Khayyam ghazals

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.

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

A deep dive into the timeless compositions of one of India’s finest music composers.

Note: This article was originally published on February 18, 2019 and is being republished in light of the composer’s death.

Music was always looking for Khayyam. Instead of paying attention to his studies, the young boy, named Sa’adat Hussain, was busy listening to singer-actor K.L. Saigal.

Khayyam’s father, a man of cultural tastes, prided himself on his bookshelves and the family’s reputation. He found his son’s neglect of education unbearable and could not reconcile with his son’s ways. One day, he threw the eleven-year-old boy out of the house.

Music had planned this heartbreaking – but liberating – departure to perfection. Music was waiting to seize him, and deliver him to his gurus in Delhi: the first music-director duo, Pt Husnlal and Pt Bhagatram, and their elder brother, Pt Amarnath (who was recruited as a composer at All India Radio for eight years by Pt Ravi Shankar, and made music for Garam Coat and a documentary on Mirza Ghalib).

Later, at the age of 17, Khayyam travelled from Mumbai to Lahore and joined Ghulam Ahmad Chishti, or Baba Chishti – who introduced a nine-year-old Noor Jehan to the Lahore stage.

Listen | Ten of Kaifi Azmi’s Most Memorable Songs

It was B.R. Chopra, Khayyam revealed in his interview to Irfan (from Rajya Sabha TV), who ensured that he got paid as an apprentice at Chishti’s, for which he remains indebted to Chopra.

At the age of 18, during the Second World War, Khayyam joined the British Indian Army around 1943. In the army, as scholar musician Ashok Damodar Ranade notes in his book, Hindi Film Song: Music Beyond Boundaries (2006), Khayyam became part of the cultural troupe headed by Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

Khayyam’s touch

Back in Mumbai, Khayyam teamed up with co-composer Rahman, and the duo was funnily named Sharmaji-Vermaji on Pt Husnlal-Bhagatram’s suggestion to escape post-Partition tensions.

They made their debut with Heer-Ranjha in 1948. Khayyam’s touch was noticed by the film industry’s famous Urdu poets after Mohammad Rafi’s ‘Akele Mein wo Ghabrate to Honge’ from Biwi (1950).

Rafi’s singing, however, doesn’t quite match the song’s delicate notes.

Among those who took notice of Khayyam’s music was Jaddanbai, a courtesan turned composer and filmmaker, a pioneer in Indian cinema – who was also Nargis’ mother. She introduced Khayyam to Zia Sarhadi, the screenwriter and filmmaker from Peshawar.

After Rahman shifted to Lahore, Khayyam chose his middle-name as his future signature on Sarhadi’s suggestion for Footpath (1952). The song that stood out in the film was Talat Mahmood’s ‘Sham-e-Gham Ki Kasam’. The symphony, the tempo, and the cord system, is Western. But the lyrics, attributed to both Ali Sardar Jafri and Majrooh Sultanpuri, made it a perfectly sombre Urdu ghazal.

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

It was Sahir Ludhianvi, who suggested Khayyam’s name to Ramesh Saigal for Phir Subah Hogi (1958). The film is an adaption of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Saigal would have settled for Shankar-Jaikishan, who was the trusted music director of the film’s hero, Raj Kapoor. But Ludhianvi suggested Khayyam’s name to Saigal, as he felt music for the film should be composed by a man who has read and understood the book.

Khayyam was put through a test to impress Kapoor. In his interview to Irfan, Khayyam remembers how Kapoor wore a blank expression to the tune of all five songs he played before him and the others, at RK Studios. Kapoor took Saigal out of the room for a moment.

When they returned, Saigal kissed Khayyam’s forehead, in exuberance of what Kapoor told him outside the room: “I have never heard such music before. Whom have you brought?”

Khayyam’s oeuvre

The hyperbole doesn’t sound hyperbole, when you hear Chin-O-Arab Hamara. Sahir parodies Iqbal’s double anthem on nationalism (one inclusive, on Hindustan, and the other exclusivist, on the umma), by foregrounding the misery of social conditions. Mustansir Dalvi calls it “a laconic song of the street, composed in a laconic singsong by Khayyam and sung equally laconically (almost to a mumble) by Mukesh.”

