Tag: Bollywood music

‘The Heart Has Gone Out’: The Evolution of Hindi Film Songs – and India

Since nothing that is coarse and meek lasts for long, it is not surprising to witness that most of the movies and songs of our age come and vanish without making a mark.

On a lazy Sunday afternoon, this winter past, I chanced upon a ten-minute video on YouTube that brought together some of the most admired Hindi film songs from 1931 to 2021. It comprised short, quick snippets, one after another, of the most popular song of the year across those 90 years.

Then, as it often happens on the internet – a hyperlink leading to another, like how a memory leads to another – I started watching two YouTubers react to the original video as it played on. Presented with the 90-year montage, they bared their enthusiasm every time a landmark moment came up. At the first sound of Lata Mangeshkar for example, in 1949, their eyes twinkled, their faces beamed with a broad, affectionate smile as they cried out in unison: “THERE SHE COMES! LATAAA!” “What a great career, man!” said one of the YouTubers. “Yeah, and she was singing in films even before my parents were born!” added the other.

Ditto for when Mohammed Rafi or Kishore Kumar arrived on the scene. Or when a memorable song lit up the screen with the first sighting of a beloved actor, like the tramp Raj Kapoor bumbling down the road in Mera joota hai Japani, or the regal Madhubala rebelling and dancing her heart out in Emperor Akbar’s diwaan-e-khaas in Jab pyaar kiya toh darna kya, or the pensive Amitabh Bachchan (the YouTubers roared in unison again: “BIG BEEEEE!”) in Kabhi kabhi mere dil mein, or the fun and quirky Sridevi in Hawa hawaayi, or the diva Divya Bharti in Saat samundar paar, and, finally, the cheeky Shah Rukh Khan in Baazigar o baazigar, who is in a horrendous Batman-meets-Zorro costume, atop a white horse, ready to ride straight into a million hearts in the years to come, and down to many other defining songs through the 1990s, 2000s and 2010s.

It is fascinating to watch the two YouTubers for their innocent, lovable reactions, but it is also pleasantly overwhelming to switch off, lie back, and think about the journey and the evolution of the Hindi film song itself, especially against the backdrop of enormous social and political changes. In these 90 long years – from 1931 to 2021 – India has had many trysts with destiny. She put up an arduous struggle for freedom for which there is little parallel in the history of the world. She was dragged into a long, bloody World War with nothing to gain and only to lose. She won her independence, but was partitioned simultaneously – the horrors of which continue to linger to this day. She wrote and gave its citizens a bold and proud Constitution to live by, has fought five wars with its neighbours, saw the imposition of the Emergency when democracy was suspended and then fought for and reclaimed. She has held 17 general elections, elected and voted out 13 prime ministers, and witnessed numerous tumultuous social and political movements, including riots, pogroms, attacks on its own citizens and ten devastating years of rule of the current prime minister, on the eve of whose ascent to power in 2014, a former prime minister had quietly, prophetically, cautioned the country: “Without discussing the merits of Mr Narendra Modi, I sincerely believe that it will be disastrous for the country to have him as the prime minister.”

Art is not made in a vacuum. Art is, in fact, the barometer of its age. And so the Hindi film song too, as a work of art in its own right, has imbibed and expressed the sense and sensibilities of its time. Sometimes it has merely mirrored and reflected – albeit beautifully and profoundly – the prevalent social and cultural moods, like in Dil ka haal sune dilwala, seedhi si baat na mirch masala, which offers a peek into the slums of a big city and sings defiantly, unabashedly, and yet smilingly, of the every-day life and struggles of the slum-dwellers, or in Thoda hai, thode ki zaroorat hai, which weaves together a myriad dreams and aspirations of a new, emerging middle-class. On other occasions, it has even influenced and refashioned the broader milieu of its time, like in Main zindagi ka saath nibhaata chala gaya, or in Aane wala pal jaane wala hai – both relegating the burdens of the past and the concerns of the future to the backseat and, instead, providing a quotable cause to enshrine and revel in the freedom of the present moment.

We have seen the Hindi film song to both heed and lead public taste and opinion. Along with other works of art, it has played a crucial role in encapsulating and even shaping the sense of life of its society in any given period of time in much of modern India’s history. How far the Hindi film song has come and how far we, who have grown up on a rich diet of it, have travelled!

‘Yeh chiraag bujh rahein hain’

The most notable shift in the Hindi film song perhaps is that it has receded to the background of the Hindi film over the course of the past few decades. There was a time when a Hindi movie would not shy away from telling the story at hand through song and dance, amongst other narrative devices. The song used to be a scene of the movie, like in Guru Dutt’s Pyaasa and Kaagaz Ke Phool or Vijay Anand’s Guide, carrying the narrative forward and adding to the characterisation. And this is a very Indian way of telling a story, as Salman Rushdie, one of India’s literary icons, reminds us. Reminiscing about his Indian roots and heritage that shaped his method of storytelling, Rushdie once talked about a way of telling a story – the tradition of oral storytelling – that is still prevalent and popular in India. “The storyteller,” he said in his talk at the University of Vermont, “would begin a story, digress and tell a related story, break into a song and dance routine, tell a few jokes about nothing in particular, and return to the original thread again. The storyteller would have three or four performative threads co-existing and intertwining and the genius of the storyteller is that he keeps all the balls juggling in the air.” The audience loves the juggling act and goes along with it in their hundreds and thousands.

Influenced by this ancient method (all the way back to the structure and style of the great epics Ramayana and Mahabharata), and the Urdu-Parsi theatre of course, Hindi sound cinema arose in the 1930s, parallel to but unlike Hollywood, proudly using narrative styles of its own of which songs were a big part. And that is what distinguished Hindi cinema from other cinemas of the world.

It is difficult to pinpoint with considerable accuracy when the change happened and when the Hindi film song stopped being an integrated and integral part of its film. The claim is not that every song of every old Hindi movie was a scene of the film, or that it carried the narrative forward always, or that it added to the characterisation in any substantial measure, just as not every song of every new Hindi movie is an “item number”, or an unintegrated part of the film, or a bundle of arbitrary theatrics happening on the side or in the background, with little to do with the story that is unravelling around it. There were many blips, even trash, before, just as there are many notable exceptions now. The claim has more to do with the frequency and consistency of the role that the Hindi film song played and plays in the cinematic storytelling of which it is supposed to be a part.

The change, then, is more crucially linked to two phenomenons that began unfolding over many years in Hindi cinema starting surreptitiously in the ’80s, then setting foot insidiously in the ’90s, and consolidating further in the first decade of the present millennium, before coming into full bloom now. The two phenomenons are: the lip-sync song falling steadily out of ‘fashion’, and, coupled with, the falling away of the “poet” part and what it signified in the title “poet-lyricist” that can be attributed to most of the artists who wrote songs back then and which cannot be said for many who write songs now.

The fading away of the lip-sync song 

The most disdainful criticism of the lip-sync song perhaps is that it is “artificial”, and “not realistic”. If the holder of this criticism has acquired or desires to acquire fashionable western sensibilities and lives, voluntarily, in a deracinated urban bubble mistaking it for the whole world, their criticism of the lip-sync song holds true. But then the same could be said about them: that by uprooting themselves from their natural social and cultural environment and by trying to come across as a ‘nonconformist’ while actually conforming, quite anxiously, to anything western and to the western sense and ‘supremacy’, they, too, are “artificial” and “not realistic”, to say the least.

In commenting on art, any form of art, and while critiquing it, the question of what is legitimate and honest, what is true and real, the commentator and the critic must also pay attention to the socio-cultural ground from which that piece of art has emerged. The tradition of song and performance in India is deeply intertwined with the day-to-day matters of Indian lives. More than two-thirds of India’s population lives in its countryside and villages where, from births to deaths, weddings and harvests, practising one’s faith to indulging in leisure and entertainment, singing out songs over spirited claps and beats of a dholak are quite natural and realistic ways, often the most preferred ways, of expressing oneself and marking life-events. Even in India’s cities, in the many pockets that are outside the deracinated, elite bubbles (and even in those bubbles, in fact), the art of using a song, old or new, to express, to earmark a moment, to make something memorable, is spotted and experienced on numerous occasions.

To sum it up, we have been telling our stories through songs since time immemorial. Even before the arrival of talkies now almost a hundred years ago, the Urdu-Parsi theatre, relaying the age-old mood and custom, and mixing in new flavours and inspirations, would roam around towns and villages, telling tales and spinning yarns of which songs were an unmissable part. Bombay movies, as the Hindi cinema, or more correctly the Hindustani cinema, was called back then, readily adopted the ways of the Urdu-Parsi theatre, which was a raging success amongst the masses everywhere, and became the newest upholder and proponent of the old, native art of singing out stories. That this happened against the all-consuming backdrop of the call for swaraj and the freedom struggle is hardly a coincidence.

This aspect of an Indian way of life found easy, and natural, passage into its arts, and theatre, and its cinema. Rushdie’s tribute to the Indian oral storytelling tradition, paid decades after Hindi cinema came of age, is just another reminder of how this song- and performance-laden method of telling a story was mirrored without a fuss in its cinema. The Hindi film, along with other cinemas of India, had became a visual equivalent of a quintessentially Indian way of telling a story.

