How Chamkila’s Music Holds a Mirror up to Punjab’s Cultural Vices
Imtiaz Ali’s biographical drama Amar Singh Chamkila (2024) returns to the profane and scandalous themes of the Punjabi artist’s music, reclaiming the singer’s societal impact, and exposing the flawed notions of morality in Punjab’s cultural milieu.
Profane, scandalous, and laced with sexual innuendos, the music of the late Punjabi singer Amar Singh Chamkila often exposed the flawed notions of morality in Punjab’s cultural milieu. Women, men, and children would sneak out cassettes of his songs to listen to the music discreetly; much like how, in today’s time, parents and children watch explicit-laden OTT shows in separate rooms. Ironically, many of those who listened to Chamkila’s songs in private condemned him in public, and even moral-policed the audiences who turned up at his akhadas to watch his live performances.
Chamkila’s lyrics undoubtedly objectified women, and glorified the hot tempers of Punjabi men, gun violence, drug use, and extra-marital affairs. In one song, he sings, “Kachcha doodh peele rajj ke / Tere Hit te Malaiyan Aaayian” (Have raw milk all you want / Your breasts are getting creamier) sings Chamkila in one of his songs. His song “Chadde Jeth” chronicles how a married Punjabi woman falls in love with her brother-in-law and their illicit affair begins. “Tere chadde jeth de bhaag khule / Tu lain gayi thi saag kude/ kukkad de vich deh gayi kude” (Your bachelor brother-in-law lucked out / You went to the fields to get saag/He grabbed you in his arms).
Chamkila was so ahead of his time that even in Ali’s film—produced decades later—many of these lyrics come across as scandalous; one can only imagine how the moral police and fundamentalists would have reacted to this daring artist who helped these deepest, darkest, repressed sexual fantasies go mainstream.
In another tongue-in-cheek duet which Chamkila wrote originally for his ustaad (mentor) Jatinder Jinda, a woman takes a dig at her lover (who is considerably older than her) questioning his sexual prowess, claiming that he will not be able to satisfy her in bed. “Khela na jawani di aan khel babeya / tut gayi nishaane di gulel babeya / hun muk gaya tere vich tel babeya (Quit playing tricks with me, you old art / Your slingshot has lost its aim / Your juice is all dried up now). To this, the old man (voiced by Chamkila) responds: “Bade bulle luteya jawaani vich ni / Tere vaangu kudiya nu banaya jatni/Bijli de vaangu buddha maare shot ni” (Chopped many trees in my youth / Turned girls like you into women / This oldie strikes his shots like lightning).
Besides extra-marital affairs and unbridled sexual desire, infidelity was another common theme in Chamkila’s songs. Case in point: “Baapu Saada Gum Ho Gaya”, in which a man laments that his father has gone missing while having an illicit affair with his lover’s mother: “Baapu saada kho gaya / teri maa di talaashi laini” (My father has gone missing / I need to frisk your mother). Later, Chamkila adds, “Teri budhi saada baapu nawa chann chaad gaye/Manjiya dono diya siveyach dairi / Ni baapu saada gum ho gaya” (My father and your mother have caused a new scandal / With his one foot in the grave / My father has disappeared with your mother).
It is at this point that, in Imtiaz Ali’s biographical drama Amar Singh Chamkila (2024) that the music producer, who is watching Chamkila and the singer Sonia record the song from the other side of the glass, bursts into laughter at the sheer absurdity of the lyrics. “Your lyrics…they have a unique flavour,” he says.
With songs such as these, Chamkila emerged as a radical figure in 1970s Punjab. He unabashedly spoke about sexual desire all while using the most explicit innuendoes and giving voice to thoughts that everyone had but no one had the courage to voice quite like he did. Chamkila was so ahead of his time that even in Ali’s film—produced decades later—many of these lyrics come across as scandalous; one can only imagine how the moral police and the Sikh fundamentalists would have reacted to this daring artist who helped these deepest, darkest, repressed sexual fantasies go mainstream.
However, Ali doesn’t completely absolve Chamkila of all blame, as the film is anything but a hagiography. Granted, Chamkila is made into a martyr—one who sacrificed his life to stay true to his craft without self-censoring despite receiving death threats—but Ali also gives us a peek into the man’s many problematic traits: Not only is Chamkila a deadbeat father who is mostly absent and barely gives maintenance to his first wife; he marries Amarjot, his second wife, without being transparent about his earlier marriage.
The Chamkila in the film—played by Diljit Dosanjh—also comes across as fickle-minded: at one point, he decides to switch to devotional music, thereby abandoning his art. He composes “Baba Mera Naanakana”, after he receives death threats from Sikh fundamentalists. But being servile to his audience, he reverts to his old persona of a lewd singer which also doesn’t go down well with the self-appointed moral police of the state.
