In Yasser Usman’s Guru Dutt: An Unfinished Story (Simon & Schuster India, 2021), Waheeda Rehman shares an anecdote from the set of Pyaasa (1957). Before its release, Guru Dutt would ask friends, family, and his entire team to watch the film and would inquire about their thoughts. Waheeda recalls Abrar Alvi saying to Dutt, “Why are you asking a servant? What does he know?” To this, Dutt replied, “No, he’s still an audience. Don’t say that.” This inclusivity of the masses was also apparent in Dutt’s films, which went on to give the industry what is considered the first Bollywood item song, Babuji Dheere Chalna in Spike-Pair (1954). In a behind-the-scenes video for the relatively recent Fevicol Se (Dabangg 22012), Kareena Kapoor Khan said, “I think every rickshaw-puller, every taxi driver, every nightclub, every bar, everybody is going to want to hear this song.”
In Bollywood or Hindi cinema, a major selling point before a film’s release is its music. Item songs do a wonderful job of making certain kinds of films more inclusive — not by stereotyping the audience they cater to, but by establishing that these films are for the masses, not just one specific group. While these songs are known to add entertainment value or serve as promotional elements, in the bigger picture, they serve a greater purpose. There are specific situations where item songs are used. Initially, especially in Dutt’s films, they were used to introduce a character — they functioned almost like Chekhov’s Gun. Chekhov’s Gun is a narrative principle where an element, such as an object, character, or trait, initially seems unimportant but later takes on great significance.
The beginning of the devolution
Going back to Spike-PairShakila’s character, a cabaret dancer, is introduced through the song Babuji Dheere Chalna. During the song, she may seem to be just a dancer, but later she plays an important role in carrying the story forward. Similarly, in C.I.D. (1956), the song Where are you crazy? belongs to Waheeda Rehman’s character, Kamini. As Dev Anand’s character is on his way to meet her for the first time, an instrumental version of the same song plays in the background, adding an air of mystique to Kamini’s character. In fact, Where are you crazy? is considered one of the most seductive songs ever sung by Geeta Dutt. It became particularly iconic because it was removed from the final version of the film after objections raised by the censor board.
But where is the line between what is considered vulgar and what is not? What makes Jaata Kahan… inappropriate, while Everyone wants to meet me alone (Everyone wants to meet me alone) from There, There (Qurbani1980) was acceptable? The answer lies in the ability to adapt and the curiosity to experiment, but the shift in sensibilities has never been as fast-paced as one might imagine. There’s a deep connection between crime and sexuality in Indian cinema. In 1993, a song came out that shook the industry and remains controversial to this day — choli ke peach from Khalnayak (1993), starring Madhuri Dixit. It is one of the most questioned songs in Bollywood history. The lyrics play a crucial role in the dynamics of the film, as Dixit’s character, a cop, goes undercover as a prostitute/dancer to capture a notorious murderer (Sanjay Dutt). The overt sexualisation is meant to align with the criminal’s psyche.
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In the 1970s, these numbers featured seductive yet powerful characters like Helen, the vamp who would steal the show with songs like Mungda Mungda from Curse (1977) or Piya tu ab to aaja from Caravan (1971). Helen’s dance sequences carried weight and purpose within the plot. She represented the ‘bad girl’ juxtaposed with the pure heroine. In the 1990s, besides Choli ke peeche, we had Sushmita Sen's Mehboob Mere from Fiza (2000) that still echoed the mysterious allure of Helen-era songs while contributing to the movie’s atmosphere. Fast forward to the 2000s, and the item song began to shift from meaningful storytelling to a marketing gimmick. The year 2004 saw the release of Munni became a bad name from Dabangg (2010), marking the beginning of the devolution.
An inanimate object to the men
Mouth had catchy beats, an infectious energy, and Malaika Arora’s signature moves — but in terms of narrative contribution? Almost none. The song’s purpose was to sell tickets, provide an eye-candy moment, and ensure the film’s commercial success. It worked — the film became a blockbuster, but the trade-off was apparent. The problem wasn’t just that item songs were more sexualised, it was that they became detached from the plot. Instead of enhancing the mood or driving forward the story, they became mere interruptions — a five-minute commercial break for the audience’s attention span. Take Sheila's Girlfriend from Tees Maar Khan (2010). While Katrina Kaif’s performance was sizzling and the song itself catchy, what did it do for the story? Absolutely nothing. It was there to trend, to gather eyeballs, and to be the next big thing on dance floors, but it left the art of narrative-driven item songs far behind.
