Did Ila Arun Face Backlash For Singing 'Choli Ke Peeche'? New Memoir Reveals

Pardey Ke Peechey, the candid memoir of Ila Arun, as told to Anjula Bedi reveals the unvarnished truths of her journey through the entertainment industry—a realm shaped by fame, censorship, and the pervasive undertones of patriarchy. With unwavering candour, she recounts her rise from humble beginnings in the folk-rich landscapes of Rajasthan to her emergence as a national icon, offering readers an authentic glimpse behind the curtain of her illustrious career. Told in her inimitable style, with sincerity and a touch of humour, this is Ila at her candid best, sharing a glimpse into her life and experience onstage and backstage, parde ke peechhey.

Pardey Ke Peechey goes beyond a memoir; it’s a tale of rebellion, a revelation - a raw, unfiltered look at the trials, triumphs, and tribulations faced by women, behind the glitzy veneer of the industry, where dreams are chased, voices are stifled, and artists grapple with the price of fame. 

Here's an excerpt from Ila Arun's Pardey Ke Peechey

Rows of shoes outside a door—the door of Parasmani, the home of the most popular music director, Lakshmikant of the famous duo, Laxmikant–Pyarelal—shoes of different colours, sandals, chappals—and then the tell-tale ones, white! Strange that these shoes still remain in my memory, white shoes, the symbol of status in the film world. It was an intimation of something serious. What lay behind the closed door, and why was I summoned to these exalted precincts of the film world? I had got a call from the renowned director Subhash Ghai, asking me to meet him at Parasmani since he wanted me to sing in a film he was contemplating. It was 1993. I had no idea what to expect.

In those days, the music of a film was the most important element of its popularity. When a song was being composed, everyone connected with the film was part of this sitting. So, the shoes belonged to the financier, the director, the producer, the composer, the singer and the most worn-out chappals usually belonged to the lyricist! For me, it was a real test of my talent and courage. Alka Yagnik was there and seeing her I felt a little more relaxed. I sat down and joined this group of ‘greats’. How fortunate I was to be part of this mehfil of the best talent in the Indian film industry! Pencil in hand and holding on to my diary, I waited for my entry! Anand Bakshi, the lyricist suddenly said, ‘Write!’ My pencil barely touched the paper, when the first line was recited by him, ‘‘Choli Ke Peechhey Kya Hai’. Did my pencil falter, or did I frown or look up? I don’t remember. But there was
silence for a few seconds. Behind me I could hear a slight giggle from Alka. But I think that moment brought forth my theatre experience.

With a degree of nonchalance, I waited, my eyes fixed on my diary, waiting in the wings for my next cue. I did not realize that I was the focus of all the people in that room; they too were waiting, waiting for my reaction to this bold first line. But for me, with a strong folk tradition behind me, these lines were mild! I was used to songs sung by village women, uninhibited, raucous, singing from behind their ghunghats, oblivious of the suggestive kurti-kanchhlis revealing their assets! I had sung songs in several languages, in Punjabi, Hindi and Bhojpuri with overt sexual innuendoes. Then there was the naktora, a group of marriage songs from UP. Since women did not accompany the baraat, they gathered at the bridegroom’s home and had a ball singing traditional wedding songs, which described every detail of the relationship between the new couple. The samdhis, the in-laws, were not spared either and the leg-pulling and teasing would make even the most hardened blush! Unfortunately, these traditional songs have been forgotten in the blaze of Bollywood numbers now being sung at every marriage function.

There were several sittings, a great learning experience for me. The song grew. Laxmikantji was a great composer, but when he hummed a tune, it sounded so ordinary that not in your wildest imagination could you picture how extraordinary the end product would be. Pyarebhai was the soul of the composition. There was such a wonderful rapport between the two that Pyarebhai would immediately pick up the song and put it to music, producing an amazing orchestration. During the course of the recording, Subhash Ghai asked me to put in my own folksy interjections. That was all I needed! So, my chorus was the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of folk songs which gave an amazing fillip to the already naughty lyrics! When Subhash Ghai heard my improvisations, he was so excited that he thought I should also dance onscreen to the song. As usual, my small-town sense of propriety came to the fore.

Afraid of what the possibilities were with the ‘peechhey’ of the ‘choli’, especially with Saroj Khan as the dance director, I once again had the temerity to refuse Subhash Ghai and Saroj Khan. But Neena Gupta, who performed to my lines, stole the show with her sensuous rendition of the number. So much so that whenever there was a live performance with Bollywood celebrities, with ‘Choli’ as the requested number from me, Neena was always in demand! She became part of some of the live shows, which travelled in India and to Dubai, dancing to my tune! I would say that the song is beautifully recorded and the credit goes to Laxmikant–Pyarelal. It is not obscene even in the film. It is like a folk number.

Madhuri Dixit has excelled in the rendition. And Neena made it look so real even though she was lip-syncing. The song was recorded and released before the movie came out and had already made waves by the time Khal Nayak hit the movie halls. I was suddenly catapulted to fame or infamy, depending which side you were on; there were several discussions on the song, people calling out for my blood, court cases being filed against me in remote towns of India, accusing me of obscenity; the police from the Santa Cruz station arrived at my doorstep one morning, saying I had not responded to a summons sent to me, a word that I had never heard before! My family members thought I was compromising my sense of propriety to make a break in films. I turned a deaf ear to all these snide remarks.

1993, the year when well and truly, my mother’s clapperboard came down on me or rather should I say crashed over my head! My reputation and propriety literally ‘went for a song’, an innocent song, ‘Choli Ke Peechhey’, which was now heard everywhere, from loudspeakers for weddings, on every music channel, and sung by every Romeo on the street. And it was in my voice!

My mother shook her head in dismay, reminding me again and again of her constant warning ‘Avesh mein vivek mat khona’. She was convinced I had lost my vivek, my conscience, to the improprieties of the film world. And indeed, she was not the only one in the family. My sisters too pointed the finger of indecency, surprising me with their response.

Extracted with permission from Ila Arun's Pardey Ke Peechey; published by Penguin Random House.