Malaika Arora Talks Turning 50, Her 'Thamma' Dance Number, and Owning the Gaze

When Malaika Arora turned 50 last week, the chatter was inevitable — photographs of the celebration, breathless commentary on her fitness and glow, the chorus of voices insisting that she was “setting the record straight” on what fifty should look like. But what does it mean for someone like Arora to still be here? Be visible, magnetic, and unbothered by an industry that rarely allows women to age with agency, much less allure.

Arora has been a part of India’s vocabulary for nearly three decades, her name first orbiting pop culture in 1998 with Chaiyya Chaiyya, where she danced atop a moving train like someone who already knew what it meant to hold a gaze and not flinch. She must have been all of 23 years old, newly anointed, and still, became effortlessly iconic. The camera fell in love, the audience followed, and a template was born.

Over the years, she’s performed in a string of so-called “special numbers” — Munni Badnaam Hui in 2010, Anarkali Disco Chali, Pandey Ji Seeti, Hello Hello, Aap Jaisa Koi — each one tethered to her image yet slightly ahead of its time. By Munni Badnaam Hui, she was already a married woman and a mother, and still the centre of cinematic desire — a contradiction Bollywood had never quite made peace with.

“When I did Munni Badnam, I didn’t imagine it would become such a cultural phenomenon,” she recalls. “It opened up new opportunities for me. After all these years, returning to dance numbers feels like embracing a part of my identity, but now I am doing it with much more confidence and experience. Personally, it’s about celebrating my journey and showing that you can stay relevant and passionate at any stage. Professionally, it’s a chance to evolve and reinvent myself, proving that age doesn’t define your capacity to perform or inspire.”

Her latest turn, Poison Baby from Thamma, doubles down on that reinvention — a high-voltage performance that moves between provocation and precision. At one point in the song, she rests a glass of whisky on her chest, oscillates it, tips it off and catches it mid-air, a reminder that audacity can coexist with elegance. Later, she’s joined by Rashmika Mandanna, the industry’s reigning ingénue, and yet, in every frame, the eye drifts back to Arora. There’s a calm to her confidence, a veteran’s fluency in being looked at without needing to perform for approval.

“I think every woman in our industry has felt the pressure of a supposed shelf life, especially with dance or glamorous roles,” Arora says. “When I was younger, I worried about how long I could keep doing this. But today, my perspective is entirely different. With time, I’ve realised that talent, charisma, and presence cannot simply be put on a timer. Women are rewriting the rules and creating space for themselves well beyond what was ever expected. Growing older has shown me that you have to own your narrative… you can’t let anyone dictate your limits. I now see age as a badge of honour — it means wisdom, resilience, and confidence.”

In another era, the erstwhile “item song” existed as spectacle — pure male fantasy, unmoored from story, its women offered up like visual punctuation marks. Arora, more than anyone, understands both the power and the burden of that space. “These special numbers have come a long way since I started,” she says.

“Earlier, they were mostly about glamour and spectacle, often detached from a woman’s individuality. Today, filmmakers are more conscious… they integrate these numbers into stories with stronger character context. It’s less about being provocative and more about performance and presence. I see it as an evolution where women can own their space, rather than just be part of the show.”

Malaika Arora

Her phrasing — “own their space” — feels deliberate. It’s not an apology, nor is it a provocation. It’s the articulation of something she has been practising for years: the right to be desired without being diminished. And yet, she is fully aware of the contradictions. “Yes, item songs have often been linked to the male gaze, but I’ve always looked at them differently,” she admits. “For me, dance is about confidence and expression. When I perform, I focus on enjoying the moment and bringing my own energy to it. As long as I feel comfortable and in control, that’s what matters most. It’s about celebrating the art and having fun with it rather than overthinking the labels.”

There’s something bracing about the ease with which she says it — the lack of defensiveness, the implicit reminder that a woman’s self-possession doesn’t need to be justified. Arora, after all, has spent her entire career being read through the prism of someone else’s desire and has survived it intact. Three decades in, she’s not rewriting history so much as outlasting it. In Poison Baby, she is no longer someone auditioning for approval. She already has it — from herself most of all.