Muzaffar Ali, the artist who created Umrao Jaan: 'I've never been a conventional filmmaker waiting for the market'

It isn’t every day that one gets to listen to a man who weaves poetry into film and history into frame. Muzaffar Ali, the visionary behind Umrao Jaan, remains a rare voice in Indian cinema—elegant, introspective and unapologetically rooted in art.

In this candid conversation, he speaks not just as a filmmaker but as a cultural custodian whose every word carries the weight of legacy and the grace of lyric.

Q:⁠ ⁠Umrao Jaan still casts a spell after four decades—did you ever imagine this courtesan’s voice would echo across generations, even into 2025?

A: One always imagines and then embarks on such journeys. It begins with faith—in the idea, in oneself, and in those around you. That chain of conviction is what creates a lasting spell. When that chain breaks, so does the magic.

In India, the real challenge has always been to uphold cinema as an elevated art form. For a film to hold its freshness and resonance over four decades—it is nothing short of a miracle. And a blessing.

Q:⁠ ⁠Your cinema gave Urdu its most luminous screen presence—ghazals, nazms, tehzeeb. Was that your rebellion against the mainstream, or simply your way of preserving what you loved?

A: Urdu is, at its heart, a language of love and interconnectedness. When used in cinema in its authentic, unembellished form, it gains a profound ability to touch the soul. Any attempt to exaggerate it only dilutes its power.

Urdu has always been the invisible thread running through Indian cinema—it has endured, even when the winds blew against it. My love for poetry has helped me shape characters, emotions and above all, humour. It has given me an edge—a sculptor’s eye for the human spirit.

Q:⁠ ⁠Each of your films feels more like a painting than a product—slow, rich, deliberate. Do you think the pace of your art made it timeless, even if it made your filmography rare?

A: I think like a painter before I think like a director. I deliberate on light, texture and frame before I invite movement.

Once I have my cultural vision in place, I choreograph cinema like an orchestral composition—with rhythm, shade and detail. That’s where the poetry begins.

Q:⁠ ⁠Zooni was once your dream—Kashmir, poetry, history—but it remains unreleased. Does its silence haunt you, or have you made peace with what never saw light?

A: To me, nothing is ever incomplete. I have dreamt Zooni through… deeply and fully. With my son (filmmaker Shaad Ali), I’ve even taken it to the next level.

One day, I believe, its silence will speak volumes. The lost voices of that legend will find their echo again.

Q:⁠ ⁠Between Anjuman (1986) and Jaanisaar (2015), you vanished from cinema but immersed yourself in craft, couture, and cultural revival. Was this a creative exile—or a conscious expansion?

A: I immersed myself in the world of Sufi poetry and music, creating Jahan-e-Khusrau, a world Sufi music festival that became a kind of seamless cinema, staged in ruins, illuminated by light and shadow, captured through multiple lenses.

My relationship with the camera has never waned. I’ve made over 30 films on craft, poetry and spirituality, explored countless scripts—including a biopic on Rumi.

My time has always been devoted to art: painting, sculpture and the pursuit of meaning. I’ve never been a conventional filmmaker waiting for the market. I create only when an idea completely possesses me.

Q:⁠ In an age when filmmakers release multiple projects in a decade, your fans often wonder: Why did you choose such long silences between films?

A: There are many ways to find me. I’ve never needed to be in the marketplace. My work speaks through other forms.

Q:⁠ Do you feel Indian cinema missed out on the many stories Muzaffar Ali could’ve told—or did your stories just find other canvases: textiles, poetry, festivals?

A: The world would have been richer if more of my films had seen the light of day. But the stories have lived through music, dance, theatre, design, and craft. All the elements that cinema is made of have continued to shape my journey.

Q:⁠ Many believe only you could have created an anthology of Awadh’s lost souls—musicians, rebels, artisans. Did that vision ever tempt you in these streaming-hungry times?

A: I follow my heart. In these troubled times, art must serve a higher purpose—to bring peace. My next dream is to create Rumi as a symbol of world peace on Indian soil.

We must place India on the global map not just as an economic power but as a beacon of love, harmony and understanding.

Q:⁠ If you were to remake Umrao Jaan today—not as a film, but as an idea—what would change in the way you portray womanhood, longing, or dignity?

A: I did what I could then, and I believe it was for all time. Today, my deepest concern is world peace and cultural understanding. That is the idea I would now reimagine and reshape.

Q:⁠ Finally, with Umrao Jaan re-releasing in theatres on June 27, do you feel like a filmmaker revisiting his magnum opus—or a poet returning to a beloved verse that the world is only just beginning to understand?

A: People have to believe in me—as a person and as an artist—for the work to remain relevant. At least Umrao Jaan has shown what it means to withstand the test of time.

Perhaps, in its return, the world is finally ready to hear the music between the silences.