Horis are not just folk songs. They have been a way of dispelling social conventions and articulating desire through rapturous ragas and veiled poetry Hori khelan kaise jau sakhi ri, beech mein thado Kanhaiya, re daiya. As Begum Akhtar, wrapped in a Kashmiri Jamawar shawl, wielded her high-pitched harmonium to the notes of raag Mishra Pilu and looked at her audience with an impish smile, her famous diamond nose pin would flash, casting a spell on those present at her mehfil. A musician, who grew up as Akhtari Bai Faizabadi at the Cheenabazaar kotha, she read namaaz five times a day, and sang of Krishna and Radha and their veiled expressions of love. During those four-and-a-half minutes, she became Radha and complained to her friend about Kanhaiya — the adaakari in place, the heart in tow. “Such was the effect of this romantic music genre, hori, which depicted the change of season and has been extensively explored in Islam and Hinduism alike over the years,” says Manjari Chaturvedi, Sufi Kathak exponent. Pilu, the raga is playful and so is the rhythm. Akhtar kept the Purab ang intact, turning this folk ditty into a semi-classical number. A folk song was lifted through raagdaari and turned into a piece any music connoisseur could enjoy. Gauhar Jaan, one of the famous early 20th century courtesans, sang Mere hazrat ne madeene mein manayi Holi, much before Akhtar. Wajid Ali Shah, the last Nawab of Awadh, who considered himself to be the embodiment of Krishna, once did not cancel Holi celebrations despite Muharram falling on the same day as Holi. He made sure both festivals were celebrated at different times of the day. He wrote Unke peeche main chupke se jaake, ye gulaal apne tan se lagaake/ Rang doongi unhe bhi lipat ke, ab ke hori main khelungi dat ke. Written by him in his Lucknow palace, the hori not only found place in Vrindavan and Varanasi in the centuries that followed, but also became extremely popular after being used in Kirron Kher-starrer Sardari Begum. The hidden references to desire were the mainstay of most horis. Be it Ko khele wa se hori re guiyaan, haath pakad mora muh malat hai written by Shah Turab Ali Qalandar or Rangi saari gulaabi chunariya re, mohe mare najariya saanwariya made famous by thumri singer Shobha Gurtu or thumri queen Girija Devi’s Rang daarungi nand ke laalan pe, the underlying meaning of the shringaar ras came alive in each of them. “When they sang Mohe apne hi rang mein rang de piya, it did not mean just colour. The romantic notions of love and the explicitness of touching each other while applying colour seemed beautiful and profane. But since it was Krishna, it had the sanctity of religion,” says Chaturvedi. Horis, also, invariably were written from a woman’s point of view. According to classical singer Kaushiki Chakrabarti, who includes horis in her concerts, some horis were dedicated to Ram and Sita, as well. “Most pieces were written by courtesans, who were some of the most well-read poets and musicians,” says Chakrabarti. Probably that is also one of the reasons why many horis remain anonymous. While poets such as Adarang and Sadarang, who penned khayals, sneaked their name in to make sure they were not forgotten, courtesans did not bother. “Back in the day, women could not speak about desire. This was an outlet of expression,” says Devi, who explains that it became important to do bol banao thumri in later years, one where you stretched on lyrics and added more raagdari to suit the concert needs. Most horis used pleasant ragas such as Kaafi, Bhairavi and Pahadi. In a country where even the smallest divide — religion, gender and community, among others — can spark reactions, the significance of lilting horis rested on the fact that colouring each other did not leave a trace of who you were. It not only dispensed with social conventions, it led people into a state of ecstasy. “Ye to hazaar saalo ki parampara hai. Everyone celebrated together. Unlike today where people decide which festival to celebrate on the basis of their religion and community,” says Devi.
