How do you feel about Anaarkali of Aarah eight years down the line? It’s been eight years since Anaarkali of Aarah was released, yet it feels like it happened just yesterday. The memories from that time—the sounds, the images, the emotions—still echo within me with undiminished clarity. In some corner of my mind, time seems to have stood still, and I remain that same first-time filmmaker, watching the world I created unfold on a screen for the very first time. For me, Anaarkali of Aarah wasn’t just a film. It was a flight, a dream, a defiant poem woven from the threads of resistance, truth, and longing. A debut film is always a landmark in a filmmaker’s life, but this one—this one was a declaration of intent. It wasn’t only a story I wanted to tell; it was the voice I had carried in me for years, waiting for its moment to burst forth.
Tell me about the genesis of this compelling film. Crossing over from journalism into filmmaking is no small leap. Journalism gave me my politics, my lens, my empathy, and my instinct to dig deeper into the reality behind appearances. But the dream of holding a camera and telling a story with moving images never let me go. When I first wrote the story of Anaarkali of Aarah, I didn’t know if anyone would take it seriously. A folk singer who retaliates after being molested on stage and takes on the system—this logline alone made many people uncomfortable. It was considered "non-commercial," "too local," "too bold." But I wasn’t interested in market metrics; I was interested in truth. And I knew this film had to be made.
How did Swara Bhasker come into the picture? At the heart of any film is its protagonist. And I needed someone who could embody Anaarkali—bold, vibrant, unapologetic, rooted. A woman who could set the screen on fire and still make you feel the earth beneath her feet. Swara Bhasker was that woman. Our initial conversations were filled with passion, questions, and an intense commitment to the character. Swara didn’t just play Anaarkali; she lived her. She stepped into the mud, danced in the cold, screamed with fury, and carried the burden of every woman who had ever been wronged and silenced. It was not just a performance; it was an act of rebellion.
The shooting was really tough, wasn’t it? We shot the film in Amroha, Uttar Pradesh, and Delhi—not Aarah, as some might assume. The bitter cold of North India during the winter made every day a challenge. We had a limited budget, limited resources, and almost no margin for error. But what we had in abundance was passion. And sometimes, that is enough. There were days when the camera wouldn’t roll smoothly, nights when the fog was too thick to shoot, mornings when we were running on two hours of sleep. But there was fire in everyone’s eyes—the actors, the technicians, the spot boys, the costume girls. We were all chasing something that felt bigger than ourselves. Every shot had sweat behind it. Every scene had truth.
Pahlaj Nihalani and the censor board clamped down on the film? Once the film was complete, we faced a quiet but calculated hurdle—the CBFC (Central Board of Film Certification) awarded Anaarkali of Aarah an ‘A’ certificate. There weren’t loud objections or dramatic demands for cuts; instead, it was a more subtle move—a classification that would directly impact the film’s reach and visibility. Our producers were clear—they didn’t want a prolonged battle with the board. The focus was on ensuring that the film, as we had envisioned it, reached the audience in its true form—even if that meant accepting the limitations imposed by the ‘A’ certificate. As a filmmaker, I felt the frustration. Anaarkali was not a film of vulgarity or titillation; it was a film of resistance, of voice, of power. And yet, it was boxed in. But sometimes, you pick your battles. We chose to let the film speak louder than the label it was given. And it did.
The film found a strong niche audience? Despite the restrictions, Anaarkali of Aarah resonated. People found it, watched it, talked about it, and embraced it. The audience saw beyond the certificate, and perhaps that’s the greatest victory—that Anaarkali reached hearts, even when the system tried to limit her wings. When the film finally released, I didn’t expect what happened next. We were a small film with no big budget or marketing blitz. But we had honesty. And honesty speaks. People began writing to me—some emotionally moved, some stirred, some awakened. One message said, “We saw our sister in Anaarkali.” Another said, “For the first time, we saw our dialect, our struggles, our anger on screen.” No award could compare to that. So when you asked me what I feel now, eight years later—I found myself unable to speak for a moment. It all came rushing back—the nights I cried while writing the script, the mornings I forced myself to believe, the afternoons when no one returned my calls, the evenings when I wondered if this film would ever see the light of day. Since Anaarkali, I have made three more films and directed two web series. I’ve even started my own production house. But nothing ever quite feels like the first time.
Why? Because a debut film is not just a project. It’s a mirror. It shows you who you really are. It introduces you to your own voice—your fears, your courage, your politics, your pain. Even now, when someone hums Mann Baqaid Hua or Dunaliya Mein Jang Laaga Ho, or quotes a dialogue from the film—it touches something deep in me. I realize then that we created something enduring. Something that did not fade away with time. Anaarkali of Aarah gave me more than recognition. It gave me responsibility. It taught me that cinema is not just for entertainment—it can be a language of protest.
I owe everything to the people who walked with me on this journey—my producers, my co-writers, the cast and crew, the technicians, the spot boys, the costume department, the drivers, the chaiwala—each and every one who believed in a film that had no safety net. And I thank the audience—for embracing a bold, unapologetic woman from the heartland and making her a part of their own hearts.
Today, as I work on new projects—bigger sets, bigger ideas—I still carry Anaarkali inside me. She hasn’t left. She still sings, she still dances, and she still dares to speak truth to power. Anaarkali of Aarah was not just a film. It was the first song of my soul. And such songs don’t fade. They become echoes. They become memory. They become a legacy.
Also Read: “Anarkali Of Aarah has not even been certified, so how can the cuts be ‘leaked’?” Scoffs Censor Chief
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