The thin mockery of the tone expressed the thinning and wearing down of dreams of the Nehruvian era. The other famous composition speaks to our times like never before: ‘Aasman pe hai khuda, aur zameen pe hum/aajkal wo iss taraf dekhta hai kam. God seems to have forsaken those bearing the brunt of muscular nationalism’.

The metre, rhythm, and even the tune of Khayyam’s song is so similar to Shankar Jaikishan’s popular Mukesh number in Anari that released the next year (1959), ‘Kisi Ki Muskurahaton Pe’, one wonders if Raj Kapoor, who was the hero in both films, played a role in making S-J borrow from Khayyam.

The other song from Phir Subah Hogi, written by Sahir, ‘Woh Subah Kabhi To Aayegi’, dreams of hope in the midst of despondency, and Khayyam captures the complex and ambivalent mood with Mukesh and Asha Bhonsle. This film brought to light the haunting quality of Khayyam’s music.

In Lala Rookh (also released in 1958), produced by Ismat Chugtai and based on the poem ‘Lalla Rookh’ written in 1817 by the Irish poet Thomas Moore, Khayyam scored lively songs with Talat and Asha. Their duet, ‘Pyas Kuch Aur Bhi Bhadka Di Jhalak Dikhla Ke’, written by Kaifi Azmi, is a conversation on the aesthetics and ethics of looking. The lover urges the beloved to lift her veil. She chides the insolence of his wanton gaze, urging him to educate his gaze on beauty’s pure form. Love was a matter of taste.

Also read: An Artiste of the Millennium: Ilaiyaraaja at 75

Khayyam’s next moment of glory is ‘Jane Kya Dhoondti Rahti’ from Shola Aur Shabnam (1961), with Rafi rendering one of the most critically acclaimed songs of his career. Composed in ‘Dadra’ taal and predominantly in Raga Mishr Pahadi, this Kaifi nazm has the delicacy of a Talat song. Khayyam’s deft use of the sarangi and a playful flute comes into focus.

In Shagoon (1964), Khayyam is back to composing lyrics by Sahir. ‘Parbaton Ke Pedon Par Shaam Ka Basera Tha’ is a graceful love song by Rafi and Suman Kalyanpur. Waheeda Rehman articulates a skillful range of expressions on the effect of landscape on amorous feelings with her eyes.

The other memorable song of this film, ‘Tum Apna ranj-o-gham’, was sung by Khayyam’s wife, Jagjit Kaur. Beautifully written by Sahir, ‘Tum Apna’ is set to tune in the ‘Dadra’ taal and Khayyam’s favourite raga, Raga Pahadi. Khayyam holds Kaur’s presence in his life and music as a gift of her “nigehbani”, as his protector, reversing what Kaur conveys in the song, the conventional trope of men as protectors of women. Khayyam affirms in an interview that Kaur brought the power of her “truth” into his life, the truth of Gurubani.

The next important milestone in Khayyam’s oeuvre is Chetan Anand’s Akhri Khat. Khayyam doesn’t sound inspired in Rafi’s lackluster ‘Aur Kuch Der Thahar’, but offers one of his best Lata Mangeshkar solos in ‘Baharon Mera Jeevan Bhi Sanwaro’, written by Kaifi Azmi.

Set again in Khayyam’s trademark combination of Raga Pahadi and ‘Dadra’ taal, the santoor is played by Shivkumar Sharma, flute by Hariprasad Chaurasia and sitar by Rais Khan, all finely interwoven. The most unusual song in the film is a bluesy number by young Bhupinder, ‘Rut Jawan Jawan’, who also enacts it on screen as a club singer, along with the legendary Chic Chocolate, who plays the trumpet from the bandstand. Kersi Lord plays the accordion.

The song makes you want to hear more jazzy numbers from Khayyam.

