The original club dancing girl, with fishnet stockings and ostrich feathers in her coiffure, the Cuckoo, was an immigrant from Moulin Rouge, or the other sin streets of Paris. They had red lips, come hither, meaningful looks and of course, the intoxicated dance. They were the maenads, singing to stray sailors (in our case, ciggy-puffing young Ashok Kumar). They were beautiful; they were desirable, but not respectable. They could not be taken home to mother; they could not be worshipped as the virgin goddess.
This then, was the Shashikala of the fifties, Cuckoo and the beginnings of a school of cabaret called Helen. The dancers of yesteryear were a European concept but still borrowed heavily from the traditional mujra. Movements even during frenzied drinking sessions were slow, languid, and graceful. The eyes did most of the talking, heaving breasts and gyrating pelvises hadn't been invented. The idea was that the dancer was an artist.
These were the days when a Kuldeep Kaur could smolder the screen with her eyes, a Cuckoo could set all feet tapping and a Shashikala would glide gracefully to the strains of Kya Ho Phir Jo Din Rangeela Ho.
The sixties came in and everything became modernistic. The soft, slow seductions were over; the dancer was not an innocent Chin Chin Chu but was a little more involved in the film. Helen was almost always a gangster's moll or the heroine's best friend. One minute she could do a Aa Jaane Jaan in snow blue lenses and the second, help her friend Sadhana plan for revenge. Or she could sing and dance with Shammi Kapoor as a part of his - Tony's band and then get murdered in Teesri Manzil, becoming the base of the entire film. Helen brought the dancing girl to some respectability. She could be a great asset to the villain party, as in Jewel Thief, or to the hero's sympathies. But definitely, she was not unrespectable.
The seventies brought in another set of new faces. Bindu and Aruna Irani, even Padma Khanna. Bindu, a respectably married woman and Aruna Irani, a child artiste, both exuded oomph, but charm. However, their advent effectively wiped innocent appeal from the dance. Helen's respectability, in the meanwhile was promoted to a little higher level, playing a revenge-seeking sister in Don or a mother in Ram Balram. But the bar dancing routine continued with the others. Madhumati, a tribute to Helen, and Bindu were the don's moll, Aruna Irani was a stopgap sister and at other times, vamp. Cabaret became more functional, bosoms started heaving and titillation started creeping in. No slow seduction but outright thrill became the order of the day. Piya tu ab to aaja was one of the greatest hits of this era, Monika, O my darling… became everybody's darling, especially after R D Burman made western music his forte. Padma Khanna was a dancer for sleaze value, and did not hesitate to strip too.
The only exception to the trend was Tanuja, different as always, when she warbled Raat Andheri Hai… in Jewel Thief, to an unwilling Dev Anand. This was a situational cabaret (or whatever Tanuja could manage with her paunch).
But then, times changed. The eighties had the typical bar dancers with red silk stockings, heavy thighs and of course, heaving bosoms. The nineties saw another trend. The dividing line between vamps and the loves of the hero's life became more and more blurred. Good girls didn't wear salwar kurta (and dupatta) any more. They didn't sneak from behind curtains, instead they strutted their stuff in a leather mini skirt, just as Aruna Irani did for Ajit twenty years ago. So, where was the difference?
There was none, actually. The Raveena Tandons and Madhuri Dixits changed whatever little was left too. As Madhuri took to the ramp in a micro pink dress yelling ek do teen, and Raveena hoarsely sang Kale Kale baal gaal gore gore, the nation was swinging to a new beat. The heroines could be sinners too, paraded, used and also seductive. Still they could be taken home to mother, it was OK.
So where did that leave our original artistes?
They lost the prized role that was the vamps to the cheesier role that was the heroine. The fine dividing line blurred and then disappeared altogether. As Mustafa rescued the damsel after her bar number Mein sabki neenden uda doongi, the tables had turned. The moll was now the heroine because the hero was a number of shades darker too. He was the head honcho so she had to be the moll. In fact, a bar dance number became obligatory for a number of bigger names. Shilpa Shetty and Sushmita Sen were the queens of special appearances for club dancers. It is respectable now. After all, Miss Universe is doing it… So is Mumtaaz, the latest craze, after Chandni Bar. Only, in her case, it is the situation that made her one. It wasn't the need for glamour in the film; it was the need for a film on that life.
