This is a guest post by Shashwat, a part-time tailoring geek and a full-time South Asian history connoisseur. Their area of interest includes formation of post-colonial national identities out of an amorphous and volatile subcontinent, and what could be more volatile than fashion.
Shatranj Ke Khilari, also subtitled and later internationally released with the translated title The Chess Players, is a 1977 Indian film written and directed by Satyajit Ray, based on Munshi Premchand’s short story of the same name. The film is set in 1856 on the eve of the Indian rebellion of 1857. The British are about to annex the Oudh State (also spelled Awadh). The daily life of two wealthy men who are devoted to chess is presented against the background of scheming officials of the British East India Company, the history of its relations with the Indian ruler of Awadh, and the ruler’s devotion both to his religious practice and the pursuit of pleasure.
The movie is hard to box into a specific genre. It is a period piece, but possesses a certain irreverent tone that is even more stark compared to other works by Ray. There are moments of comedy, but they are punctuated by scenes with long dialogues and political discussions. Its themes explore hedonism and monarchy’s obliviousness to the situation of their subjects that ultimately culminated in the British finding grounds to justify annexation of Oudh, but the Nawab’s eccentric femininity is not depicted to queercode him into villainy; rather it humanizes him as a vulnerable individual in wrong shoes. Perhaps to the point of whitewashing his misrule, but the way Ray crafts the character perspectives, it is hard to tell which side he is on, and the narration by Amitabh Bachchan is dripping in nonchalance to establish the story as a cheeky take on a turbulent episode of Awadh’s history not an attempt to rewrite it. The British are depicted as cunning and disconnected in spirit from the land they wish to rule, but the film never slips into revisionist nationalism or forced caricatures for comedy.
The way Ray handles so many perspectives without explicit commentary can best be observed in the kathak dance performance by Saswati Sen. The camera angles gracefully captures the myriad of emotions — Saswati pirouettes in complex kathak routine enthralling the audience with the ambience of the bygone era, the moves to the King and his moist eyes as a reminder of how the craft was a spiritual exercise too, and then moves to a concerned courtier who can’t help but sigh at the King’s focus on arts over governance.
There is a lot to dissect about this film, but for this article we shall explore the costume design. Ray is synonymous, perhaps notoriously so among folks who only know him the Apu Trilogy, for his shoestring budget filmmaking. Shatranj Ke Khilari being a period piece was justifiably his most expensive venture — at 20 lac INR in 1977, or 5.7 crore INR adjusted to inflation. Which is equivalent to $690,000 in 2023 — not even a million dollars. For a film on such a conservative budget, SKK managed to have some of the most accurate sartorial depiction of Awadh ever onscreen (which is particularly ironic considering Ray was a Bengali and not that familiar with the culture of North India).
Shama Zaidi, the film’s costumier talked about her experience on the film:
“Every costume was a challenge. The most elaborate was Wajid Ali Shah’s and in Mumbai then, they no longer did those traditional cuts. We had to then find someone in the readymade industry who could pull it off and then rope in a master embroiderer from Agra.”
She recalls working with Ray, who cut no costs to ensure authenticity, in her note for the IIC exhibition
“Going with Manikda [Satyajit Ray] to look for props was almost like going to buy a trousseau for one’s daughter. We would be given tea and the collection would arrive for our inspection and Manikda would say, ‘This one, that one and that, and that’, and we would go off carrying our precious cargo.”
The Costumes in Shatranj Ke Khilari
The film starts with a narration of the backdrop of Oudh, the Nawab and the East India Company, and moves to a peak into the lifestyle of the Nawab.
Compare to:
The dancers are all clad in peshwaz and chaura pyjamas except the lady in front wearing a lehenga choli. The peshwaz was a tunic made of silk or muslin that had a fitted bodice (that fastened in the centre front through button loops) with a full skirt. Its origins date to Akbar’s reign when it started as an overgown worn by nobility irrespective of gender, but gradually became a garment primarily worn by women.
Notice how all these images show them wearing fitted churidar pyjamas (trousers that are cut long to be scrunched at the ankles giving a ruched cuff effect). The peshwaz-churidar look is the staple “muslim royalty” look due to Mughal association and is hence the standard kathak dress for the Lucknow tradition of kathak dance today, but Nawabi Oudh was doing its own thing.
The women had eschewed fitted trousers for fullness — trousers cut with flared panels (chaura pyjama), trousers cut straight till the knee and then a wide ruffle gathered up till the ankles (ghrara), trousers cut so wide it was basically a split skirt (sharara), trousers cut with a train that had to be literally picked up in the arms or tucked at the waist in the most ostentatious display of wealth (farshi or floor-sweeping pyjamas).
Now, these wide trousers are hard to move in, and this posed a problem for the dancers and the choreographer Birju Maharaj. But commitment to authenticity prevailed and this is hence perhaps the first major film set in the era to depict courtesans dancing in their flared trousers.
