provided support to the soldiers, treated their injuries, and supplied weapons and ammunition.
Apart from Azeezunbai, Begum Hussaini Khanum played a significant role in the Bibighar massacre, when more than 100 captive British women and children lost their lives. Their stories serve as haunting reminders of the countless forgotten narratives buried within India’s history.
Women like Nasreen Begum, who started the Dandi March alongside MK Gandhi in Champaran, Bihar, are now remembered only by local people. While tales of the Dandi March have immortalised the Champaran district, Nasreen Chowk, the starting point of the march, suffered vandalisation at the hands of the police in the past decade. The Raja of Bettiah, Bihar, invited Nasreen Begum to his palace, treating her with respect and dignity. He gave her a palace to live in, bestowing upon her a generous plot of land. During the freedom struggle, she selflessly gave away not only the palace but all her wealth and land to cover the costs of the struggle. The only existing proof of her contribution to the freedom struggle survives in the form of the area’s oral tradition.
Gauhar Jaan of Calcutta, who contributed Rs 12,000 to Gandhi, held special mehfils to raise funds. She wore only khadi sarees and exemplified unwavering dedication to the nation’s cause. The book Tawaifnama (Dewan, 2019) is one of the few works that shed light on these women, who embodied empowerment before the concept was known to the world. During the non-cooperation movement (1920-1922), a collective of courtesans from Varanasi established the Tawaif Sabha, an organisation advancing the cause of independence.
Husna Bai assumed the role of chairperson, advocating for members to boycott foreign goods and wear iron shackles instead of ornaments as a sign of unity.
Gandhi travelled throughout the length and breadth of the subcontinent, motivating people to join the non-cooperation movement. During one such visit to Varanasi on 26 November 1920, Gandhi addressed a crowd of about 20,000 people assembled at the Town Hall. Documentary filmmaker Saba Dewan writes in her book Tawaifnama how Gandhi was unaware that a large assembly—including a group of Tawaifs led by Vidyadhari Bai— was present at the Town Hall. Many were deeply moved by Gandhi’s speech. Dewan writes that Vidyadhari started singing nationalist songs at mehfils (gatherings), eschewed foreign-made clothing, and exclusively wore Indian hand-spun fabric. Over the following months, she “organised a series of smaller meetings at her home to enthuse other tawaifs to the cause of the non-cooperation movement”.
According to Nevile’s book Nautch Girls of India: Dancers, Singers, Playmates (1996), the Tawaifs of North India were financially, socially, and politically well-off , serving as cultural authorities. They were members of the royal and nawab households, and many of them were world-famous performers. A Tawaif represented class, wealth, intelligence, and culture. However, their truth has fallen prey to the double standards of history tracing.
This Independence Day, the marginalised artists deserve their place in the retelling of tales. Purity was never meant to be linked to the physical self; Victorian morals and ethics are remnants of three centuries of colonisation. Our Mujrewali Tawaifs were always virtuous and moral; they stood for the motherland and guarded it wholeheartedly. It is time for history to honour their art and contributions to the creation of the world’s largest democracy, rather than relegating them to an invisible backbone of the nation.
Aditi Narayani is an assistant professor of sociology at Lakshmibai College, Delhi University. She tweets @AditiNarayani.
Namrata Hazarika is a PhD student at Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, IIT Delhi.
(Edited by Prashant)