Why was Chikni Chameli necessary when the original Agneepath had no item song?
Item songs are often labelled ‘pointless,’ and one might use examples from juts two films to argue that case. In 2012, a brilliant adaptation of the classic Agneepath (1990) was released. Why was Smooth Chameli necessary when the original Agneepath had no item song? By the 1990s, a new style of Bollywood villains had emerged, with strong characters like Gabbar Singh in Sholay (1975) and Mogambo in Mr. India (1987), and the ‘Pran effect’ of the early 1970s was fading. In Agneepath (1990), Danny Denzongpa portrayed the very ‘Pran-esque’ Kancha Cheena, who didn’t make Vijay (Amitabh Bachchan) feel out of place at all. On the other hand, Sanjay Dutt’s Kancha in the 2012 adaptation was a terrifying character, the kind of villain mothers warn children about to scare them into bed.
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Despite having the same storyline where Vijay seeks revenge for his father’s death, the difference between the two antagonists’ approach towards death is what sets them apart. If the first interaction between Kancha and Vijay (2012) took place anywhere instead of the brothel (the setting of the song), it would be a bloodbath. It seems a little utopian but prostitutes and dancers in Bollywood have always shown a “come-what-may” attitude, establishing that what they do does not make them an inanimate object to all the men around them and that they won’t allow any man to bring his mess to the brothel. And that creates a possibility why Vijay is able to distract himself and not reveal his true identity by challenging the ways of the brothel.
The cold-blooded murder of the original creativity was adorned in, as if symbolically so, a red outfit that Nora Fatehi wore in Dilbar (Satyamev Jayate, 2018). Later, in the same song, she dons a white outfit as if mourning the original Dilbar Dilbar (1999).
The murder of a genre, film after film
As much as these songs grab the attention of all genders, there remains something inherently patriarchal about the lyrics and performance style. It is usually a song “for the men” — a song that propels a man’s story forward. But that’s not always the case, is it? Rarely, but certainly, there are counterparts of the “for the men” narrative. Sudhir Mishra’s Chameli (2003) is one such example. Chameli is, if one must label it, for the female gaze. Set over the course of a single day, Chameli tells the story of a man (Rahul Bose), utterly weary of life, who meets Chameli (Kareena Kapoor) unexpectedly. Despite her life’s hardships, Chameli is cheerful and free-spirited, offering Bose a new sense of hope by the time morning arrives. The nod to the female gaze is apparent in the film’s only item song, Sajna Ve Sajna. Though it serves as mere background music to Chameli’s life, it is still an item song nonetheless.
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But what constitutes a song being made for “the female gaze”? At first glance, it might seem like any other item number, right? It’s the lyrics. The words depict a man through a woman’s eyes rather than a woman through a man’s, with lines like “I love you in my eyes, I love you in my eyes. The solution in my body will not be released again from this world. (I want to fill you in my eyes and never open them again. I wish I could blend you into the things I talk about and never speak to the world again).” The industry has catered to the male gaze for so long that songs like this are rare. Ultimately, if this style of Bollywood music has evolved for the better, what is the problem? If one were to pinpoint a specific year when things started to go downhill, it would be 2018, with the release of Street. Kamaria was perhaps the last item song with contextual significance. It takes place during a gathering of men who decide to hire a dancer since the women would all be worshipping for them at the local temple.
Even if we momentarily set aside the fact that contemporary item songs contribute absolutely nothing to the film, the bigger concern is the death of originality. The peril started to prevail upon curiosity and experimentation when newer artists found it far more convenient to remake well-made songs without contributing much themselves. The cold-blooded murder of the original creativity was adorned in, as if symbolically so, a red outfit that Nora Fatehi wore in Dilbar (Satyamev Jayate, 2018). Later, in the same song, she dons a white outfit as if mourning the original Dilbar Dilbar (1999), the original Catch (2004), the original Love me, love me (1986)! It’s hard to say whether the damage is irreparable, but if it is repairable, there’s still a long way to go, and a high road to take. Looking at the current state of the genre, one might even wonder — would it be really unfair if the genre died completely, rather than being violated like this film after film after film?
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