In addition to the arguments about authenticity, the other (underrated and little observed) beauty of the lip-sync song is that, at its best, it has added more dimensions to not just the story being told but also to the performance of the actors enacting the story. In order to perform, and in most cases lip-sync the song, the actors, to the extent of their genius, have had to become the song itself. They have had to learn projection, imbibe the song’s inflections, and pay attention to how to move and to be in the scene in a way that best epitomised what the song was saying. It made the best of them learn and explore themselves more and, as a result of those explorations, they accessed and brought out emotions that added to and enhanced the character that they played and revealed more deeply the situation concerned in the film. The lip-sync song helped add lyricism and depth to the characters that these actors portrayed.

This is not to say that every film must contain a song, or that every song must be performed and lip-synced. The argument is that we must not forget or underestimate the roots and influences of a musical performance in our movies and of lip-syncing a song, and we must not bare ignorance and an inferiority complex by looking at our own heritage and artistic productions through the ‘modern’, western glasses of what we think rules and moves the world. When and if done right, a song, lip-synced or not, adds more layers to the unfolding of the narrative.

‘Kahan gaye woh log’

The other notable shift in the nature and quality of the Hindi film song has to do with the lyricists and the filmmakers. As Javed Akhtar, one of India’s most celebrated screenwriters, poets and lyricists, said in a conversation with Kausar Munir at the Lucknow Literature Festival, “In the ’40s, ’50s and ’60s, the lyricist was also a shayar, a poet.” Akhtar, who himself is a poet-lyricist, was perhaps thinking of people like Sahir Ludhianvi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Shakeel Badayuni, Kaifi Azmi, Hasrat Jaipuri, Shailendra, and Gulzar, to name just a few. Those decades were, indeed, alive and kicking with the creations of such lyricists who were accomplished poets too. Akhtar laments and adds, “Now, the lyricist is just a songwriter writing a song for the situation that they have been allocated in the film. If you are writing songs after listening to songs that came before, your vocabulary is bound to be narrow and repetitive. But if your sources are beyond the world of films and lie also in the literature and folk traditions of your culture, your vocabulary will be broad and fresh. Your ideas will be fresh. Jaan–e–mann and maula: think of how many songs have used these! You put four maulas in a song and call it a Sufi song!”

It is not so much about any qualifications needed to pen a song as much as it is about cultivating a thoughtful, sensitive and diverse view of the world around you and beyond. Literature and poetry open the universe a little more. They reveal deep truths about human nature and existence. And a song – a great song – is, after all, a piece of poetry in motion which, set to music, lifts us and flies out, soaring high above for a moment, affording us an expansive, unobstructed view of how things are, before gliding down to the earth again, having enriched us, entertained us, and sometimes even having unpacked bite-sized philosophies for us, so that we look at our everyday life-situations with a newly found or renewed gaze and vigour.

According to Akhtar, one of the great achievements of Hindi film songs is that they also “shaped sensibilities in the masses for social justice and life philosophy”, which otherwise could have only come from high poetry, literature and works of philosophy. As Akhtar notes in the same interview, “In our society, the common man doesn’t read books on philosophy and sociology and social justice. The sensibilities towards human values and collective values were gleaned and imbibed from our film songs. Because in a few lines, set to a melody, profound insights into life were packed together in simple words.”

Kisi ke muskurahaton pe ho nisaar…kisi ke vaaste ho dil mein pyaar…jeena isi ka naam hai on one end of the spectrum and Dum maaro dum, mit jaaye gham on the other – these and many other songs in between, in addition to being scenes of the film in their own right, or adding to the drama and characterisation, also offered the audiences value systems and public philosophy. It is not uncommon, after all, the eclectic frequency with which we quote lines from a beloved song to mark a moment or to help a friend, or even ourselves, in life-situations and to show the way around and forward. In conclusion, Akhtar minces no words in stating that “now such songs are too few and far in between”. He says, “Kal ho naa ho comes to mind, and maybe that is it.” And even Kal ho naa ho happened more than 20 years ago!

One of the causes, then, of the deteriorating quality of the Hindi film song is that the reference points of most of the present crop of filmmakers and lyricists are placed outside of the milieu of the society for which they are making films and writing songs. Unlike the filmmakers and poet-lyricists of the past, the sources and inspirations of most of the contemporary filmmakers and lyricists are not rooted in their soil and lie saat samundar paar, in the pop-music and pop-culture of western countries whose lifetimes, as Akhtar puts quite wittingly, “are smaller than even the artistic traditions of India let alone its civilisation.”

‘Woh subah kabhi to aayegi’

The progression of the Hindi film song, across almost a century now, is more than just a nostalgic, romantic yaadon ki baraat. On a deeper level, they stand testimony to and are imbibers of the big political and social changes that have shaped the country. From the crucible of the freedom movement led by Mohandas Gandhi, the republic of India emerged. Beaconing the new nation on an exciting experiment, Jawaharlal Nehru, the first prime minister, spoke of redeeming an old pledge for a new age – one of equality, fraternity, liberty and justice. The heady idealism of the post-independence India from the early 1950s to the late 1960s made it possible for the filmmakers at the time to attempt to realise some of these ideals, mixed in with their own renewed romanticisms and artistic endeavours, in their movies and songs. It was the age of dropping the bitterness and burdens of the past and embarking upon a new journey, as depicted in the timeless Chhodo kal ki baatein, kal ki baat puraani; naye daur mein likhenge hum milkar nayi kahaani…Hum Hindustani. But it was also the age that made it possible for a Madhubala to play a Muslim courtesan and dance to a Krishna–bhajan in Emperor Akbar’s court in Mughal–E–Azam, portraying an incredible (and uncommon) combination of devotion and sensuality, of prayer and romantic love, in Mohe panghat pe nandlal chhed gayo re to the wild, wide acclaim of a largely Hindu audience.

As the founding ideals started to evaporate – as they usually do – and as the Tryst with Destiny with which India was launched in 1947 began to break down, the angry young man rose from the unjust streets of an impoverished India. The 1970s saw the beginnings of counter-culture, and of rage and colour and of unbridled, daring emotions. The Hindi film song was still memorable and melodious, but there was a visible shift in its vocabulary and values. Gone were the days of shy restraint, or of laid-back elegance and gentleness. It was the time, instead, of Indira Gandhi and of breaking the Zanjeer and playing with Sholay. It was the epoch of a great Aandhi both in Indian politics and society.

Like a bridge connects two separate, disparate masses of land, the period from the early 1970s to the late 1980s acted as the link-road in time connecting early Hindi cinema (widely believed to be its golden age) with its newest avatar in the post-liberalisation and post-Babri Masjid-demolition India. As the Indian economy, and with it the Indian society, opened their doors to the world and, amongst other things, to the internet and MTV and western (largely American) influences, the impact on the filmmakers precipitated the most notable shift in the language, vocabulary and values of their movies and, consequently, their songs. It was not an overnight phenomenon. The seeds of liberalisation would take years to shoot up and come into full bloom. But in the aftermath, the frequency of Hindi movies and songs that had their reference points in the pop culture of the west and the US was too stark to miss.

Coupled with the market forces unleashed by liberalisation (which encouraged Indians to look outward), the spectacular rise of Hindu nationalism catapulted a shift in public concerns (which demanded Indians to look more and more inwards, as if on account of a deep-seated insecurity born out of looking out at the west and its glittering achievements). This in turn further catapulted the shifts in the Hindi film song that we have talked about so far. In Modi’s India, a Padmavati couldn’t dance and express her desires with the flaming sensuality and unfettered abandon of an Anarkali in Nehru’s India. Or the angry young man (still committed to the ideals of democracy and social justice) of Indira Gandhi’s infamous Emergency wouldn’t know what to make of the toxic bigotry and hate induced by the new elite – the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh and Bharatiya Janata Party and their followers.

The coarsened public discourse and a narrow imagination have coarsened and reduced the Hindi cinema and its songs in equal measure, if not more. On the other hand, the contemporary filmmakers have not covered themselves in glory either. They have, mostly, bowed down to the market and political forces instead of arriving at a working combination of the commercial, the political and the artistic. And since nothing that is coarse and meek lasts for long, it is not surprising to witness that most of the movies and songs of our age come and vanish without making a mark.

Talking to Tariq Ali on his show on teleSUR in an unusually rare interview about Hindi cinema, one of India’s foremost writers and thinkers Arundhati Roy remarked when asked about the evolution (or regression) of the Hindi film song: “Earlier songs were like incense sticks. They are throwaway lighters now.” When pressed further to explain herself, Roy said in a low, lamenting tone of voice: “The heart has gone out.”

There is enough new brilliance and talent on the Indian film scene. Perhaps some of them, or even most of them, will usher in a new day in Hindi cinema and bring back the heart in it. But whether Apna time aayega again or not, time will tell.

Shivendra Singh is a writer based out of Lucknow. 

Whether in a Cabaret Song, Romantic Number or Bhajan, Asha Bhosle Brings a Depth of Feeling Uniquely Her Own

Three music directors extracted the best from the singer, who turns 90 on September 8.

To write about Asha Bhosle in a 1,200-word article is to try to contain the ocean in one’s palms. She turns 90 today, and in a career spread over 75 years, she has sung more than 7,500 songs in Hindi and many more in other languages, making her the most recorded musician ever. Add to that her eclectic range and the epochs in Hindi cinema that she has traversed and it becomes clear that it would take several theses to do her full justice. Yet as she turns 90 and crosses another milestone in her life, it is important to celebrate the colossal body of work that she has created over the years.

