Revisiting 'Umrao Jaan': Muzaffar Ali on Rekha, Urdu Poetry, And Lucknow’s Lost Elegance

Carrying a lingering taste of the bygone world, Umrao Jaan is set to make a comeback to our screens 44 years later. For director Muzaffar Ali, the film is more than just cinema—it is memory etched in celluloid and an artistic journey as personal as it is universal. When Umrao Jaan released in 1981, it introduced audiences to an extraordinarily crafted world doused in poetry that'd poet most modern lyricists to shame. Over four decades later, in an exlcsuive chat with ELLE, Muzaffar Ali reflects on the enduring legacy of the film and the quiet revolution it sparked in cinematic storytelling and textile craft.

Read on.

ELLE: Looking back over four decades, what does Umrao Jaan mean to you today? Not just as a filmmaker, but as a custodian of the culture you so delicately brought to the screen?

Muzaffar Ali (MA): I think human beings have a tendency to both forget and selectively remember. For a filmmaker, the act of filmmaking itself is an exercise in memory—recollection filtered through layers of emotion and time. Each project becomes a reservoir of nostalgia: personal, artistic, and cultural. Umrao Jaan, in particular, evokes a double-layered nostalgia. There’s what I was experiencing while making the film, and there’s what it represents now, after four decades—as memory, process, and artistic expression. I feel incredibly fortunate to have made this film and even more fortunate to be here 44 years later, revisiting it with both past and new audiences. For many, it will be a discovery; for others, a revival of their own or their parents' memories. It’s a unique and deeply rewarding space to inhabit.

ELLE: Rekha’s portrayal of Umrao is often described as both enigmatic and emotionally layered. What was your vision for the character, and how did you work with her to capture that grace, pain, and quiet strength?

MA: Creating a character like Umrao is, in itself, an act of high-order documentation, an alchemy of memory, imagination, and the written word. She is a deeply layered persona: defined by what she says, hears, sings, dances, and feels. It had to be organic: an embodiment rather than performance. Acting alone would not suffice. Rekha had to live and breathe Umrao, and I was fortunate to find in her the qualities that made the character come alive with mystery and elegance. This world was not her own, neither the culture, nor the language, nor the past—but she stepped into it with invisible preparation, the kind even she may not have fully articulated. Umrao is a poetess, and her poetry defines her growth. The original novel’s poetry wouldn’t have worked verbatim, so the first challenge was crafting verses that fit the screenplay and emotional tone. This poetry was then woven into the music, another organic process, undertaken with someone as sensitive as Khayyam. Getting him to align with my sensibility and with Rekha’s emotional pitch was a journey in itself, as was evoking the imagined resonance of Lucknow: its cadences, textures, and mood. Even Asha Ji immersed herself fully. She wanted the novel read to her, every detail explained. Everyone involved was elevating themselves. Today, things tend to be rushed. We used patience as an aesthetic and emotional design. It created space—for the performers and for the audience.

ELLE: The costumes weren’t merely attire—they seemed to tell a story. How did you approach fashion as narrative, and how involved were you in designing those now-iconic looks?

MA: I've always had a deep passion for textiles. Subhashini and I personally delved into the costume design process. At the time, finding the right fabrics was a form of archaeological work—searching through old trunks and cupboards for textiles that had a voice of their own, as though the fabric had absorbed stories. Each costume needed to speak the same truth, regardless of the character’s role. We researched extensively—on weaving styles, natural dyes, crafts from the 1850s and ensured the look wasn’t overly polished or chemically altered. It had to reflect the era with tactile authenticity. Much of the inspiration came from my mother's wardrobe. I remembered every sari she wore—how it draped, how it moved and those memories fed directly into the designs. Even Rekha, though she had her own Bollywood costume designer, engaged deeply with our vision. We also drew from other sources, for instance, Satyajit Ray’s Shatranj Ke Khilari, which had its own Lucknowi research. In the end, it was an unorthodox, loving blend of the professional and the deeply personal.

ELLE: Rekha ji is known to have immersed herself completely in the role. Can you share any behind-the-scenes moments that show how she internalised and lived the character?

MA: At that time, Rekha was utterly absorbed in becoming Umrao. There was no parallel discourse, no distractions, she was fully invested. Often, it became difficult to tell whether she was a star from Bollywood or truly a courtesan from 19th-century Lucknow. She worked meticulously on her Urdu, its intonation, breath, and poetry. Urdu is not an easy language if it isn't your own, but she grasped its emotional cadence beautifully. Poetry, when spoken through a graceful presence, has a rare power, and Rekha understood that instinctively. Many actors are too impatient with poetry. Rekha wasn’t. She mastered how to express through its structure, allowing the lyrical quality of the dialogues and music to flow as naturally as breath. It made her performance not just convincing but haunting.

ELLE: You co-founded House of Kotwara as an extension of your artistic expression. Tell us about the brand.

MA: Kotwara emerged as a continuation of the journey that began with my early films like Gaman, which explored rural-to-urban migration. Smita Patil once asked, "If you think so much about people here, why not do something for them?" That lingered with me. Later, during Umrao Jaan, I realised much of its beauty stemmed from the craftsmanship of women in Kotwara, who were embroidering and stitching with quiet artistry. Inspired by that, Meera and I launched House of Kotwara, not in our names, but in the name of the place and its people. It was a return to roots. If I could make Rekha look beautiful with their work, perhaps I could bring that same beauty to others through their hands.

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ELLE: Craft revival can sometimes become overly commercial or too museum-like. How have you and Meera ji struck a balance between authenticity and luxury?

MA: All my films are, in essence, about craft. I’ve made 18 documentaries on textiles and craft traditions that now have GI registration. These journeys taught me how deeply craft is rooted in spirituality and self-reliance. Much of India’s craft heritage stems from Sufi influences, where spiritual teachers blessed communities with skills that became livelihoods. For me, craft must be understood through the lens of a painter or designer: sensitive to tactile beauty, rhythm, and cultural meaning. In that sense, Kotwara is less a brand and more a way of life. We aren't here to compete with global luxury houses. We believe India’s answer to consumerism is a strong aesthetic rooted in craft—authentic, modern, and utilitarian. I recently visited Iran and noticed how central craft is to their lives, possibly because they are less consumed by external commercialism. I believe India's future lies in such self-sustaining creativity.

ELLE: You have an upcoming coffee table book that merges cinema, fashion, and archival memory. What stories or unseen insights will it reveal?

MA: The book is almost serendipitous in its making. It began during the digitisation and restoration of Umrao Jaan, when I realised how much archival material I had, and how little of it survives generally—especially in Bombay, where the humidity ruins negatives and prints. We were fortunate. Kamat Photo Flash had a collection of continuity stills; I had my sketches and some personal photographs. We compiled it all into a 240-page book of images, some colour, some sepia, with essays from eminent voices. Writers like Ira Mukhoty, Rana Safvi, Alka Pande, and Subir Saran contributed thoughtful reflections on the film’s era, impact, and aesthetic. It’s a curated memory of the film, contextualised by those who love and understand its legacy. And it’s arriving, fittingly, alongside the film’s restoration—a new life for both.