When the lyrics were as suggestive as Choli ke peechhe kya hai, chunari ke neeche kya hai, it was a certainty that it was not exactly a bhajan sequence that was going to be picturised. So, when Neena Gupta was presented before Subhash Ghai and he said with exasperation, “No, no, kuchh bharo,” why should it have flabbergasted anybody? In fact, knowing the requirements of the song, the surprise was that the costume-in-charge didn’t stack the actress well before seeking the filmmaker’s approval.

Such a routine on-set happening didn’t also rate to be excerpted with such glee by the media when Neena referred to the “kuchh bharo” remark in her recent autobiography. Because right until the likes of Karan Johar and Zoya Akhtar brought some finesse into their song sequences, cameras and choreographers lingered for decades on the heaving chest of the heroine. Actresses and their dressmakers were also willing partners to it — Asha Parekh, Mala Sinha, Leena Chandavarkar or Mumtaz, skin-tight kurtas and blouses that accentuated two points were a part of all their screen wardrobes.

This focus prevailed in the 80s and 90s too. After all, what were the movements of Dhak dhak in Beta and Humko aajkal hai in Sailaab all about but Saroj Khan and Madhuri Dixit whipping up a sensual frenzy with the accent on the heroine’s assets below the neck?

“Kuchh bharo” was an acknowledged part of the filmmaking routine. Once, a male journalist and I were chatting with a renowned actress and her mother in her make-up room when the dress department sent across her costume. When the blouse was casually hung up on the wall, the heavily padded affair stood out embarrassingly like a pair of sentinels. The mother, who also noticed it, instructed the dresswala to turn the hanger the other way so that the obvious faced the wall like a punished school child and didn’t stick out in the room.

(Hint: The actress, a south Indian, was known for her dancing skills.)

On another day in another famous actress’s room, when she was called to give her shot, she stood before the mirror, propped her chest firmly and deftly into place and walked to the set. She knew it was an important part of her arsenal.

(Hint: This actress and the one mentioned in the earlier incident acted for the most saleable filmmakers of the day.)

“Kuchh bharo” was such a standard requirement that actresses like Sushmita Sen and Bipasha Basu went further and opted for surgical assistance.

But even in those buxom days, Choli ke peechhe was quite a sensation. Few know how Ghai himself had initially reacted to the blockbuster lyrics. It was a time when Laxmikant-Pyarelal as a team was losing its lustre and there was a clamour by music companies and distributors for music by Nadeem-Shravan. So when he overruled market sentiments and handed over the prize assignment of Khal Nayak to L-P, his favourite duo, everybody knew this was a do-or-die album for the fading composers. Lyricist Anand Bakshi also accepted the challenge.

In the musical process, it’s no secret that most times a tune is first composed and lyrics are then fit into it. So, for a raunchy dance sequence that Ghai had in mind, L-P composed an earthy tune and handed it over to Anand Bakshi.

Rumour had it that when the veteran lyricist was ready, he called up Ghai and began with “Kuk kuk kuk kuk”, which was fine. But when Bakshi sang his opening line, not only did Ghai’s jaw drop, he nearly dropped his phone as he spluttered, “Bakshi saab, what have you written?” Chuckling, the lyricist with the marked Punjabi accent told him, “Sunn, listen…” and went on, “Chunari ke neeche kya hai,” at which Ghai’s phone practically slid to the floor.

It was only when Bakshi read out, “Choli mein dil hai mera” that Ghai heaved a sigh of relief. Quite different from the heave of his dancers of course.

Bharathi S. Pradhan is a senior journalist and author