Ali leaves plenty of room for us to question Chamkila and make our own judgments about him. Despite an overbearing male influence in his songs, there also existed a female gaze which wasn’t as overpowering but made its presence felt on rare occasions, bursting out in sudden spurts in music that was otherwise mostly meant to objectify women. His wife and singer Amarjot’s song, “Mitra Main Khand Bangi” (I’m your sugar) has the following chorus: “Mainu chatt le, chatt le, chatt le / Haitheli uthe dhar ke main mitra di khand bangi” (Lick me, lick me, scoop me up and lick me / By keeping me in your palm, darling I’m your sugar cube).
“Another Chamkila will be born in Punjab,” he says. Decades later, we know Chamkila wasn’t wrong. There are many Punjabi singers today who write songs glorifying drug use, gun violence, and extra marital affairs.
While Chamkila’s songs are brought to life through evocative live performances by Dosanjh and Parineeti Chopra (who plays Amarjot) the film also has its own soundtrack, which eulogizes the infamous singer and pays tribute to the legacy he has left behind. Composed by AR Rahman with lyrics by Irshad Kamil, the album features vocals by Alka Yagnik. Arijit Singh, Mohit Chauhan, Kailash Kher, Yashika Sikka, Jonita Gandhi.
Yagnik’s “Naram Kaalja” imagines how the women in the ‘70s would have perceived Chamkila’s songs. “Mera auratpan saara tere naam vasihat hai / Tu loota ta ye sochke ki main naram tu mardaan hai / Par darasal mere liye tu aish ka samaan / Main hu alhad jhallad fakkad, karde daram daram dun daingad” (My womanliness is yours / You plunder my body thinking I am weak and you are a man / In reality you are an object of lust for me / Honey, go bam-bam in the ham). Naram Kaalja practically flips the male gaze on its head, where the women claim they aren’t really soft and Chamkila (and his male counterparts) are nothing but a means of pleasure for them. “Chotti si aari leke, tu kya kaatega jungle?” (How will you chop the jungle with a small ax?) asks Yagni, in a line that appears in the second antra, a dig at men who think they can make a woman orgasm—but fail miserably.
The song is preceded in the film in a scene where a group of women defend Chamkila and the content of his music. “The songs we sing at weddings are no different”, says an aged woman. In fact, the film opens with a patka-clad young Chamkila listening to a lewd wedding song “Ohde utte chadd gayi / mera khada kar gayi” (She climbed on top / And gave me an erection). An innocent Chamkila asks his mother what “khada” means, and his mother lands a harsh slap across his cheeks. Little did she know then that her son will grow up to become a singer known for many such scandalous lyrics.
Towards the end of his life, Chamkila—embroiled by danger—chooses to overcome his fear of death. He begins to live fearlessly as an artist, doing what he loves, rather that abandon his art. He continues going to akhadas for live performances, even as he receives death threats. Like a true artist, he chose to stand by his music; even though many considered his art just a crude expression of sexual desires.
When death does arrive, Chamlika chooses to embrace it with open arms and take the bullet, which, he says, is meant for him. Chamkila happily sabotages his safety and that of his wife to protect free speech and his artistic expression. “Another Chamkila will be born in Punjab,” he says. Decades later, we know Chamkila wasn’t wrong. There are many Punjabi singers today who write songs glorifying drug use, gun violence, and extra marital affairs—including Dosanjh himself.
In many ways, the song “Vida Karo” in the film’s soundtrack—sung by Arijit Singh and Jonita Gandhi—is a passive aggressive jibe at the so-called protectors of society and religion. "Tum sabhi saaf sahi / Hun matmaila main” (All of you are pure and righteous / I am the one who is corrupt). Through this original composition, it is almost as if Chamkila is posthumously asking his killers if they even listened to his songs, telling them of how they sit on their high horses and blame Chamkila for Punjab’s cultural vices. Besides being a stirring tribute to Chamkila, “Vida Karo” is a crude reality check, and an unabashed call out for the moral police and their double standards. Many of the same people who adored Chamkila, bought his cassettes, and listened to him discreetly, are the ones who shamed him and accused him or corrupting the youth.
“If I am destined to die by a bullet, it will happen. The bullet will hit me,” Chamkila says in the film, resigned to his fate. As many Chamkilas emerge from the ‘land of the five rivers’, it remains to be seen in the people of the state will still own up to their cultural vices, which have for long eluded their conscience—even as many artists continue to hold up a mirror to them.
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Deepansh Duggal is an art and culture writer based in New Delhi. He has a keen interest in analysing artworks and folk songs which lie at the intersection of socio-political and gender issues. He also writes on films and pop-culture. You can find him on Twitter: @Deepansh75 and Instagram: @deepanshduggal.
