It’s 8.30am. The noise is low in Delhi’s Hauz Qazi Chowk. Shutters are opening, labourers are readying handcarts… Gaurav (Sharma), a history major and director of GointheCity, a heritage walks company, is dressed in a beige kurta and denims. One minute, he points down the lane and seizes our attention: “Madhubala lived in the house above Bade Miyan ki Kheer (around since 1800s) until the 1940s, when it caught fire”. The next minute he shocks us by sharing that Masjid Mubarak Begum, the earthen-red mosque with green and white arches and carvings–we’re facing was popularly called ‘Randi ki Masjid’. Why? We’ll discover soon.
I’m convinced that nothing on this walk is going to be as it seems. And voila! As we turn to Chawri Bazaar lane, we learn that what is today a huge market for wedding cards and food trails was once Bazaar-e-Husn (Market of Beauty). This was when Old Delhi was Shahjahanabad. “Shah Jahan may not have anticipated the Taj Mahal will be seen as a wonder in the future. Like rulers of his time, he believed a ruler’s legacy must be a great city. So he planned Shahjahanabad on professional lines, representing every best occupation in the world,” says Gaurav. Initially, no lane was allocated to entertainers, but later it occurred to him “You can’t have a great city without entertainment. So the lane’s ground floor was lined with shops selling all kinds of wares—and entertainers were put up on the first.”
As I wonder where the entertainers came from, he telepathically leads us further back in time. “When the Mughals entered India, they had dominis and lolonis to entertain the army; our dancers were devadasis.” Mughal dancers got paid for performances, but unlike devadasis, never got invited to perform in public as their dance was erotic. Intermingling changed this. “When dominis–lolonis met our devadasis, they were awed by the subtlety of our temple dancer’s movements, and their expressive hand and eye gestures. Gradually, a fusion form emerged–kathak!”
Until Shahjahanabad was formed, travelling troupes of kathakars performed all over India. “This was the first time a permanent space was created for entertainers.” But every dancer wasn’t skilled enough to combine the devdasi’s grace and ghungru with Mughal dancers’ swift movements, resulting in a hierarchy.
At Bazaar-e-Husn, the hierarchy was visible through accommodations. Where we started our walk is where this lane originally ended and had kotharis (small cells) for bednis (prostitutes). A rank above were dominis, who performed a loose form of kathak, offering titillation to soldiers and middle-ranking officers. Further up were masters of kathak, who enthralled with dazzling turns aka tawaf (meaning circumambulation in Persian). That’s how dancers who could do it came to be called tawaifs. They lived in big apartments called kothas. Every evening, it saw a gathering of the city’s elite, nawabs and aficionados of high art. “Every day, tawaifs spent hours in riyaz and grooming to put up a grand spectacle.” Halfway through the lane, we sight a filigreed, jharokha-style atariya (balcony), remaining of those kothas.
Their manner was so refined, they ran grooming centres of sorts; young nawabs were sent to them to learn the art of conversation
Highest in the order were randis—yes, Hindi cinema’s derogatory R-word. But in Husn-e-Bazar randis were the city’s divas—not only skilled in dance, but also singing, conversation and poetry. “The city’s whos-who lined-up to seek their company. Their manner was so refined, they ran grooming centres of sorts; young nawabs were sent to them to learn the art of conversation.”
Over time, their art sustained the lanes’ economy, transforming it into a market of luxury goods such as beautiful carpets and curtains, silks, China crockery, chandeliers, the best food and so on. Always surrounded by the powerful, randis knew the city’s secrets. Therefore, the rich visited them also to keep an ear to the ground. “Their large kothis (multi-storeyed homes) with courtyards” showed their stature and they only occasionally did public performances. “Randis chose and refused admirers as they liked. They weren’t looked down upon, but flaunted by men who entered long-term relationships with them.”
When the British entered with East India Company, they made it compulsory for army men to bring their wives, or marry natives (temporarily). “No Indian families would’ve agreed, so these ladies were their only recourse.” It was Delhi’s first British resident, David Ochterlony, who married Mubarak Begum and built a mosque in her honour. “For the first time, a nautch girl, not royalty, had commissioned a mosque and so Randi ki Masjid became the informal name.”
It’s said that the real reason behind the anti-nautch campaigns launched by Missionaries was the British desire to usurp property.
As we near the walk’s end with Jama Masjid’s back facing us, we near the end of the nautch girl’s glorious era too. The 1857 sepoy mutiny changed everything. British analysis blamed the event on “officers indulging too much in Indian culture and forgetting their ‘Christian values’”. It’s said the real reason behind the anti-nautch campaigns launched by missionaries was the British desire to usurp property–tawaifs and randis were targeted as they belonged to the highest tax bracket and lived in huge homes in the best localities. “The British formed red-light districts. Women with talent would’ve refused to move, yet many got forced. They were now shamed rather than flaunted.” And randi, which merely meant woman, wife or widow as per old Hindi or Urdu, over time became an abuse. Nautch girls who survived the banishment now performed for smaller rajas.