In retrospect, it is difficult to believe that she struggled in her initial years. There were battles to be fought, won or conceded on the personal front, there was the struggle of a failed marriage and that of raising three children as a single woman and, of course, the struggle to establish herself in the world of Hindi film music. As a creative person, there was also the struggle to find her voice and to emerge from the shadows of her elder sister, Lata Mangeshkar. Mangeshkar herself had to cast her Noor Jahan burden away but Bhosle had to avoid being Mangeshkar on the one hand, and Geeta Dutt on the other. She was, as a young person, hugely influenced by both these great singers but it was her determination and the mentorship of three music directors that allowed the real Bhosle to emerge.

In the Bhosle who emerged from this struggle, you see someone who has gained from both but is so uniquely herself. If she brought raw energy and oomph to the club dances and cabaret numbers, she could at the same time bring the depth of vocal emotion to songs that gave her that scope. She was uninhibited in her passionate songs but there was a subtlety in that expression. In her romantic duets, she could always bring a gentle naughtiness which Lata-didi shied away from and if a folk song or a nautanki demanded it, she could make it more risqué. And when called upon to sing a bhajan as she was by Ravi in Kajal, she gave voice to Sahir’s most beautiful poetry – Tora Man Darpan Kehlaye – in a manner that showed her grasp of the depth of the lyrics or when she sang with sister Usha Mangeshkar for Rajesh Roshan’s Sancha Naam Tera in Julie.

S.D. Burman and O.P. Nayyar both discovered Asha at more or less the same time in the mid-50s and while she did films like Baap Re Baap with Nayyar, she got to sing Jeene do our jiyo for S.D. Burman in Taxi Driver, for a dance sequence enacted by the lovely Sheila Ramani. That worked so well that S.D. Burman got her to do Dum Hai Baki To Gham Nahi for a Sheila Vaz dance number in House No. 44.

Also read: Asha Bhosle at 90: Ten of Her Timeless Gems

But it was 1957 that was the defining year for Bhosle, some nine years after she had recorded her first Hindi film song. One of the top films of that year was B.R. Chopra’s Naya Daur and Chopra decided to go with Nayyar as music director for the film. Nayyar used Bhosle extensively and very effectively in the film and after that film there was no looking back for her. She had three songs with Mohammed Rafi – Mang Ke Saath Tumhara, Ude Jab Jab Zulfein Teri and Saathi Haath Badhana – all very big hits and an equally successful duet with Shamshad Begum – Reshmi Salwar Kurta Jaali Ka.

In the same year, S.D. Burman had her sing several songs in Nau Do Gyarah including two outstanding duets – Ankhon Mein Kya Ji with Kishore Kumar and Aa Ja Panchi Akela Hai with Rafi and two more brilliant duets with Kishore in Paying Guest – Chhod Do Aachal Zamana Kya Kahega and O Nigahe Mastana. If Nayyar followed these up with the classic Madhubala song Aaiye Meherbaan in Howrah Bridge, S.D. Burman, not to be outdone, had her sing the stunning Kaali Ghata Chhaye in Sujata and then a few years later, the outstanding Ab Ke Baras Bhejo Bhaiya Ko Babul for Bimal Roy’s Bandini.

Bandini was a 1963 film – the same year that Bhosle sang Dil Ki Manzil Kuchh Aisi Hai Manzil for S.D. Burman in Tere Ghar Ke Saamne but, around this time, she sang some beautiful songs for Nayyar in Ek Musafir Ek Hasina and in Kashmir Ki Kali. But when she worked with Nayyar in 1963 for Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon, she sang a song that brought out the quintessential Bhosle of the ’60s. This song was Ankhon Se Jo Utri and the tonal inflexions that she displayed in that song were to become the hallmark of her collaboration with Nayyar through the ’60s. There were many outstanding songs following somewhat similar melodic patterns that followed this, including the famous Yeh Hai Reshmi Zulfon Ka Andhera from Mere Sanam but two songs from this period stand out – the amazing Yehi Woh Jagah Hai from Yeh Raat Phir Na Aayegi and Aao Huzur Tumko from Kismat. The latter song is what Mangeshkar considered Bhosle’s best and for good reason, you will find out when you pay attention to the vibrato she manages in the antaras. Chain Se Humko Kabhi for which she won a National Award was her swan song for Nayyar – a song that possibly reflected her own feelings towards a difficult relationship she had with Nayyar.

Her creative journey, which blossomed into a personal one, with R.D. Burman started in the mid-’60s most notably with Teesri Manzil. Bhosle’s voice had the malleable quality that was hugely important in creating the new sound that RD Burman was trying to put in place and as he continued with his new experiments she became a willing partner. Between the two of them they completely redefined the club song in Hindi cinema with such gems like Mera Naam Hai Shabnam from Kati Patang, Piya Tu Ab To Aaja from Caravan and Duniya Mein from Apna Desh. In those heady years, there seemed to be no end to the creative output of R.D. Burman and Bhosle and if R.D. Burman got her to do what seemed impossible, Bhosle was there to show how she could achieve the impossible. Jaane Ja from Jawani Diwani alone suffices to make this point. It is a duet with Kishore Kumar and there is no other duet of the Kishore Kumar that comes to mind where he appears to have been put in the shade – that is how brilliant Bhosle was in it, just like she completely dominated Rafi in Chura Liya Hai from Yaadon Ki Baarat. And, in Hare Rama Hare Krishna where she launched Zeenat Aman into another orbit with her singing of Dum Maaro Dum; she also did an amazing duet with Usha Iyer (now Uthup) where in wanting to contrast with Iyer’s low, deep notes she hit the really high end with absolute control.

Given the enormity of her output, it is obvious that Bhosle has worked with virtually every music director in the last seven to eight decades and her repertoire was not limited to these but included everything from bhajans to ghazals to western pop. She has always been willing to sing every kind of song but to that willingness she brings immense talent. She can do almost everything any other singer can do but there are some things that only she could – like when in her early Filmfare Award winning song Parde Mein Rehne Do from Shikar she sings Allah Meri Tauba with a nuanced ornamentation. When you hear that you know that only Bhosle can do that – and that is the Asha Bhosle we all love.

K. Sridhar is a theoretical particle physicist presently working at the Azim Premji University in Bengaluru. He is a writer of fiction, and also engages himself in writing about visual arts and about popular culture. In this article, as in everything else he writes, the opinions and views expressed are his own and are not that of the organisation that he works for.

Twenty O.P. Nayyar Classics That Never Made it to the Cinema

Although these songs were never screened in cinema halls, these ‘invisible songs’ are partly, sometimes even mostly, responsible for a film’s commercial success.

The name of composer O.P. Nayyar is synonymous with the golden age of Bollywood movies – the 1950s to 1970s. Or more accurately, with the music of the Hindustani films made in Bombay as it was then called. 

Music arguably played a bigger role in these movies than the stars or the story. So much so that producers would get the songs composed even before starting the film production. Professional playback singers pre-recorded the songs, which the actors lip-synced. 

But since the music component was still intimately connected to the movie’s storyline, the songs and music were created keeping the script in mind. Sometimes a soundtrack became more popular than the movie itself. Producers began releasing the film’s soundtrack on the radio, as tapes or CDs before launching the film itself. The songs became a marketing and publicity tool, their popularity or otherwise determining box-office trajectory.

The 1960s and 1970s were marked by relative stability and technical advances that led to rising standards of recording quality. Singers like sisters Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle, besides Geeta Dutt, Kishore Kumar, Mohammad Rafi, Hemant Kumar and others were the mainstay of the playback singing scene.

Invisible songs

Music lovers and filmgoers loved maestro O.P. Nayyar’s unique trailblazing, flowing style. With a high ratio of popular songs on the charts, he commanded the highest fees for much of his career from the 1950s up to the early ‘70s. His spectacular success is evident in the scores of movies remembered not for their cast or directors, but for his songs, which younger vocalists enjoy performing on stage even today.

With that as a backdrop, imagine that no less than 20 of his songs were dropped from various films. Some were recorded and picturised but not used on screen. Others were recorded but never picturised at all. Some were barred by the Censor Board and are not available on movie DVDs. 

And yet many of these “invisible” songs, despite never being screened in cinema halls, are partly, sometimes even mostly, responsible for a film’s commercial success.

Here they are in chronological order, along with the reasons they were dropped from a film, where such information could be verified. There are some for which I could find no confirmed reasons as to why they were dropped.

1. Koi jab dard ka mara (1955)

Shammi Kapoor first met Geeta Bali during the filming of Miss Coca Cola, a musical whodunit in which she plays a nightclub dancer called Miss Coca Cola. A year older than Shammi Kapoor and already an established star, Geeta Bali disliked Shamshad Begum’s voice picturised on her and had the song removed at the eleventh hour. Interestingly, the lead couple got married soon afterwards.

2.  Zara si baat ka huzoor ne (1955) 

A nice peppy song sung by Asha Bhosle came under the scissors when the movie Musafirkhana was deemed too long. Leading lady Shyama was not happy with the cut.

3.  Jata kahan hai deewane (1956)  

This Geeta Dutt nugget, considered by many (including myself) as one of OPN’s best, is from the noir thriller C.I.D. One musical sequence involved Dev Anand, a police officer, and a mysterious woman played by Waheeda Rehman. This song was removed in the final version of the film because of the Censor Board’s objection. It was also banned from All India Radio, for reasons that puzzle people even today. 