The next big feather in Khayyam’s cap was Yash Chopra’s Kabhi Kabhi (1976). Khayyam’s rendering of Sahir’s poetry in the title song towers over not only all the songs in the film, but over every other romantic song in the history of Hindi cinema.

Raju Bharatan quoted Khayyam who considered it “a musical jannat (paradise)”. Set in Raga Yaman, Mukesh sings it with a halting and haunting finesse that lays the words among the stars. In the duet version, if Lata scales the heights, Mukesh plunges its depths.

The other song regarding a poet’s life, ‘Main Pal Do Pal Ka Shayar‘, Mukesh sings a poet’s awareness of time, both his time and his place in the time to come. The other song worth mentioning is in contrast to the delicate poetry of the other two: the robust Kishore Kumar-Lata duet, ‘Tere Chehre Se’ that sounds as fresh as ever to the ear, even today.

The score got Khayyam his first Filmfare award. My Malayali roommate, at Jhelum Hostel in Jawaharlal Nehru University would not prefer most things Hindi, but whenever ‘Kabhi Kabhi’ played on the tape recorder, he would fall silent and meditate on the fate of love.

Next to arrive on the scene, was the film, Shankar Hussain (1977), released late. In ‘Kahin Ek Masoom Nazuk Si Ladki’, written by Kamal Amrohi, as he put it in an interview, Khayyam was initially unhappy with Rafi for rendering the song coarsely the way he had sung S-J’s ‘Savere Waali Gaadi Se’.

Rafi reluctantly agreed to record it again, but not before airing his complaint that Khayyam was fixated on intricacies. Khayyam insisted that he was being paid for that quality, or else he would be thrown out. The song, with its dreamy imageries, remains one of Rafi’s most lilting numbers ever. The other song, ‘Aap Yun Faaslon Se’, written by Jan Nisar Akhtar and sung by Lata, anticipates Khayyam’s Lata solos to come.

The songs of Trishul (1978), written by Sahir, became popular, but didn’t offer Khayyam much depth. ‘Mohabbat Bade Kaam Ki’, ‘Jaaneman Tum Kamal Karti Ho’, or ‘Gapoochi Gapoochi’, were youthful and pleasant.

Khayyam added another page to his tryst with youthfulness with Noorie (1979). Jan Nisar’s ‘Aaja Re O Mere Dilbar Aaja’ and Naqsh Lyallpuri’s ‘Chori Chori Koi Aaye’ still sound fresh to the ears.

The romance grew heavier with Thodi Si Bewafai (1980), the only film where Khayyam and Gulzar worked together. Kishore-Lata’s ‘Akhon Mein Humne Aapke’ is more gorgeous than the comparable RD Burman-Gulzar song from Ghar (1978), ‘Aapki Akhon Mein Kuch’.

The moody song, ‘Hazar Rahein’, slows down time, pulls the strings of memory, and the soul sinks like the moon in a desert. It is the most beautiful Kishore-Lata duet ever. Both Gulzar and Kishore received the Filmfare Award for this song.

It’s time for Umrao Jaan (1981) to arrive, adapted from the ethnographic Urdu novel by Mirza Hadi Ruswa, Umrao Jaan Ada. A reflection of the culture of courtesans and Nawabs in mid-nineteenth century Lucknow, Umrao Jaan was a fateful stroke of luck for Khayyam, after Jaidev left the project due to a tiff with director Muzaffar Ali.

On Jagjit’s advice, Khayyam chose Asha Bhonsle. Khayyam admitted, for the only time in his life, he was scared of the inevitable comparisons his music will draw with Ghulam Mohammad’s music in the incomparable Pakeezah (1972).

Cultural historian Sarah Waheed finds the music of the film a bit disconnected from its milieu. Khayyam, who read the novel, read up on the predominant musical styles of that period. To Asha’s shock, Khayyam asked her to lower her scale by one-and-half notes.

After a dramatic episode of promises and counter-promises, Asha settled for the new octave, and sang five ethereal ghazals that won her the National Award. Khayyam had told Asha, “We don’t want Asha Bhonsle. We want Umrao Jaan”. It’s a striking suggestion for the uncanny experience of being possessed, as a subjective technique to revive cultural pasts.

