How Mohammad Ali Baig’s heritage theatre vsion shaped his debut film

In Padma Shri Mohammad Ali Baig’s new film Chand Tara: The Legend of Taramati, there is a 12-minute monologue by Baig’s character Sultan Abdullah Qutb Shah, the 17th century ruler of the Golconda Sultanate. It gives you a glimpse into the sultan’s inner life, his terrors and troubles, as he opens his heart to the singer Taramati (played by Mumbai-based theatre personality Ranjana Srivastava). But to understand it, one needs context.

The story of Taramati and Sultan Abdullah is a fascinating blend of history, folklore and legend. Taramati was neither a queen nor a concubine, and all one really knows about her is that there is a monument in her name, Taramati Baradari, in Hyderabad. She must have been an artiste of some stature to merit a monument, reasons Baig. The fact that Taramati’s life was not set in stone meant that Baig could script it the way he wanted. Mythology is not over-crowded like history. It leaves enough ventilation for creativity. Baig reclaimed her from the margins of history, turning her into a strong and independent woman, a singer who placed her music above everything else. In the end, she becomes more real to you than the real Taramati ever will be.

In Chand Tara, the sultan hears her singing during Milad-ul-Nabi, the festival to celebrate the prophet’s birth. Enchanted, he sends Premamati—a court dancer who gave the struggling orphan artiste Taramati shelter in her village—to summon her to the palace. But Taramati refuses. Her music, she says, is everything to her, and she will not compromise it to become a court singer. Finally, the sultan comes to her, and she sings to him the song ‘Piya baaj pyala peeya jaye na’. Sultan Abdullah is captivated and gives her his ring.

Not willing to accept it, Taramati goes to the palace to return it. It is there that Baig delivers his 12-minute monologue, expressing the anger of a ruler who gave his most precious possession to a woman who did not want it. He tells her that the ring was gifted to him by his mother when he was 12, the year he lost his father and was crowned sultan. Since then, he had begun each day by kissing it. He opens up to her through the most poetic imagery, telling her how lonely he has been all his life. “When I was made ruler, the delicate veins of my neck could not bear the burden,” he says. “When I wore the crown, my childhood was buried under the same throne.”

Baig says that, through the monologue, he wanted to show that privilege comes with liabilities. Rulers have their own burdens to bear. When he delivered it, the film’s cast and crew—which includes reputed names like Mohan Agashe, Anupam Kher, Masood Akhtar, Lucky Ali and Vasundhara Das—broke into applause.

And it is not just them. The film’s trailer received sparkling reviews at Cannes. Chand Tara had its world premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) on September 16. “The way the glory of the 17th century Golconda kingdom is recreated in the film is mesmerising,” said Jishnu Dev Varma, Maharashtra governor. “Its music, performances, writing and rich sets are impressive. The lyrics [of the songs] stand out.”

Much like the kind of heritage theatre that Baig is partial to, the film is a visual spectacle. It has beauty, art, décor, costumes, grandeur. Then there is, of course, the poetry. “I can’t drink my drink without my love,” goes the lyrics of ‘Piya baaj pyala peeya jaye na’, which was originally a poem written by Sultan Abdullah’s grandfather (Sultan Quli Qutb Shah, who founded the city of Hyderabad) for his bride Bhagmati. “I can’t breathe without my love.” The visual richness of the song—sung by Taramati to the sultan—ironically highlights the invisible. Love that cannot be seen, yet makes its presence felt. The sultan’s gaze speaks a language of its own—of longing, desire, attraction.

But love, that way, is brittle. The stronger it is, the less it stretches. In the end, Sultan Abdullah and Taramati are separated. Still, their love must go on, immortalised in poetry, music and theatre. The movie ends with the sultan, bereft of his love, gazing into the crescent moon from his balcony and reflecting how the sun and moon can never shine together. They must exist independently; otherwise, how will they light up the world?