Waheeda Rehman said in an interview that it was her ‘sensual’ eyes accompanying the line “Sab kuch yahan hai sanam (everything is here, my love)” that the Censor Board objected to. Decades later, the song finally made its screen debut in the film Bombay Velvet in 2015, re-recorded as old wine in a new bottle.

4.  Bhool ja ae dil pyar ke din  (1956) 

One of OPN’s most mesmerising compositions and also one of his own favourites. The script of the flop movie Hum Sub Chor Hein was revised and the song never picturised. Nobody remembers the film or even the name of the heroine, but Asha Bhosle’s soulful rendition will still haunt anyone who hears it even once.

5.  Ik deewana aate jaate (1956) 

This song was penned by Sahir Ludhianvi and recorded for the hit movie Naya Daur. Although dropped at the editing stage, it remains a classic.

6.  Chhota sa baalma (1958) 

One of OPN’s few raga-based compositions, perhaps one of Asha Bhosle’s best renditions. Penned by Qamar Jalalabadi, it was picturised but removed from the movie Raagini. Still, it remains one of the film’s most remembered songs.

7.  Pyara pyara hai sama (1960)

Film Kalpana. Singers: Asha Bhosle and M. Rafi. Lyrics: Raja Mehdi Ali Khan.

8.  Idhar dekh mera dil  (1960)

Film: Jaali Note. Singers: Asha Bhosle and Shamshad Begum. Lyrics: Anjaan

9.  Duniya pakki 420 (1960)

10.  Kitni badal gayee hai (1960) 

11.  Idhar mein khubsoorat hoon (1960)

No less than 14 songs were recorded for Basant and if that itself wasn’t a record, the 10 Bhosle-Rafi duets certainly were. By the same token, the high number of dropped songs must also be some sort of a dubious record. Something went seriously wrong here, but we don’t know what.

12.  Poochho na hamein (1960)  

Again, one wonders why the best song of the film Mitti Mein Sona would be dropped from the screening. Over 60 years later, this melancholic song embellished with elegant piano interludes, remains fresh even today. 

13.  Yeh duniya rahe na rahe kia pata (1960) 

OPN’s alliance with the brilliant lyricist S.H. Bihari took off right here. Bihari got only one song to write out of seven, and even that was eventually not picturised. This did not prevent the establishment of the rock-like foundation that developed between the two. Their musical partnership yielded 94 hit songs and 25 films over the next 16 years. Asha Bhosle’s delivery is superlative. 

14.  Mein pyar ka rahi hoon (1962)

One of the most popular duets of the year, OP Nayyar remembered it often as one of his most rehearsed songs, because it wasn’t easy to sing. Just one word “ghabraoon (worried)” just wouldn’t sound the way OPN wanted. When it finally did, it turned out to be a musical gem. Yet, among 10 great songs of the film Ek Musafir Ek Haseena, it  was this one that was dropped.

15.  Zulf ki chhaon mein (1963)

Many reportedly re-watched the film Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon because they thought that they had missed this song in their first viewing. The highly romantic duet by Bhosle and Rafi, which many other composers tried to copy with variations but without success, did not make it to the screen.

16.  Balma khuli hawa mein (1964) 

17.  Phir thes lagi dil ko (1964)

These lovely and lively Asha Bhosle solos were produced for Sharmila Tagore’s debut film Kashmir ki Kali. Tagore was unable to do justice to the first song, particularly the word “behekna”. However, lyricist S.H. Bihari made his mark with other songs in the film. The second song got dropped due to changes in the script.

18.  Humne to dil ko aap ke (1965)   

A lovely lilting duet from Mere Sanam, which only Rafi and Bhosle could do justice to. 

19.  Honton pe hansi (1966)

Considered by many of OPN’s faithful fans as one of the maestro’s best duets. The producer of the film Sawan ki Ghata reportedly wanted to use this song in his next film, but the reality remains a mystery.

20.  Chein se humko kabhi (1973) 

This classic sung by Asha Bhosle and penned by S.H. Bihari for the film Pran Jaye Par Vachan Na Jaye was recorded sometime in 1972. By then it was apparent that the magical Bhosle-Nayyar combo was nearing its end, both professionally and personally. It turned out to be their swan song, bringing to a sad end one of the most brilliant partnerships ever in Hindustani cinema history – a musical romance that lasted 14 years, ending in August 1972.

Never picturised, the song was removed from the film even before the shooting stage began. It still became a milestone creation, marking the parting of ways between Bhosle and Nayyar. To quote a line from the film: “Aap ne jo hai diya woh toh kisi ne na diya (What you’ve given me, no one could possibly give me)”.

Paradoxically, Pran Jaye Par Vachan Na Jaye was a mediocre dacoit potboiler, one of many played by Sunil Dutt. Hence, a song of this quality, even if included, may have gone against the film’s character. 

The story did not end there. Chain Se Humko Kabhi went on to win Asha Bhosle the Filmfare Award for Best Female Playback singer for that year. By then the duo had broken up and Bhosle did not turn up to the award ceremony. Since she was not present when the Best Female Playback Singer award was announced, the organisers called on the song’s composer O.P. Nayyar to accept the award on her behalf. He had no choice but to accept it. 

Later, while returning home with S.H. Bihari, he rolled down the window and flung the trophy out, and it shattered against an electric lamp-post. That loud echo late at night also symbolised the dramatic end of an amazing musical partnership, now part of Bollywood folklore. And who cares about Rekha in the female lead!

Still, it serves as a reminder of what incredible heights Asha Bhosle and O.P. Nayyar achieved together. 

No one has been able to come even close.

Karachi-born, Boston-based Siraj Khan is a connoisseur of South Asian film music. A global finance and audit specialist by profession, he has written scripts and directed concerts in USA, Southasia and UAE. He has also been recognised for his work towards women’s empowerment and services to children and youth.

This is a Sapan News syndicated feature.

Lata Mangeshkar: The Nightingale Flies Away

It is a testament to her talent that even over seven decades after she first burst on the Indian playback music scene, her songs are played in every nook and corner of the country.

New Delhi: Just as the fragrance of a flower has no colour, it is a fragrance; the cool breeze and the flowing waters know no boundaries, the rising sun or a child’s innocent laughter have no religion and do not discriminate, so is Lata Mangeshkar’s voice a miracle of nature. It knows no boundaries and flows like the wind and the waters.’’

This was actor Dilip Kumar’s eloquent introduction to the nightingale at her first international concert at the famed Royal Albert Hall in London in the 1970s. There could have been no better description of the singer who was regarded by her innumerable admirers across the world as God’s gift to mankind.

And now, the nightingale has flown away. She passed away, aged 92, at a hospital in Mumbai plunging millions of her fans across borders into deep mourning.

A die-hard fan, this writer had the privilege of meeting her in Parliament House in 2003 during one of her visits as a member of the Rajya Sabha. She had a quiet dignity, an aura about her. Everybody who saw her bowed in reverence. Many touched her feet.

Normally everything has an expiry date, but not the timeless music of the melody queen of Indian cinema. Even over seven decades after she first burst on the Indian playback music scene, her songs are played in every nook and corner of the country. They feature in every television reality show, be it of music, dance or just a talk show of cine artistes. Much to her chagrin, they even appear as re-mixes to regale the new generation hooked on to jazz, pop and rock music.

For most of her life, the internationally renowned doyen of playback singing remained an enigma, firing the imagination of people who craved to know the face behind the honey-sweet voice that had a song for their every mood and occasion. And when she did appear in person in her live concerts, she remained simple, humble and even shy.

Singers who perform on stage normally gyrate to the music or shake a leg to engage audiences. But Lata Mangeshkar, her usual white sari draped around her shoulders, diamonds sparkling in her ears, would stand before the mike, her lips barely moving and yet her powerful, melodious voice held audiences in thrall. Perfectionist to the core, she’d keep her eyes fixed on the lyrics sheet before her while singing but the audiences could not take their eyes off the play of emotions on her face as she gave expression to the wordings, bringing out the soul of the song.

Her flawless diction and versatility to suit the actor on screen set her apart and miles ahead of others. It is no wonder then that for over seven decades she lent her voice from Nargis, Meena Kumari, Madhubala to Madhuri Dixit, Kajol, Preity Zinta and so many actresses.

It is hard to imagine the repertoire of Madhubala without Lata number ‘Pyar kiya toh darna kya’ from Mughl-e-Azam or Meena Kumari without ‘Inhi logon ne le lina dupatta mera’ from Pakeezah or Nargis without ‘Rasik balma’ from Chori Chori or Waheeda Rehman without ‘Piya tose naina lage re’ from Guide or Mala Sinha without ‘Aap ki nazron ne samjha’ from Anpadh or Sadhana without ‘Lag ja gale’ from Woh Kaun Thi, or Bina Rai without ‘Jo wada kiya woh nibhana padega’ from Taj Mahal. 

She recorded a song with A.R. Rehman in 2006 for the film Rang De Basanti and worked with several new composers but in time would accept only such assignments that’d appeal to her senses.

