Inspired by the series „Heeramandi: The Diamond Bazaar” directed by Sanjay Leela Bhansali (2024) with Richa Chadha playing the character of Lajjo
Picture taken from Pinterest, posted by the user 🩷🫧
The poem contains spoilers from the movie
I am like the roses,
That fill the room with their scents,
I fascinate everyone,
And make their hearts swoon,
Stealing them with my graceful dancing,
A life I did not choose,
But it chose me,
The life of a tawaif,
Destined to yearn freedom,
Freedom from selling their dancing,
Their bodies, to the same men,
That forced them to do this.
My mujras charmed men,
My swaying and my voice cast a spell,
Which leave them in a trance,
Throwing money, and gold, and gems,
In my way, and my sisters’ ways,
Heeramandi was our home,
My home,
Where I had one big dream,
Azadi.
A young man, son of great nawabs,
One of the richest men in Lahore,
Took me away to his court,
To be his entertainer.
He had a life, so lavish and fine,
He was a man, so beautiful and fine,
A man that somehow,
Managed to sneak his way in my heart,
One of my biggest mistakes,
As tawaifs are destined to a life,
Without love.
I loved him, no, I devoted to him,
I was always near him,
Ready to fascinate him with my expressions,
To charm him with my chakkars,
And to occupy his mind,
With the sound of my ghungroos.
This will be our greatest story,
One of love that conquered life,
The story of Lajjo the tawaif,
And Zorawar the nawab,
2 lovebirds that managed to get past,
The long drawn differences,
Between our old lives,
High repute with infamous life,
Blend together to create
A love story of centuries.
When I went back,
To see my sisters,
And my aunties and mother,
I graced them with a dance,
Worthy of my name,
Sakal Ban,
I turned and spinned,
I danced and felt,
I moved so elegantly,
That all of them were cheering,
Women understanding women.
They joined me,
Creating a show,
Worth only for the wealthiest nawabs.
Peela sarees, with pearl embrodery,
Golden shaals that cover our heads,
Spinning and dancing,
To the sound of tabla,
Gracing each other with the moves we’re taught.
As I was welcomed by my sisters and amma,
We talked and talked for hours till midnight,
About life, about my nawab, about the fate of a tawaif.
I was in a room with Alamzeb, the youngest of us tawaifs,
Yet to grace a man with her debut,
She was hopeful,
To escape this life,
To write poetry and become enamored with a man
And go away from hamare bazaar.
We were debating our life,
Our existance and pain,
Our duties, shared so cruel upon our shoulders,
We were grateful for having dreams
The only ones that couldn’t be snatched away
As our freedom comes only with death.
My poor, innocent sister,
Said with much pride,
That she will find a way to evade,
This life of cruel
This life of hate,
That I started to laugh,
At how childish it seemed
To be able to dream
And love, and feel,
Without social restrain,
Without prejudice and hate.
„A woman’s real enemies are her dreams,
They can be felt, but never fulfilled”,
She left the room,
Her dreams still shining,
Her heart still whole,
Her mind still hopeful,
Her soul untouched,
By the cruel fate of tawaifs,
And I was left in the room,
With tears still rolling
And with my heart still broken,
Drowning in alcohol,
In impossible hopes,
And growing despair.
Once I was a great tawaif,
Now a shadow of my former self,
Letting love drive me to an edge
An edge so small that Yama wouldn’t stay,
Delusional until the end,
Telling all my sisters that my meri jaan adorned me
With jhumkas, bangles, anklets and sarees,
Until Bibbo pointed this out,
And my broken heart just squeezed itself,
And sour tears poured themselves
Over my face and over my soul,
Yearns the freedom to love and to be loved
Because love I can trade,
But I cannot give my soul,
And I made the mistake of giving my soul,
To the person who doesn’t see me as enough
To the person who doesn’t see me as an equal.
I looked at her in denial,
Still excited to go to his wedding,
My Zorawar’s wedding,
Not as his entertainer,
But as a bride,
Because when he will see me,
He will take me as his wife,
And our life shall be complete,
My delusions were so big,
That I could not see the grief,
The pain of loss,
Of longing for love,
Of longing to be understood,
She softly tried to explain,
That all the gifts I so strongly believed,
Were from my love,
Were actually gifts,
From my didis and amma,
I yelled at my sister,
For daring to disrupt,
My grand imagery of love,
My sense of trust for this man,
Because delusions were all I had.
My dear sister I am so sorry,
For not listening to you,
I hope that I can help you,
From beyond my grave,
Love is true and pain is inevitable,
But grief is a choice,
A choice that I embraced,
But never learned to grow out of,
I let it slowly nib at me,
Until I realised too late,
That the man I was so desprate,
To make him love me,
Didn’t ever care about me as a person,
But as a trade,
A trade of image, of smell, of sound,
Not a soul so eager have found,
The one, my one.
I am sorry dear didi,
That it took death to realise,
How stupid I was,
To let my grief control my mind,
And for lashing out at you and others,
When all you tried to do was help,
Bring me out of darkness,
Bring me out of grief,
Help me get up from the hole I found myself.