Some extant peshwaz:
The movie has much simpler but reasonable well-structured peshwaz mostly for the dancers.
There is a beautiful dance scene in the film, with Saswati Sen making her debut under the tutelage of Birju Maharaj.
Notice the wrapped high braid — it was extremely popular among 19th-century Awadhi women.
The costumes are much simpler than they would have been historically, but the effect is adequately evocative.
The braid also features on Nafisa. She wears pink and purple from head to toe, a picture of youthful effervescence in the trailing striped farshis. Awadhi women were madly in love with striped border farshis.
One detail I noticed was her bodice — you can see a peek of purple at her neckline as well as sleeves, but her torso is covered by a pink bodice. Notice how the pink bodice rises midbust, not stopping under it like some anachronistic push-up contraption, and ends right at the waist without covering the waistband of the farshis. This is a small detail but my absolute favourite costume detail, as they managed to recreate the short overbodices seen in portraiture as well as extant examples at V&A Museum.
If there is one costuming error that is more prevalent than corsets without shifts, it is this overbodice constructed like an underbust vest due to confusion with Algerian frimla in colonial theatrical depictions.
Since then, it is almost synonymous with “Muslim dress,” being used like a Swiss waist for a cinched look. This has been done just. So. Many. Many. MANY. times.
Khurshid, Mirza’s wife, is played by Shabana Azmi. She wears a green choli and light green dupatta at night, most details concealed by the shawl.
During the day she wears a green choli with an orange dupatta and overbodice that long sleeves and goes underbust.
The choli has a fairly accurate silhouette compared to extants.
At first I thought was based on these wide-necked kurtis:
But the long sleeves and the almost underbust neckline bugged me slightly. There are plenty of examples of such kurtis but none with full sleeves, and virtually all midbust or higher. Then I found this behind the scenes pic and didn’t quite appreciate the underbust button-up jacket construction.
You definitely don’t see it in the movie as it’s covered under layers of dupatta, but it’s still a detail which is very theatrical in approach without historical precedent.
Full-length shot of the dress in posters:
The buttoned up construction makes it way more fitted than it needs to be, reminding me of these Algerian jackets:
The Queen Mother wears a spangled and lace-edged dupatta.
A wider poster image shot doesn’t give more details except another gorgeous shawl.
The men all wear basic chaura pyjamas (significantly slimmer than those of women), angarkhas, double peaked caps (they were characteristic of Awadh), and shawls. There is a variety of fabrics used in the movie, cottons, printed silks, as well as velvets, with the Nawab having the most ornate ensembles.
The angarkha is basically a coat with a wide neckline and a flap sewn to one side, while it fastens under the other side and the other side comes further till centre front (imagine a robe a la francaise bodice with the stomacher permanently sewn to one side).
An exhibit of angarkhas used in the film:
I loved the choice to have the men wear cotton shifts called “nimcha” under their angarkhas. You can see this when he is arranging his clothes (with a nice detail of pearl buttons on the angarkha edge).
It can be seen with the Nawab’s clothes as well as, covering the skin where his left nipple is supposed to be.
I found this detail interesting as they clearly wanted to reference the hilariously exposed nipples of Wajid Ali in all his portraits.
It makes sense why they didn’t fully reveal skin — the censor boards actually blurred male nipples in another period drama released over a decade ago — Amrapali.
The characters are always carrying shawls when outside, as well as having them draped gracefully on the shoulders while sitting in beds, which makes sense given the events in the movie took place in the cold month of February.
The servant wears a nice quilted jacket in appropriately muted shades.
The servants and common folks wear similar dresses as the elites except in simpler fabrics with less accessories.
The “munshi” (clerk) has a distinctly British-inspired coat, which fits in with his knowledge of British rules of chess.
The British Costumes in Shatranj Ke Khilari
Pretty colours, decent fabrics, all covered up, no funny haircuts or facial hair, it appears reasonably accurate.
The filmmakers, of course, ensured that the uniforms were well researched. According to the IIC Art Gallery:
After an elaborate consultation with the National War Museum in London, Andrew Mollo, a British expert on military uniforms, did the sketches for the military costumes, which were arranged sequentially according to scouts, cavalry, horse artillery, general and staff, infantry, heavy artillery and baggage. Red and gold, blue and silver, red and yellow and white uniforms were produced for the Bengal cavalry. In this context, Shama Zaidi, who was closely associated with the film, categorically mentioned that, “As this was a pre-mutiny sequence, army uniforms before the mutiny were not standardised.”
The bright red shade of the uniforms make the British seem foreign to the pastels and muted neutrals in the frame.
Thanks to Shashwat for all this detail on the film! Have you seen Shatranj Ke Khilari?
Very interesting post – thanks so much!!!
I’m lucky enough to have a copy, time to see it again!