‘Dil Cheez Kya Hai’, having elements of Bihag, ‘In Akhon Ki Masti Mein’, in Bhoopali, ‘Justuju Jiski Thi’, a variation of Maand, and ‘Ye Kya Jagah Hai Doston’ in Bihag, transform Asha’s voice into a world where Khayyam’s mastery over the Sarangi, mixed with the Sarod and the Sitar, aid the lamp-lit ambiance where Rekha performs her magic. Talat Aziz shows measured finesse in ‘Zindagi Jab Bhi’. All the ghazals, written by Shahryar, are proof of his deep immersion in the subject.

In ‘Pratham Dhar Dhyan’, Ustad Ghulam Mustafa Khan passes through a confluence of Ragas, including Miya Ki Thodi, Malkauns and Bhairavi. There is also a cultural confluence, the song paying salutation to Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, mentioning the young Krishna, with a plea to Nizamuddin Auliya to help the boat cross the river.

A string of musical films followed.

Dard (1981) showcased Khayyam’s refined sense of sensuality in Lata’s ‘Na Jane Kya Hua’. ‘Aesi Haseen Chandni’ is a ghazal Kishore always wanted to sing for Khayyam, though it sounds more like a song because of Kishore’s heavy diction. Ahista Ahista (1981) had two ghazals by Nida Fazli, the meditative ‘Kabhi Kisi Ko Muqammal Jahan Nahi Milta‘, where Bhupinder shows better poise than Asha’s version, and Anwar-Asha’s lively ‘Nazar Se Phool Chunti Hai Nazar’.

In Dil-e-Nadaan (1982), Kishore-Lata’s ‘Chandni Raat Mein’, is a beehive of a ghazal. The song is about lovers who share their secrets with the moon.

The poster for Bazaar (1982). Credit: Wikipedia

Bazar (1982) is Khayyam’s most heartrending score on a painful subject. Makhdoom Mohiuddin’s ghazal ‘Phiri Chidi Raat’ set in Raga Bageshri, and teen taal, has a simple, rhythmic metre. Lata’s high pitch beautifully contrasts with the subdued Talat Aziz, and the sitar does the rest. There is perhaps no other song, so full of fragrance.

In Mir Taqi Mir’s ‘Dikhayi Diye Yun’, Lata flows effortlessly with the teary waves of the ghazal, with a haunting pause after each stanza. Khayyam fondly remembers Noor Jehan’s praise for the song, on his trip to Lahore.

Bashar Nawaz’s ‘Karoge Yaad To’ is Bhupinder’s best ghazal for Khayyam. Set in Raga Mand, this broody ghazal opens with the santoor, but is mostly played on flute. Mirza Shauq’s ‘Dekh Lo’, sung by Jagjit Kaur, an elegy on parting, is simply the saddest song on earth.

It is ironical, or perhaps not, that Khayyam’s career comes to a glorious end with Kamal Amrohi’s Razia Sultan (1983), in a much delayed release. Jan Nisar Akhtar’s ghazal ‘Aye Dil-e-Nadaan’ sets it apart from all other songs in Hindi cinema, with its stunning pauses that adds even more gravitas to its slowness. Khayyam recounts, Amrohi aimed to shoot the song in a way that people won’t realise the camera is moving. With santoor strings, Khayyam recreates the visual stillness-in-motion, slow as a caravan across the desert, with haunting grace.

In Jan Nisar’s ghazal of striking imageries, ‘Aayi Zanjeer ki Jhankar’ and Nida Fazli’s mellow and pensive, ‘Tera Hijr’, Khayyam used the vocals of radio announcer at AIR Mumbai, Kabban Mirza. The sensual number ‘Jalta Hai Badan’ moves with swift poise, depicting feudal debauchery, while the lullaby, ‘Khwaab Ban Kar’ simmers with homoerotic suggestions on screen.