The day of the wedding came,
And there I was,
Dressed in a neela lehenga,
With jasmine and roses in a headpiece so carefully sewn,
With kajal around my eyes,
And sona ghunghroos around my ankles,
Chandini linings and desings elegantly added,
To contrast with my beautiful body,
Masoom dil hai mera,
I danced to entertain him wedding,
Still hoping he will take me as his bride,
But as I got closer to him,
He threw money at my face,
Making it clear that he didn’t care about me.
I threw the garland that dressed my head,
And stepped on it with my alta painted feet,
Something in me cracking,
The image I so desperately loved,
Slowly turning into the man he really is,
He got up to drink,
And in my dance I went after him,
Singing my feelings, Twirling my desires,
Moving my hands to express my thoughts,
All of them in vain,
Rishta ghamon se mera…haye ram.
All of a sudden he slapped my face,
Disgracing me in front of society,
Making a fool out of myself,
Hurting me with hatred in his eyes.
Something inside me broke,
The little crack that initially appeared,
Finally snapping and shattering the image,
That was so carefully desinged,
So highly revered,
So worshipped by my soul,
I was heartbroken,
Tears dropping from my face,
The pain of his rejection finally hitting me,
The hatred of his look piercing my flesh
And tearing into my heart,
The denial slowly faded,
And clarity started to form,
The delusion I dearly loved,
Transforming into crude and cruel reality,
Where I could finally deal with feelings,
Freed from the trap of false love,
Mirages of feelings that took control of me,
And now I stood in shock,
Letting him yell at me.
But my amma, blessed her soul,
Fought for me,
And revealed a secret that erased,
The shame he brought on me,
That he was a bastard,
Her son, the son of Mallikajaan,
But Heeramandi has a tradition,
That a tawaif’s mujra has to be completed,
And she forced me to end it,
With tears in the eyes, and pain in my soul,
I continued my mujra,
Spinning, depicting emotions
Through face and hands,
The pain finally settling in,
The grief of losing someone dear to me,
The betrayel of someone I thought close of,
The realization that my own deceptions were false,
And the chaos that has formed in my heart,
Has taken over my mind.
Each chakkar I take a part of this sadness goes,
And in its place, anger and resentment take over my soul,
And with my final turn,
My mind a clear view,
My heart a deep mess,
I didn’t even look at him,
Anger that he disgraced me,
Pain that he betrayed me,
Resentment that he made me like this,
Resentment that I let myself believe this,
On my way back to the Shahi Mahal,
The feelings have finally settled in,
And the hurt so much,
My mind is going all around the places,
My heart physically hurts,
My eyes burn from the tears I shed,
And my stomach clutches as another gulp of alcohol hits,
And with a swift break,
My poor existence has ended,
Death.
A blessing and a curse,
Finally free from all the pain,
Finally able to grief my love,
Away from never ending delusions, from excuses and reasons,
I stood as an example,
Of why a tawaif should never fell in love,
Yet here I am now,
Understanding my wrongdoings
And regretting them a lot.
I am Lajjo, the one whose heart got broken,
From illusions of grand love,
And deceptions of so called thoughtfullness,
A tawaif who made the mistake,
Of letting herself be able to love,
Of letting herself get entangled in mirages,
And rejecting her sisters’ help,
Only to realize too late,
That your so called love,
The one you worshipped the ground he stepped on,
Is now showing you his true colors,
His true feelings,
His true self,
A sight so horrid,
That even the illusions,
Have cleared themselves so clean,
That her feelings finally had room,
To express and untangle and improve.
Now it’s late, and my heart is broken,
In a state of hate and anger,
Death a blessing that came for me,
Erasing the pain so real, so crude, so cruel,
And letting my thoughts untangle themselves,
From the mess they are in,
Into a conclusion, the end of my story.
I suffered a lot, not because I had to,
But because I chose to,
To torture myself,
To force myself to think
The delusions were true,
And when the reality has finally hit
Grief so deeply I embraced,
That I didn’t even know
How to pull myself anew,
All the hands that tried to help me
So selfishly I shooed,
And now I’ve drowned,
In my own darkness,
In my own greif,
In my own pain,
In alcohol.
Lajjo the tawaif am I
And here is my story,
A lesson for all,
An example for my kin,
To not block others,
From saving you from yourself,
To not refuse to believe reality,
To not let yourself drown in the darkness
That heartbreak can do,
To understand the pain, the anger, the hurt,
And to move past them.
For me, death was a blessing,
Putting an end to my suffering,
That so comfortably installed in my soul,
From own deceptions to rejection,
But it also was a curse,
Taking me away from Bibbo,
And Alam and amma,
My family, my helping hands,
The ones that made my life so bearable,
The ones that truly cared about me,
I am sorry that I left,
I promise I am free,
I regret that I did not
Stay longer with you,
But here I am better,
Able to understand myself
My feelings and the shaft,
That is the soul and mind,
Devoid of pain, illusion, deception.
The poem was being written while listening to the songs: „Sakal ban”, „Masoom dil hai mera”