Replying to wonderstruck interviewers, Lata often said her voice was a gift of nature, but the manner in which she trained herself (learning about sur and riyaz from her singer-performer father, Master Dinanath and about rhythm from Ustad Aman Ali Khan and Amanat Khan Dewaswale), got rid of traces of Marathi accent, mastered the nuances of Urdu diction and learnt Sanskrit to keep the purity of languages in her renditions, was very much her own. Composers marvelled at her ability to grasp and deliver even better than what they asked. Musicians Laxmikant-Pyarelal often said that for their 1% effort, Lata gave them 100% result.

When after her father’s death, Lata joined the film industry at the tender age of 13 compelled by the need to take care of a large family of four younger siblings and a widowed mother, she already had a grounding in classical music. This helped her get minor roles of a singing actor in films between 1942-1948. In 1949, she got a chance to give playback for big star cast movies like Mahal, Andaz and Badi Behan, after which there was no looking back. Devoting her life to music the diva remained single, living with her siblings in Mumbai.

Noor Jehan, one of the reigning singers of the 40s, was introduced to Lata during a film shooting in Kohlapur. Mallika-e-tarannum, as Noor Jehan came to be known, declared that Lata will go far. She migrated to Pakistan after India’s partition in 1947. When asked about Lata who came to rule the roost in India, Noor Jehan said, “Lata is Lata. There can be no one like her.” The two remained friends till Noor Jehan’s death in 2000.

Indore-born Lata Mangeshkar recorded countless songs in her golden voice and is said to have sung in more than 20 languages. After Hindi, she sang the most in Bengali. She credited music director Anil Biswas with teaching her the nuances of breath control while singing into a mike. There were several others from whom Lata picked up useful hints and that was her USP: she never stopped learning and honing her craft.

Lata Mangeshkar and Mohammad Rafi

Distinguished Hindustani classical vocalist, Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, who rendered a soulful background number for the famous feather love scene between Salim (Dilip Kumar) and Anarkali (Madhubala) in Mughl-e-Azam said about Lata Mangeshkar, “Yeh kabhi besuri nahi hoti. Kya Allah ki den hai! (She never goes out of tune. What a gift of Allah she is!).’’ Poet Javed Akhtar recalls this in an interview.

Of her perfect rendering of songs, Lata would say that she’d be so immersed in the lyrics and the feel of the composition that she’d lose herself into it. She rehearsed relentlessly before any recording or concert and never resented as many ‘takes’ as it took for a perfect creation. Sometimes, as while singing Naushad composed ‘Mohe Bhool Gaye Sanwariya‘ from Baiju Bawra, tears welled up in her eyes, so engrossed would she be.

Her impassioned rendering of ‘Ae Mere Watan ke logon‘ (penned by Pradeep and composed by C. Ramachandra) in 1963 moved to tears the then Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, who was on the dais. “After the war with China, the country’s mood was sombre. After I finished the song, Pandit Nehru complimented me and said you made me cry,” she would recall. 

Though she did have her share of struggles, Lata’s punctuality, discipline, tremendous capacity for hard work and perseverance went into making her the phenomenon she was. When she arrived on the film music scene such dedication was neither recognised nor financially rewarded within the industry. This made Lata take up cudgels to make several things right for playback singers, such as their name appearing in a film’s credits (for her first hit song, ‘Ayega aane wala’ from Mahal, the HMV record did not carry Lata’s name as the singer), independent recognition of singers for awards (Filmfare initially had no award category for singers) and above all the successful fight for royalty for songs played on public broadcast systems, observed compere Harish Bhimani in his book, In Search of Lata Mangeshkar published by Indus (1995).

Such was her clout in the industry that over a misunderstanding she did not work for several years with popular composer Sachin Dev Burman who had given hit films like Munimji, Guide, Aradhana, Amar Prem, Abhimaan till a rapprochement was brought about by his talented son, Rahul Dev Burman.

There is no honour that bypassed Lata Mangeshkar. In fact, awards chased her. She was bestowed with Bharat Ratna, the country’s top civil recognition, in 2001, Padma Vibhushan in 1999, Dada Saheb Phalke Award in 1989, Maharashtra Bhushan Award in 1987, Padma Bhushan in 1969, France’s Officer of the French Legion of Honour in 2007, three National Awards and numerous state awards. After winning four Filmfare awards she bowed herself out of the reckoning to give fresh talent a chance. The Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh governments instituted awards in her name. She in turn instituted an award in her father’s name and built a multi-speciality hospital in Pune to honour her parent’s memory.

Lata did experiment with film production and tried her hand at composing songs in Marathi under the pseudonym Anandghan, but her core competence remained playback singing. Her non-film repertoire includes albums of Mirza Ghalib, Hridayanath’s Meera bhajans, shlokas from Gita, Marathi folk songs, assorted religious songs, aartis, patriotic and vernacular songs. So focussed was she was on playback singing that despite popular demand, her forays into the genre of ghazals were few and far between (Saadgi, Sadka, Sarhadein). Eminent classical vocalist Pandit Jasraj observed, “Today the crores who listen to shashtriya sangeet (classical music), their beginning is Lata Mangeshkar.”

The diva survived her compatriots – be it Mohammad Rafi, Kishore Kumar, Mukesh, Manna Dey, Hemant Kumar, Talat Mehmood or Mahendra Kapoor – giving a false sense of security to millions of her fans about her immortality. Alas, it was not to be. Indian music has lost its soul.

Gargi Parsai is a senior journalist based in New Delhi.

Lata Mangeshkar, the Voice of India, the Soundtrack of Our Lives, Is No More

A link with the Golden past of India has gone, but her songs will live on in the hearts of every one of us.

It is difficult to really explain what Lata Mangeshkar meant to India. She was a constant presence in the lives of several generations, she sang tens of thousands of songs, she voiced female stars across the decades – all these are undoubtedly important and put her in a stratosphere, perhaps beyond the reach of ordinary mortals.

But Lata – we can only call her that, she was so much a part of our lives – was much more than that. She was the Voice of India, representing the newly independent country’s hopes, aspirations, dreams but also, at various stages, its emotions. When anyone fell in love, Lata gave it expression, when her heart broke, and life seemed full of despair, again Lata was at hand, singing about the pathos of loss. She was the soundtrack of our lives. It was the time of the greats – Mohammed Rafi, Kishore Kumar, Manna De, Asha Bhosle and most of all, Lata Mangeshkar.

In that, Lata was like Umm Kulthum of Egypt or Noorjehan of Pakistan; much more than a singer – she was a symbol, a totem of the best that India had to offer. No one else, even if they had the longevity, will ever replace that status – she was unique, one of a kind. And that is why the cliché ‘the end of an era’ truly applies to her.

Lata Mangeshkar was born in Indore, then part of the Central India Agency, in 1929. Her father Deenanath Mangeshkar was a classical singer and theatre actor, and her mother Shevanti was also a singer The family later adopted the surname Mangeshkar because they were originally from Mangeshi, Goa, where the Mangeshi temple still exists.

More siblings followed – Asha, Usha, Meena and their brother Hridaynath. All of them learnt music and have sung in films, though it is Asha Bhosle who is the most successful of them all.

Their father Dinanath died in 1942 and the 13-year-old Lata had no option but to work. A family friend, Master Vinayak, a successful film actor, took the young Lata around and got her work – she began singing almost immediately and acted as a child artist in a few films too. The family moved to Bombay where she began learning classical music under Ustad Aman Ali Khan of the Bhendi Bazar gharana.

Also read: Memories of Longing and Lata Mangeshkar

Music director Ghulam Haider took her under his wing and showed her around, predicting great things for her in the face of much skepticism. The field was dominated by singing stars like Noorjehan and Suraiya or others like Zohrabai Ambalewali, Amirbai Karnataki, Shamshad Begum and Geeta Dutt – there was not much chance for a newcomer to break in, except sing a few songs here and there.

But then, a new country was born. Noorjehan left for Pakistan, and the field was wide open. In 1949, Lata scored four big hits under four music directors – Ek The Ladki (Vinod), with the hugely popular Lara Lappa, Barsaat (Shankar Jaikishan), the pathos filled ‘Uthaye ja unke sitam‘ in Andaz (Naushad) and finally, what was to become her signature song, ‘Aayega koi aanewala‘ (Khemchand Prakash) in the Gothic film Mahal. She later recalled that Prakash told her to sing each of the opening lines by moving closer to the mike slowly. The effect is mesmerising.

A 20-year-old Lata Mangeshkar had arrived. Now no one could ignore her. The world would indeed fall at her feet, as Ghulam Haider had predicted.

There has been speculation, especially among Pakistanis, whether she could have reached those heights had Noorjehan not left. But this guesswork is futile and on balance, one can say she would have. Noorjehan and others had ‘Muslim voices’ – voices replete with a rich and heavy texture and often sensual – which may not have suited the actresses who were to come in the 1950s and after. Mubarak Begum, who came much after Noorjehan et all, found that her style of singing did not suit the typical ‘Indian’ on-screen actress of the post independence generation – pure and virginal – which Lata had and cultivated. Her critics and admirers have pointed out that her singing was often high-pitched, but she had started out imitating Noorjehan and then switched to her natural voice. Soon it became the gold standard and even in regional cinemas, there were many who sang in her style.

Lata Mangeshkar’s voice was in that sense ‘neutral’, that any actress, even if we played a tomboy and modern miss, could lip-sync to, without losing her essential ‘Indianness’. For years Lata did not sing any cabaret or a ‘drunken’ song, preferring to leave it to Asha Bhosle, who, always with a twinkle in her eye, brought great seductive charm to such renditions. Only once, in Inteqam (1969), she playbacked for Sadhana, who tipsily song, ‘Kaise rahoon chup’ complete with lurching and hiccups.

