The Rahman Paradox: Victimhood or Monopoly Lost?

 

A. R. Rahman, born Dilip Kumar and now known as Allah Rakha Rahman, claims he has been marginalised in Bollywood. He argues that the “mindset” and “power structure” of the industry have shifted, and that a film he composed for, Chhaava, is divisive. He hints at communal bias and laments the loss of opportunity.

It is curious, because this is a man whom India has repeatedly celebrated. From Roja onward, he was embraced with enthusiasm that transcended religion, region, and language. National Awards followed with clockwork regularity — seven in total, three in the last decade alone — including recognition during both BJP and previous governments. He was entrusted with music for mainstream films and even the epic Ramayana. And yet he complains.

Consider this calmly: if Indian cinema had truly become Islamophobic, would Rahman have been chosen to compose for Chhaava? Or for Ramayana, the most sacred Hindu epic? Societies that discriminate do not entrust their greatest stories to outsiders.

Rahman’s discomfort is not persecution. It is displacement — the erosion of a monopoly he once enjoyed.

To understand how Bollywood came to be dominated by Urdu, Muslim singers, and Sufi aesthetics, one must trace history back to the 1930s and 1940s.

Sajjad Zaheer, a revolutionary, Communist, and Urdu intellectual, co-founded the All India Progressive Writers’ Association (AIPWA) in 1937 with Ahmed Ali. Their movement recruited poets such as Hasrat Mohani, Kaifi Azmi, Sahir Ludhianvi, and even some Hindus like Tara Chand, who later became a historian under Nehru.

Tara Chand rewrote Indian history to glorify Mughal rulers, even claiming that Advaita Vedanta was inspired by Islam — a historical twist so bizarre it strains credibility: Islam, after all, came centuries after the Vedas.

AIPWA evolved into IPTA — the Indian People’s Theatre Association, the cultural wing of the Communist Party of India. It promoted Urdu theatre, literature, Marxist thought, and leftist ideology. Artists like Javed Akhtar, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Kaifi Azmi, and Sahir Ludhianvi passed through this network. Their plays, dialogues, and songs normalized Urdu and Sufi aesthetics as the dominant cultural idiom in cinema.

Kaifi Azmi, a committed Communist Party member, along with other leftists, supported the idea of a separate Muslim nation as a form of self-determination. In 1944, he famously wrote a poem titled “Ab Agli Id Ek Azad Pakistan Main Hogi” (Next Eid in an Independent Pakistan). Yet he did not migrate to Pakistan, choosing instead to continue Marxist activism in India for the working class.

Sahir Ludhianvi, another progressive poet, briefly moved to Lahore after Partition but returned to India within six to seven months, disillusioned by what he perceived as a Western-backed state. He was even threatened by Pakistani intelligence for his communist poetry, notably a poem hinting at the rise of communism (Avaaz-e-Adam).

Parallel to this, the tawaif culture of Awadh — with its courtly music, poetry, and dance — migrated into Bombay’s fledgling studios. At the center of this migration was Jaddan Bai, one of the most eminent tawaifs of her time, custodian of classical music, Urdu poetry, and the refined arts of the nawabi courts.

From Jaddan Bai’s household emerged Nargis, who would become one of Indian cinema’s most iconic actresses, continuing the tawaif tradition on screen. Meanwhile, Fatima Begum, a pioneering female director and actress, had a daughter, Zubeida, who starred in India’s first talkie, Alam Ara (1931). Trained in classical dance, music, and Urdu poetry, these women transitioned naturally into films as traditional patronage waned. Through them, the language, melodies, and aesthetics of courtly Awadh merged into cinema, creating a pipeline that sustained Urdu-Muslim dominance.

This dominance was reinforced institutionally. Mehboob Khan, director of Mother India, often glorified Muslim figures while caricaturing Hindus. Lyricists such as Majrooh Sultanpuri, and writers Salim-Javed, shaped films in Urdu. Underworld financiers like Haji Mastan and Dawood Ibrahim provided muscle and capital, linking smuggling networks to cinematic production. Films like Deewar glamorized the gangster while retaining moral charm.

The state played its part too. The Sangeet Natak Akademi was established, IPTA was officially recognized, and ministers like Maulana Azad and M.C. Chagla ensured that revisionist history prevailed, institutionalizing narratives that glorified Mughal rulers while minimizing Hindu traditions.

By the 1980s, this tawaif-infused, Urdu-dominated, Sufi-influenced cinematic universe was fully entrenched. Films such as Umrao Jaan, Devdas, and countless others perpetuated this aesthetic. The industry had effectively become what some now call “Urduwood.”

Yet reality intruded in the 21st century. Digital platforms, social media, and OTT streaming broke monopolies. Audiences demanded realism, historical accuracy, and diverse narratives. Films like Kashmir Files, The Kerala Files, and Dhurrandhar portrayed terrorists as terrorists, violence as violence, and Islamic invocations without sanitization. Public taste shifted. Rahman’s Sufi-centric compositions were no longer the sole accepted voice.

Even Rahman’s personal narrative contains contradictions. The miraculous healing attributed to Pir Qadri, the removal of tilak at his household, and his conversion to Islam illustrate personal choice, yet complicate his claim of victimhood. Fatwas were issued against him for composing for films like Muhammad: The Messenger of God and singing Vande Mataram. In all instances, the Indian state and public defended him.

Rahman’s complaint of reduced work is less discrimination than the natural outcome of competition, changing audience tastes, and the dismantling of a decades-long cultural monopoly.

History reminds us: India did not discriminate against Rahman. It embraced him repeatedly, awarded him, and entrusted him with its most sacred narratives. What has changed is the expansion of cultural space, the rise of new voices, and the audience’s demand for truth and realism.

The monopoly of Urdu, Sufi music, and tawaif aesthetics is ending. Audiences are reclaiming narrative control. History, realism, and public conscience are asserting themselves. A. R. Rahman remains a titan, but no individual, however celebrated, can claim the room as his alone.

This is India — a civilization that honours talent without surrendering its roots, embraces diversity while reclaiming its culture, and recognizes history without fear of discomfort.