Khayyam will also be remembered for his ghazals for Begum Akhtar in Kalam a Asatiza (1975). From Ghalib’s ‘Ibn-e-Mariam’ and ‘Sab Kahan Kuch Lala-O-Gul’, to Sauda’s ‘Gul Phenke Hai’, to Meer’s ‘Ulti Ho Gayi Sab Tadbiren’, and ghazals by Zauq, Aatish, Momin and Dagh Dehlvi. Each song is delectably tuned.

Through these Urdu poets, Khayyam broods for his losses, behind Akhtar’s voice.

One is reminded of Agha Shahid Ali’s elegiac poem on Akhtar, where he wrote, ‘Ghazal, that death-sustaining widow, sobs in dingy archives, hooked to you.’

As for Khayyam, let Faiz have the last word. In an interview to Prashant Pandey, Khayyam narrated Faiz’s visit to his house one evening for tea and wine, before his dinner invite to RK Studios.

Faiz suddenly exclaimed that Khayyam is not a music director. It created ripples in the room. He repeated it, before adding, Khayyam was a poet of melody.

Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee is the author of Looking for the Nation: Towards Another Idea of India, published by Speaking Tiger Books (August 2018).

Kishore Kumar was the Mood of a Generation

On Kishore Kumar 90th birth anniversary, a look at how his singing epitomised the mood of a generation that wanted to express itself confidently and freely.

Kishore Kumar was not just part of my adolescence, he was my adolescence. He was omnipresent. His songs would play on the radio at home, at the neighbour’s, or at the paan shop, at friendly gatherings, or sung by a rickshaw puller returning home. In the middle or lack of any activity, a Kishore song would seize your tongue and you would hum it aloud or silently, to yourself. The tongue became a Kishore Kumar archive.

Baba, with a limited and conservative taste in music, was unimpressed. He would say, “Kishore Kumar has ruined the taste and brains of the youth.” It confirmed Kishore was us: We broke old rules in the family. Kishore brought a new idiom in singing.

Our generation made a virtue of disobedience. Kishore echoed that disobedient spirit. We reaped the benefits of working parents who strived hard to make ends meet in the Nehruvian era. The stable household economy they created ensured their children the luxury of their moods. The mood for leisure entered middle class lives after two decades of postcolonial blues.

And so did the mood for Kishore Kumar. He had singularly become the voice that tapped the mood of my generation.

Mood defined the generation gap. Kishore was the singer of a generation’s mood. He was the singer of the Mood Generation.

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

Erik Ringmar distinguishes mood from emotions and feelings. He argues mood is not a mental attribute we possess but pass through, where we “find ourselves in”. We often passed through, or found ourselves in, the mood called Kishore Kumar. Ringmar also relates mood to “attunement” of instruments and voice. A rāga is defined as colour or passion. The “mood” of a rāga, in Hindustani or Western music, is embellished by individual performers. Mood defines the interpretation and atmosphere of a rāga.

This is precisely what Kishore, in the popular genre of Indian music, had an innate mastery at. He would smear the colour, the passion of his mood, so strongly that he would often outshine his cosigner and put his dominant stamp on a song. Javed Akhtar makes the point, “I say it hesitatingly, but will say it nevertheless… whenever Kishore Kumar sang with a male or female singer… your attention would be focused on Kishore. If there are two versions of a song, it is Kishore’s which clicked.”

In R.D. Burman’s ‘Tum Bin Jaun Kahan’ (Pyar Ka Mausam 1969), Kishore’s version scores over Mohammed Rafi, not in terms of melody, but mood. Kishore’s deeper vocal quality allows him to pour a good dose of angst in the song.

In R.D.’s ‘Mere Naina Sawan Bhadon’ (Mehbooba, 1976), Lata Mangeshkar’s steady rendering pales before Kishore’s, who brings in an emotional urgency into the song. The balance tilts again in Kishore’s favour in R.D.’s ‘Rim Jhim Gire Sawan’ (Manzil, 1979), where his gentle poise scores over Lata’s breezy and high-pitched version.

Kishore scored over Asha Bhonsle’s version in Madan Mohan’s ‘Dil Dil Se Milakar’ (Mem Sahib, 1956). Madan uncharacteristically copied an English song, ‘Isle of Capri’, where Kishore does a Frank Sinatra.