But though she proved adept at this too, her range was too vast and her fans loved her for it. Whether it was a bhajan like ‘Allah tero naam‘ or a sad song such as ‘Jaa re ud jaa re panchi‘ or a breezy number like ‘Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai”, giving expression to Rosy’s (Waheeda Rehman in Guide) sense of freedom after leaving a loveless marriage.

Lata was already popular but she rose to become a national icon on Republic Day, 1963, when in front of an audience with Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru sitting in front, she sang ‘Ae mere vatan ke logo’ written specially for the occasion by Pradeep. The mood was sombre – the year before India had lost the war with China – and the song, reminding people of the sacrifice of the solders who had lost their lives, reflected the national mood perfectly. It was a time of reflection, not the kind of bogus and rousing nationalism we see today. Nehru reportedly had tears in his eyes, and so did the rest of the country.

The Golden Years of Hindi songs from the 1940s till the end of the 1960s continued and Lata was very much at the centre of it. The very next year she sang one of her greatest songs under the baton of her favourite music director Madan Mohan.

Her life was not without controversy. She fought with many of her colleagues such as Mohammed Rafi and also music directors such as S.D. Burman and Shankar Jaikishan. But in the end they all went back to her – there was no choice. Only O.P. Nayyar, who swore he would never work with her, stuck to his word and preferred Geeta Dutt and Asha Bhosle.

Lata was also accused of sabotaging – often in tandem with her sister – any competition, styling the careers of rising singers such as Suman Kalyanpur and even Vani Jairam, who came only in the 1970s.

These stories remained unverified, but Lata’s greatest strength, apart from the quality of her voice, was her perfection, both in training and practice. When, early in her career, Dilip Kumar reportedly said her voice was too ‘vegetarian’ – it had the ‘boo of dal chaval (the smell of rice and dal)’ were supposed to be his exact words he used – and therefore she could not sing in Urdu or even Hindustani, the lingua franca of Bombay films, she diligently learnt the language, as this song from Mughal-e-Azam shows. She was no slouch at difficult classical numbers either, matching Mohammad Rafi at every step.

Also read: The Songs That Made Lata Mangeshkar a Legend

She continued well into the 1970s, ‘80s, ‘90s and the 21st century. In the 1990s, she sang for Madhuri Dixit,  Raveena Tandon and Sridevi – each song became popular. She is reported to have sung in over 30 languages, and many listeners couldn’t find any imperfection in her pronunciation or inflexion.

The strain had begun to show in her voice towards the end of the decade and she took less and less assignments. Newer voices were emerging and younger filmmakers often preferred them. She was gracefully withdrawing from the field – she had after all been part of the era when songs had meaning and melody. The Hindi film song was fading away and now films and OTT shows rarely use songs, certainly not in the way earlier filmmakers did.

Lata was passionately fond of cricket, and often landed up in England to watch India playing, She also loved photography and travel. She has won Filmfare awards, national awards, the Dadasaheb Phalke award and all the Padmas, finally culminating with the Bharat Ratna in 2001, a title that suits her perfectly.

‘Kambhakt kabhi besuri nahin hoti (She just never is out of tune)’ is the reported comment of the great Bade Ghulam Ali Khan. He was right. She just went on and on, and now she is no more, and another link with that glorious past has gone – a past that represented the values of another India. But while Lata Mangeshkar may have left us, the song lives on, on the internet, in various digital and analogue forms, and most of all, in our hearts and memories.

Memories of Longing and Lata Mangeshkar

Lata’s voice is a cultural tributary of the nation, connecting its many regions.

With Lata Mangeshkar, Indian music has lost its impeccable voice.

I first saw Lata’s image on the cover of an HMV record player at a neighbour’s house. There was not a single day in those years, growing up during the ’70s in a small lane of a railway colony near Guwahati, that passed by without Hindi film songs and a Lata song. They would be heard from every home, played either on radio, or the record player. Walking home from school, I would catch the santoor of “Na Jane Kya Hua” (film: Dard, 1981, music: Khayyam, lyrics: Naqsh Lyallpuri) on the radio, and not miss the entire song till I reached home, for I could hear it being played in every house. Apart from the newspaper, the radio was a key instrument that connected us to the community, real and imagined.

The first song of Lata’s I learnt to sing as a child was the extremely popular Bengali song from the film Rag Anurag (1975) “Oi Gacher Patay Roder Jhikimiki”, for which Hemanta Mukherjee scored the music. The other Lata songs in Bengali that touched a chord include the poignant “Bujhbe Na Keu Bujhbe Na”, from Kabita (1977), a film based on a working-class woman’s life, and the non-filmi song, “Aaj Noy Gun Gun Gunjon Preme”, sensitising the middle class on its socialist responsibilities. Both songs are composed by Salil Chowdhury. In contrast, you have the misty song “Otho Otho Surjai Re” from Anusandhan (1981), by R.D. Burman. Lata’s voice was intrinsic to the world of Bengali popular music. She was translating her tongue from one language to another, and hearing her it didn’t occur to us that she wasn’t Bengali. Her voice had expanded the range of the octaves and the Bengali music composers of that era had no hesitation to choose Lata over others. It was in JNU that my friend Ravi Ghadge introduced me to Lata’s Marathi songs. One among them that stayed with me is “Me Raat Takli” from the film Jait Re Jait (1977), with music by her brother Hridayanath Mangeshkar.

Lata’s voice is a cultural tributary of the nation, connecting its many regions. Singing in so many tongues, she was an exemplar of the modern self-in-translation. As part of our musical upbringing, Lata’s singing introduced us to the world of Hindustani tehzeeb. Talented Muslim and Hindu artists together produced the finest popular music of the century. This collaboration is an essential part of Lata’s contribution and legacy.

The most memorable compliment for Lata perhaps comes from the anecdote by the late Pandit Jasraj recollected by Javed Akhtar.

Jasraj had gone to meet Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan in Bhopal. Suddenly the song from Anarkali (1953), “Ye Zindagi Usi Ki Hai”, came on the radio. Khan Saheb heard it for a while and exclaimed, “Kambakht, kabhi be-suri nahi hoti (Damn, she never sings out of tune).” The playful grudge in that exclamation by the master is the best tribute of all.

There are too many Hindi songs of Lata to name. I shall restrict myself to 12 songs I consider part of an adolescence of longing that now belongs to the persistence of memory. I have tried to strike a balance between mood and beauty in making these choices, with melancholy as guide. I begin with “Aye Dil-e-Nadan” from Razia Sultan (1983), where Khayyam produces the melody of “thahrav” from Jan Nisan Akhtar’s words. The song moves like a camel. There is a slow movement with a repetition of notes which makes you feel the song moves two steps ahead, and goes two steps backwards, like walking on sand. It is an audible illusion. Lata’s voice is as haunting as a moon in the desert. There is a seamless dissolving of music and its void. “Dikhayi Diye Yun” from Bazar (1982) is again Khayyam setting Mir Taqi Mir’s poetry to music. What is most striking in the song is how the last word of each line stretches and often undulates like a wave to create a ripple effect. Lata sings it with the heavy mood – and breathing – of grief the song portrays.

Roshan (Roshanlal Nagrath) teams up with Sahir Ludhianvi for “Duniya Kare Sawal” from Bahu Begum (1967), a finely tuned ghazal. Lata sings through the Urdu phrases like a gypsy. There is another ghazal by the same duo of Roshan-Sahir, I especially love: “Jurm-e-Ulfat Ke Hume Log Saza Dete Hain” from Taj Mahal (1963), a sarangi-based ghazal, where love’s defiance of royalty is sung with poise and a tone of irony and sarcasm.

Two gorgeous songs composed by Jaidev add to the mood: “Ye Dil Aur Unki Nigahon ke Saaye” from Prem Parbat (1973), written by Jan Nisar Akhtar, where Lata sings with carefree robustness. The line “Dharakte hain dil kitni aazadiyon se (The heart beats with so many freedoms)” captures the spirit of those times and these: the desire for freedom is always measured against its refusal. The other Jaidev song from Reshma Aur Shera (1971), written by Balkavi Bairagi, takes us back to the desert. “Tu Chanda Main Chandni” is set in the light but intricate Raga Maand. The santoor and sarangi keeps the interlude heavy and light in turn. Lata handles the variations in rhythm and tone with ease.

From all S.D. Burman songs, I choose “Piya Bina” from Abhiman (1973), because it suits the slow melancholic mood, more than the memorable songs in Vijay Anand’s Guide (1967). Written by Majrooh Sultanpuri, the song is a conversation between Lata and the flute. The expression of rift is so delicately wrung that you can hear the sweetness of love’s trembling.

The Madan Mohan song which fits the mood from Hindustan Ki Kasam (1974), made by Chetan Anand, on the India-Pakistan war of 1971, is “Hai Tere Saath Meri Wafa” written by Kaifi Azmi. You wonder where those days and years have gone where a poet could write (and we could dream along with him): “Kuch dharkano ka zikr ho, kuch dil ki baat ho, / Mumkin hai iske baad, na din ho na raat ho (Let there be mention of heartbeats, let there be heart-talk, / it’s possible, after this, day and night dissolves into nothing).” There is a disembodied spirit in the lyrics, which is perfectly tuned to give the impression of a voice that sings from the clouds. Lata rises up to the moment. Her voice floats through the air.