Again, in Shankar-Jaikishen’s ‘Zindagi Ek Safar’ (Andaz, 1971), Kishore yodelling and overall energy overtook Asha’s efforts. In R.D.’s ‘Mausam Pyar Ka’ (Sitamgarh, 1985), Kishore’s intonations dictate the mood. But Asha matches Kishore in R.D.’s ‘Kitne Bhi Tu Karle Sitam’ (Sanam Teri Kasam, 1982) in her ‘version’, sprinkling the song with fine coquettish charm.

In S.D. Burman’s ‘Khilte Hain Gul Yahan’ (Sharmeelee, 1971), Kishore would go full throated on the opening lines of the stanza, dip his voice on the third line and give the words an emotive effect. Lata’s version lacks these manoeuvres, though she may have rendered the Bhimpalasi rāga a touch more perfectly. Kishore sang with his usual elan in RD’s ‘Hume Tumse Pyar Kitna’, from Chetan Anand’s Kudrat (1981), written by Majrooh Sultanpuri. Parveen Sulltana’s version of the song, took the Bhairavi rāga to an epitome of skill and grace. It won her the Filmfare Award in 1982.

Kishore lacked musical training. This enabled him to experiment with the art of singing as a freewheeling spirit. It helped Kishore learn that the secret grammar of film music was to improvise and emote according to the mood of the song. Kishore was not the perfect singer for the purist, but he earned the highest respect from his trained contemporaries.

For both, Asha and Lata, Kishore was their favourite singer. It might partly mean Kishore’s entertaining quality, but he was also challenging. He would often dictate the ambiance of a song, using various techniques. Sometimes he would sing in whispers. You can trace the emotion of angst, or romance, through his voice. That is how he would create the mood of the song, and dictate its ambiance.

For a flavour of Kishore-Asha duets, there’s S.D’s ‘Wo Dekhe To Unki Inayat’ (Funtoosh, 1956) and ‘O Nigahe Mastana’ (Paying Guest, 1957), and Ravi’s ‘Ye Raatein Ye Mausam’ (Dilli Ka Thug, 1958). The later duets include: R.D.’s ‘Hum Tum Gum Sum’ (Humshakal, 1974), R.D’s ‘Aap Sa Koi Haseen’ (Chandi Sona, 1977), Rajesh Roshan’s ‘Suniye Kahiye’(Baaton Baaton Mein, 1979), forgotten beauties like R.D.’s ‘Kabhi Kabhi Sapna Lagta Hai’, (Gulzar’s Ratnadeep (1979), and the exquisite ‘Bahon Ke Ghere Mein’ by the obscure Hemant Bhosle (Nazrana Pyar Ka, 1980).

And rescued from oblivion: in fond memory of Radio Kathmandu that featured it frequently in its Hindi film song programme between 10.15-10.45 pm every night in medium wave: Bappi Lahiri’s ‘Roshan Roshan’ (Hum Rahe Na Hum, 1984), by Kaifi Azmi.

For a small bouquet of Kishore-Lata duets, we have: Laxmikant-Pyarelal’s ‘Dil Ki Baatein’ (Roop Tera Mastana, 1972), RD’s ‘Bohot Door Mujhe’ (Heera Panna, 1973), RD’s ‘Is Mod Se’ (Aandhi, 1973), Bhupen Hazarika’s ‘Naino Mein Darpan Hai’ (Aarop, 1974), Rajesh Roshan’s ‘Chal Kahin Door’(Doosra Aadmi, 1977) where Rafi makes a memorably special appearance, Khayyam’s ‘Hazar Rahein’ (Thodisi Bewafai, 1980), again Khayyam’s ‘Chandni Raat Mein’ (Dil-e-Nadan, 1982), and Lakshmi-Pyare’s ‘Sarakti Jaye’ (Deedar-e-Yaar , 1982), written by Ameer Minai (1829-1900).