From Salil Chowdhury, I choose “Na Jaane Kyon” from Chhoti Si Baat (1978), beautifully written by Yogesh. Longing is lost in wonder. Desire mirrors the changing colour of time. Being partial to the ghazal, I must return to Madan Mohan’s thumri from Jahan Ara (1964), written by Rajinder Krishan, “Wo Chup Rahe To”, set in Raga Bahar. The sitar and the sarangi produce a wonderful effect together along with the rhythm.

Two songs remain in the bag. The first will be a surprise for some, a discovery for others. It is a forgotten treasure that doesn’t find mention even among Laxmikant-Pyarelal’s solos of Lata. The slightly upbeat ghazal in Deedar-e-Yaar (1982), written by Sahir Ludhianvi: “Tumko dekha toh samajh mein aya / log kyun but ko khuda mante hain.” The combination of piano and (a sparely-used) sarangi is quite unusual. A ghazal set on piano is rare in itself. The lyrics offer the song its idolatrous charm. The rest is Lata.

The journey ends with Ghulam Mohammad’s “Chalte Chalte Yunhi Koi Mil Gaya Tha” from Pakeezah (1972), written by Kaifi Azmi. A mix of Raag Bhoop and Raag Kalyan, the orchestration is deceptively simple, in the Keherva Taal. The extinguishing of lanterns, the train whistling in the background, are haunting impressions of evanescence. The repetitive lines add to the song’s lyric quality and effect. The music of memory lies in its repetition. The rhythmic beats of the ghungroo revolves around the dancing body trapped by longing. Performed on screen by a courtesan, the song flies out of its social and existential context, and becomes ours. The stranger you met on the way breathes in that song.

Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee is the author of The Town Slowly Empties: On Life and Culture During Lockdown (Headpress, Copper Coin, 2021), Looking for the Nation: Towards Another Idea of India (Speaking Tiger, 2018), and Ghalib’s Tomb and Other Poems (The London Magazine, 2013).

The Hindi Film Industry Should Mind Its Ks and Qs When Using Urdu Words

Use of the language by song writers and singers has become casual and full of errors.

When Gulzar provided the lyrics of Goli maar bhejey mein, none of the unit members of the under-production Satya (1998) liked it much. They preferred the dummy lines that composer Vishal Bhardwaj had written: Gham ke neeche bum laga ke gham uda de. Communicating this to the senior lyricist fell upon writer Anurag Kashyap, the rookie in the team. Gulzar listened to him and retorted, “Pehle GHam to bolna seekho,” and sent him packing.

The unlearning curve

A writer and a filmmaker, Kashyap should ideally know the intricacies of the language he’s working with. But it’s not incumbent on him because the onus of delivering the lines lies elsewhere.

This luxury can’t be availed by the playback singers. By the looks of it, the present-day ones don’t consider it necessary either. Incorrect pronunciation of Urdu words is rampant in Hindi film songs and it tends to blemish many a good effort.

Till around the 1980s, save for occasional slip-up, this wasn’t much of a concern. The slide began in the 1990s, with a noticeable lack of attention towards phonetic norms. There were no turnarounds in the new millennium, which began on an ominous note. The songs of Kaho Naa… Pyar Hai (2000) burnt up the charts and contributed in no small measure to the huge success of the film. ‘Ek pal ka jeena’, the biggest hit of the album, became an anthem of sorts, off-target enunciation of words like KHaali, KHaas and KHushi notwithstanding.

Also read: Why Indians Should Stick to Saying ‘Ramzaan Mubarak’, Not ‘Ramadan Kareem’

The downward trend continued over the years and it’s come to a point where the errors have not only become acceptable but the singers seem to be oblivious to them as well. A layman getting it wrong may not be a big deal, but if a professional singer fumbles in the basics of a language that he/she sings in, it’s not an encouraging sign. Inadvertent, one-off lapses can be overlooked, but nowadays singers repeat the same mistakes in numerous songs.

It must be mentioned here that sometimes the script necessitates deliberate mispronunciation to ensure that the songs are in sync with the speech traits of the characters, as in Gunga Jumna (1961) and Lagaan (2001). However, such motivations are few and far between and most of the glitches lack rationale.

Singers and sounds

The Hindi film song, which has served the cause of Urdu by keeping it alive among the masses when the language was faced with institutional apathy, finds itself at a crossroads. While the primary language employed by lyricists continues to be an Urdu-heavy Hindustani, a sizeable chunk of singers is not well-versed in it. A little attention to details and placement of the nuqta (when written and read in Devanagari) can help get things right.

Not all the yesteryear greats were born into Urdu-speaking households – in fact, save for Suraiya, Talat Mahmood and, to some degree, Mukesh, one can’t think of other big names from the 1950s, popularly called the Golden Age of Hindi film music, in this regard. The rest polished their articulation skills as part of their learning process.

A singer like Manna Dey would always be on a firm footing, thanks to his training in classical music under gurus like Ustad Aman Ali Khan, Ustad Abdul Rahman Khan and Ustad Ghulam Mustafa Khan. Jaddanbai was present at the studio when ‘Aayega aanewala’ (Mahal) was being recorded and later complimented Lata Mangeshkar on her impeccable rendering of the word baGHair. The prowess didn’t come easy – Mangeshkar had rigorously learnt the subtleties by hiring an Urdu tutor. In Nasreen Munni Kabir’s book Lata Mangeshkar: In Her Own Voice, the singer states, “When I speak, my Urdu isn’t good, but when I sing I make sure there are no flaws in my diction.” Asha Bhosle echoes the sentiment in a 2003 interview with Rediff: “Every Hindi singer needs to learn the nuances of the Urdu language.”

It is worth noting that the language itself is in no danger and continues to be widely spoken in the Hindustani-speaking parts of the country. It’s the script that has diminished and this has contributed to the decline in correct diction. In the old days, Urdu was part of mainstream education and hence the sounds were inculcated in speech right from one’s childhood. Mohammed Rafi and Shamshad Begum had roots in Punjab, where Urdu was the standard medium of learning; earlier singers like K.L. Saigal and Noor Jehan built their careers upon similar foundations.

Phonetics is accorded great importance in Urdu. For example, the ‘z’ sound is written and pronounced in four different ways. Therefore, not knowing the script will invariably lead to mistakes. Perhaps this is the reason behind a few slips in some of Kishore Kumar’s songs.

Peripheral factors also come into play. Unlike the bygone era in which someone like Naushad would be particular about grammar and pronunciation, contemporary composers aren’t so punctilious. Nor are the lyricists. There are times when even the vocabulary gets distorted. ‘Tu hi yaar mera’ from last year’s Pati Patni aur Woh uses a non-existent word called jazbaaton (jazbaat is the plural of jazba – it can’t be pluralised further). And, in addition to jazbaaton, both ‘Labon ko’ (Bhool Bhulaiyaa) and ‘Bakhuda tumhi ho’ (Kismat Konnection) contain another howler – lamhaaton. Then there’s ‘Tu mere alfaazon ki tarah’ from Rocky Handsome (2016) that commits a similar gaffe with alfaazon and, curiously, turns common words like guzre and gunguna into GHuzre and GHunGHuna.

The filmmakers ought to shoulder some responsibility too. Speaking to Frontline in 2013, Gulzar said the new filmmakers “do not know much Hindi, and they know no Urdu. They usually speak in English, write in English […] Personally speaking, I make sure that any word I have written for a song is pronounced just the right way. I attend the recordings of all my songs.”

There’s no dearth of new songs where everyday Urdu words are mispronounced. Most of it happens with three letters of the Urdu alphabet that require the epiglottis’ use – qaaf, KHay and GHain. To pick just one of these – the qaaf – would give us umpteen commonly used words that are often pronounced incorrectly in film songs: Qasam, Haqeeqat, Qaatil, Iqraar, Qadam, Qissa, Taqdeer, Qaraar/Beqaraar, Mulaqaat, Qareeb, and the ubiquitous Ishq/Aashiq/Aashiqi. It’s almost become a norm to hear the ‘q’ sound as ‘k’.

Giving examples for all the three letters in question would need much space. So, let’s stick to the qaaf here.

‘Phir le aaya dil’ from Barfi (2012) is one of the better songs of contemporary times. The composition, singing, lyrics – it ticks all the right boxes, except one. Two out of the three versions of the song are marred by patchy pronunciation of the qaaf sound. So qubool becomes kubool, qismat becomes kismat, and baaqi – which recurs frequently – becomes baaki. Another occurrence of baaki in a popular song can be found in ‘Ab to aadat si hai’ in Kalyug (2005).

Also read: As We Celebrate Urdu, Let’s Not Ignore the Signs of Its Decline in India

The less said about remixes, the better. The pronunciation errors are inexplicable. The singers have a clear reference in the form of the original song and yet many manage to bungle it. A popular reworking of Kishore Kumar’s evergreen classic ‘Mere mehboob qayamat hogi’ (Mr. X in Bombay) has notched up over 87 million views on YouTube at the time of writing. Upon hearing it, Anand Bakshi’s lyrics ring true in an unintended way – to repeatedly hear kayamat is a qayamat alright.

There’s a catch in it as well. Sometimes a singer does the reverse and introduces a guttural sound in a word where it isn’t required. For instance, kaenaat is turned into qaenaat in ‘Main agar kahoon’ from Om Shanti Om (2007). To be fair to the singer, Sonu Nigam, this is a stray mistake on his part.

The problem is manifested in other ways too. Film titles routinely come up with inaccurate spellings, thereby reinforcing the prevalent fallacies. The older films are equally culpable in this respect. Karz, Kanoon, Yakeen, Kasoor, Kudrat, Ilaaka, Kurbaan, Keemat, Bewakoofiyan, Kaabil – the list can go on. Prolonged misuse can be damaging – words like qismat and qasam are nearly always written with a ‘k’ now.

At the crux is the fact that a vast majority of today’s audience is unfamiliar with the precise delivery of Urdu words and hence the mistakes mostly go unchecked. This again is because of the removal of Urdu from mainstream education, leading to a progressive decrease in people’s awareness. Given this, the pronunciation of unknown terms is generally shaped by way of what one gets to hear (and read). Cinema, with its tremendous reach and impact, plays a considerable role in influencing this understanding.

Aesthetics aside, erroneous talaffuz is fraught with other perils. Someone should inform the budding singers who sing ‘Mere rashk-e-qamar’ as ‘Mere rashk-e-kamar’ in competitions on television shows that they end up transforming ‘envy of the moon’ into ‘envy of the waist’.

Nuktacheen hai gham-e-dil, but for a good reason – the nuqta is important.

Yasir Abbasi is an independent cinematographer and a keen follower of the history of Hindi cinema. He is the author of the book Yeh Un Dinoñ Ki Baat Hai: Urdu Memoirs of Cinema Legends (Bloomsbury, 2018).

Watch | Without Khayyam, a Song Was Never Finished, a Story Never Complete

The Wire Urdu’s Yasmeen Rashidi sheds light on Khayyam Saheb’s life and achievements.

Khayyam, India’s legendary composer, was among the musicians who believed that a song should be written first and that the tune should be prepared later. Yasmeen Rashidi sheds light on Khayyam Saheb’s life and achievements.

Remembering Khayyam Saab, Who Loved Music as Much as Music Loved Him

Khayyam, who arrived in Bombay with nothing but talent, fell in love with music very early on in life.

Khayyam saab – which is what I always called him – came from the Rahon district in Punjab which has a strange characteristic – it is believed that if you mention its name in the morning you will stay hungry all day. He always spoke about his childhood in his village – usually in the afternoon, after all, why take a risk – he did enjoy his food after all.

He loved the beautiful surroundings he had grown up in. But soon afterwards, he would fall silent because his village and his district had changed forever in 1947 – it was on the border of what became Pakistan and was soon emptied of Muslims, in one way or another. For him, there was no doubt about where he belonged. He stayed in India but with the sorrow of having lost a lot.

Born into a conservative Muslim household, Khayyam fell in love with music very early on in life. He didn’t really understand how and when, but he was consumed with a passion for something that looked askance in his home. So he ran away to Delhi and then Lahore to study music and then came to Bombay with nothing but talent and, what was to be, a lifelong belief in his unique sensibilities.

In Bombay, he became a part of the progressive movement which spanned the arts. He went to exhibitions of paintings of Husain, Ara, Souza, Raza. Although never a part of it, he was a big supporter of the Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA) and participated in discussions with leading intellectuals like Romesh Thapar – whom Khayyam credited for introducing him to European Cinema. Khayyam was also the music director of Garam Coat, a film Romesh starred in, perhaps, for the first and last time in his life.

But politics, political organisation and activism were not Khayyam’s forte. It was always music. His commitment to secular values and beliefs dominated his life and influenced many of his decisions. Later in life, he married the young and beautiful Jagjit Kaur – a widow with a young child. The child became his beloved son and Jagjit added immense grace and warmth to what had been a rather isolated and difficult existence for Khayyam.

Also read: ‘A Poet of Melody’ – How Music Conspired to Find Khayyam

She was a great singer and the strength of their relationship and their extraordinary talents found perfect expression in a very difficult song – difficult to sing and difficult to compose – ‘Dekh lo, Aaj Humko Ji Bharke’ in Bazaar. (The song is taken from Zehre Ishq, a long verse drama, meant to be recited not sung.)

Khayyam’s was an uncompromising nature. Music and personal self-respect were sacrosanct for him. As a result, he spent many years in stressful circumstances despite the fact that the songs he had composed retained a magical hold on peoples’ memories. Things changed, perhaps, after Noorie which was made as a co-operative venture.

Its huge success meant that Khayyam could move to a comfortable flat from his Maharashtra Housing Board tenement. It also meant that he became a sought-after music director. Bazaar and Umrao Jaan were made in quick succession around this time.

Khayyam had been approached by Muzaffar for Gaman. He was in the housing board tenement at the time. Khayyam had told him, “Come back to me when you have something to offer”. Jaidev had done wonders with Shahriyar bhai’s poetry in Gaman. So, with some trepidation, Muzaffar went back to Khayyam to talk about Umrao Jaan.

Khayyam was still quite intimidating but then, Rahon (the city in Punjab) came into the conversation. I said then that I hoped we would get something to eat. He was very surprised but had a good laugh. When he heard that I had a bua (aunt) who lived in Rahon with her family, he became less intimidating.

Once Khayyam agreed to do the music for Umrao Jaan, he became involved in every aspect of the film’s production. He spent hours with Shahriyar who, of course, wrote all the songs. He even agreed to a few changes at Khayyam’s urging – an indication of the tremendous regard he had, for the composer, even if he was arrogant about his poetry as Khayyam was about his music.

As far as Khayyam, and everyone else involved, was concerned, there was only one singer to be considered for the film – Asha Bhonsle – and he used all his powers of persuasion to get her to agree. She said that the only problem was that while, for other songs, she used a notebook to refer to the words, when it came to great poetry like Shahriyar’s, she would have to make the effort to learn all the songs and sing them without any reference to notebooks.

Because of the Rahon connection, my parents and my membership in the CPI(M), I could take certain liberties with Khayyam. When we returned from a memorable meeting with Ashaji, I said to him, “Aapko to pata hi hai ki tawaifen to low scales mein gaati thin. Matlab aaj kal jis tarah ki high-pitched singing popular hai voh unka style bilkul naheen tha (You know that courtesans sing in low scales. Which means they were totally different from the current high-pitched styles)”.

He looked at me, quite taken aback. Then he thought about it and said, slowly, “Baat to theek hai lekin yeh baat tumhi unse kehna (You are right, but you please tell her)”.

Also read: Asha Bhosle at 85: Ten of Her Timeless Gems

When I told Ashaji she laughed and said, “let me try”.

Khayyam did more than just score the music of the film. He was involved in the scripting and dialogue writing too. In the novel, the young Umrao is seduced by Gauhar Mirza, the resident pimp in Khanum Jaan’s bordello. The script, which was quite faithful to the novel, had a similar scene. Khayyam was horrified. The heroine of a Hindi film could not lose her virginity to a pimp.

Heated discussions followed and Muzaffar, unsurprisingly, sided with Khayyam and Shama Zaidi and Javed Siddiqui (the writers) supported by myself. Finally, I said “Lekin Khayyam saab, voh tawaif thi  (But Khayyam, she was a courtesan)”. Our side won the day but the seduction scene was poetically and subtly filmed to everyone’s satisfaction.

Bazaar was released close to Umrao Jaan. ‘Kabhi kabhi’ with its magical title song had been released a few years earlier. And it was Umrao Jaan that brought both Khayyam and Ashaji their National Awards. He was delighted that his extraordinary passion and talent for music had finally received the recognition it deserved.

Khayyam was a complex and difficult man who was also capable of a childlike appreciation of the wonderful. He had a temper and a rough tongue too but he was also infinitely affectionate and appreciative. A great man and a great artist with sterling qualities. Khayyam, like Ghalib, called himself an “aadha Musalman, sharaab peete the lekin sooar nahin khaate“. Unlike Ghalib, he was fortunate to have found Jagjit Kaur to whom he was the most considerate, appreciative and loving husband, most of the time.

All in all, he was a most unusual man of great sensitivity. He had beautiful hands and, even when he ate, which he did very sparingly despite his great love for good food, his fingers retained their elegance.

Subhashini Ali is a former member of parliament from Kanpur and politburo member of the Communist Party of India (Marxist). She was a costume designer for Umrao Jaan and Gaman.

Veteran Music Composer Mohammed Zahur ‘Khayyam’ Hashmi Passes Away at 92

The noted composer was admitted at the ICU at Sujay Hospital in Juhu due to a lung infection over ten days ago.

Mumbai: Veteran composer Khayyam, best known for his music in classic films such as Kabhi Kabhie and Umrao Jaan, passed away after prolonged illnesses at a hospital here on Monday. He was 92.

The noted composer was admitted at the ICU at Sujay Hospital in suburban Juhu due to a lung infection over ten days ago.

“He was admitted to the hospital a few days ago owing to breathing issues and other age-related illnesses. He died at Sujay Hospital at around 9.30pm,” a family friend told PTI.

Also read: ‘A Poet of Melody’ – How Music Conspired to Find Khayyam

The musician’s other notable works include films such as Trishul, Noorie and Shola Aur Shabnam.

Mohammed Zahur Hashmi, popularly known as Khayyam, was also a recipient of Sangeet Natak Akademi Award and Padma Bhushan.

The funeral will be held on Tuesday.