During R.D.’s ‘Ek Chatur Naar’ (Rajendra Krishan’s lyrics on a north-south musical duel having racist overtones) in Padosan (1968), Manna Dey candidly recounted, he wanted to “teach Kishore a lesson”, but realised, Kishore had “caught the spirit of the song. I was thinking in terms of singing, but Kishore… he got the situation.”

In his autobiography, Memories Come Alive, Manna acknowledged, Kishore “had a unique and unaffected style of singing which tended to eclipse the subtleties of classical music and place his singing partner … at a disadvantage”. He admitted Kishore had stolen the impact from him in Lakshmi-Pyare’s ‘Tu Mere Pyale Mein’ (Amir Gharib, 1974).

Manna’s larger point is: Kishore’s virtuoso lay in his improvisational techniques, and his grip on the mood of the song.

Salil Chowdhury was blunt. A music lover translating from a blog, Salil’s remarks in a Bengali film magazine in 1987, quotes him saying, “There is no doubt that Kishore possessed an exceptional voice. But voice alone is not everything. I have to say that if Kishore had classical training he would have been a different Kishore.”

Salil’s compositions for Bimal Roy’s classics in the era of socialist realism, his blending of Indian folk and western classical, and his subtle simplicity in scores like Anand (1971), Rajnigandha (1974) and Choti Si Baat (1976), are legendary. Salil gave Kishore two musically tough solos, ‘Koi Hota Jisko Apna’, from Gulzar’s first film, Mere Apne (1971), and ‘Guzar Jaye Din’ (Annadata, 1972).

But Salil missed the point about Kishore. Why should Kishore try and be another singer? Why should anyone be someone else? Salil contradicts himself when he explains, “Mukesh was my favourite… his octave range was limited, but he could sing with a mood and pathos that was unique.” Kishore had better range and variation than Mukesh, and his sense of mood and pathos were impeccable. The point is not that Kishore is better than the others. Lata, Rafi and Manna sang more intricate compositions. The point is how Kishore’s Midas touch cast a spell when he sang.

We must also remember Kishore’s fine contribution as a music director. He had sung a few great solos in his own composition, but the duet with Sulakshana Pandit, ‘Bekarar Dil’ from Door Ka Rahi (1971) will suffice. Kishore could also play the piano, even though he did not formally learn to play the instrument. He clearly loved being the untrained genius.

Salil’s question must be posed in reverse: How could Kishore, with his lack of training, match, and often better, the trained singers of his time? What did Kishore possess those singers lacked? It was, as I argue, a dedication towards mood-singing.

R.D., whose music had a moody, urban flavour, first recognised it. Kishore modulated his voice to exude a variety of intensities for occasions and personalities: Eros (Bappi Lahiri’s ‘Muskurata Hua’ (Lahu Ke Do Rang, 1997), flamboyance (L.P.’s ‘Main Aya Hoon’, Amir Gharib, 1974), acrimony (R.D.’s ‘Khafa Hoon’, Bemisal, 1982), pathos (S.D.’s ‘Badi Sooni Sooni Hai’, Mili, 1975), duʿāʾ/invocation (R.D.’s ‘Ae Khuda Har Faisla’, Abdullah, 1980), frolic (Salil’s ‘Chandni Raat Tum Ho Saath’, Half-Ticket, 1962), longing (R.D.’s ‘Jaane Kya Sochkar’, Kinara, 1977), hope (Rajesh Roshan’s ‘Kahan Tak Ye Man Ko’, Baton Baton Mein, 1979), the thoughtful truck driver (R.D.’s ‘Raah Pe Rehte Hain’, Namkeen, 1982), and the intimate postman, (L.P.’s ‘Dakiya Daak Laya’, written by Gulzar, Palkonb Ki Chaon Mein, 1977).

Kishore’s singing epitomised the mood of a generation that wanted to express itself confidently and freely. Like all generations, its dilemmas were paradoxical: newness and alienation, urban dreams and homelessness, love and despair. Kishore could have a cathartic effect on a group of listeners in a room. And yet, as R.D. said, “Kishore makes it sound as if he’s singing Chingaree for you, and you alone”.