Mohammed Rafi

How Mohammed Rafi Came To South Africa at the Height of Apartheid To Cheer up the Diaspora

At a time when descendants of Indian migrants chafed under restrictive racial laws, the sheer logistics of bringing one of India’s greatest musicians to those shores was a remarkable feat.

As children growing up under apartheid next to the sea in Durban, many generations of Indians only reluctantly stepped into its waves. Denied access to most of the pristine beaches, many of us never learnt to swim.

But perched above the waves as the city is, there was no escaping either the sea in Durban, or the humid fetor it gave off. The sea was what had brought us to South Africa, but it is also what separated us from our historic homeland.

The nearly one million Indians had been in the land since the mid 19th century, brought here as indentured labour or migrated as ‘passengers’ of their own volition to explore opportunities.

They were cut off for generations, after India broke diplomatic relations with South Africa after the introduction of Apartheid in 1947 and craved for direct connections with the mother country. Books, film music, religious material and even other goods like clothes trickled in, brought in by canny traders who knew how to circumvent the system, but what the South Africans wanted was people.

In the 1970s, some cultural troupes came from India and even Pakistan, but then, in 1978, came a moment that was historic. The great singer Mohammed Rafi was brought to an adoring South African Indian public in May of that year.

As we remember the 40th anniversary of Rafi’s death this year, I am reminded of my family’s direct involvement in helping arrange that ground-breaking tour. At the time South Africans of colour – black Africans, mixed-race descendants (called “coloureds”) and the descendants of Indian migrants – still chafed under restrictive racial laws and so the sheer logistics of attempting to bring one of India’s greatest musicians to our shores was a remarkable feat.

South Africa was then persona non grata in the world community and India was still largely a closed economy. Indian artists had only recently begun their tentative forays out of the country on international tours. Tours and visas were difficult to arrange.

Lata Mangeshkar’s 1974 tour required months of high-level discussions between Indian civil servants and their British counterparts. Our experience of bringing Rafi in South Africa also required the blessings of various Indian and South African bureaucrats.

Also read: After T.M. Krishna, It Could Well Be Mohammed Rafi or Lata Mangeshkar

Delhi and apartheid Pretoria did not have diplomatic relations with each other. India’s position had been pretty much constant since 1947 and later, as apartheid became entrenched, India took the lead in shining an international spotlight on Pretoria’s policies towards all people of colour.

For the minority Indian community – numbering close to a million by the 1970s’, and at the forefront of political opposition to apartheid – it also had an unfortunate secondary effect of limiting cultural ties to our historic homeland and in the process creating a sense of loss and yearning.

One thing which apartheid was not able to obliterate completely was an entrepreneurial spirit in many local Indians. My family had become involved in entertainment in the 1950s’, through a chain of cinemas in Durban. My grandfather and other entrepreneurs with the Billimoria brothers of Bombay (who were significant players in the Indian film industry) in persuading the government of India to add films to a list of “acceptable” cultural items exempt from sanctions, along with books and music. As a result, we were able to show Indian films to a grateful public.

By the early 1970s’, it’s no exaggeration to say that cinemas were the cultural mainstay of our community and playback singers in Hindi films like Lata Mangeshkar and Mohammed Rafi had a huge following. Within the country, it was a time of intense civil strife and political agitation in the face of an increasingly brutal government clampdown. Yet culturally, people needed an outlet. Denied agency by their own government, it is unsurprising that many in my community looked beyond the ocean to draw inspiration and reaffirm their sense of pride.

My father, Mahmoud (known as Mamoo) remembers: “We’d tried for several years to work out a way for Rafi to come. Initially, we tried to apply to the Indian embassy in Port Louis (in Mauritius, which did have diplomatic relations with India). We all supported political sanctions, which was noble, but often the cultural boycotts were lumped in with it – and hurt the very people the Indian government were trying to help.”

In a sense, the Indian government’s reluctance was understandable. Without a diplomatic presence to manage things, could they really risk the loss of face which could occur were they to allow an Indian citizen of global stature to travel there, only for such a person to be harassed by the racist authorities or worse, assaulted? They had no way of knowing that in reality, the apartheid government had no interest in local Indian community affairs or their cultural practices.

In 1975, my family had worked with others to bring Pakistan’s Sabri Brothers to Durban, where they performed to thousands of adoring fans and then subsequently returned for two further tours.

Also read: Ten Moods of the Master, Mohammed Rafi

The Tamilian devotional singer, Pithukuli Murugudas had earlier performed at our cinema to acclaim. But somehow, one sensed that there was a yearning for someone of true national stature who could serve as affirmation of the civilisational genius of the subcontinent; a MS Subbalakshmi, for example… or a Rafi. But as India’s most distinguished and famous male playback singer, for a Rafi tour to happen would need a diplomatic imprimatur at the highest levels to break the impasse.

Enter Gora Koradia. The Karodia family were wealthy businessmen and entrepreneurs, part of a wave of Gujarati traders who, since Gandhi’s time, had largely opened up the hinterland of the country.

He proposed a partnership. He had the necessary contacts in India and deep pockets while my father, as an advocate, presumably had the legal nous. Together, perhaps some alchemy was possible. And so early in 1978, the pair made contact with Rafi’s son who lived in London, persuading the great man himself of the merits of a possible tour. Rafi himself knew South Africa and its connection to Gandhi and aware of a large community which had grown since the Mahatma’s time and which loved his music. “He was definitely keen”, Mahmoud recalls, “but also bemused by the whole idea, as if he knew we’d never convince the relevant decision-makers.”

Unfazed, the pair travelled to Bombay, setting up camp at the Taj in anticipation of a long haul.

This was the era of cooling one’s heels in lobbies and waiting rooms waiting for officials, of mindless paperwork and arcane minutiae so beloved by babus. “But such was Gora’s skill that by the first afternoon, we were already sitting in the office of the Chief Passport Controller,” recalls Mahmoud.

“The man himself was pretty candid. After I related to him the nature of our request, he told us quite matter-of-factly, ‘I am afraid that is impossible. It is a decision that has to come from New Delhi.’”

“Whether it was Gora’s generosity that worked, or whether the man genuinely felt that it would be good for Rafi to travel to South Africa, I’m still uncertain. But he did offer as a passing shot, ‘Here is the private telephone number of the Joint Secretary to the External Ministry, Mr K.K. Bhargava. Although Mr Bhargava will not be in a position to see you, he will take a call,”

Back at the Taj, my father began to get that despondent feeling they had been duped, and that the phone number was a ruse to get rid of them. But what did they have to lose?

“A highly cultured voice answered. Mr Bhargava was most courteous. He indicated as a government employee he was obliged to continue the conversation and hear my request out. What followed was a Hegelian debate over the phone that went on for something like 90 minutes on the appropriateness of the Indian government’s decision not to engage with South Africa in allowing one of their cultural ambassadors to visit and perform.

We agreed apartheid was an evil policy and that the local Indian population took succour from India’s stance. But I made an impassioned case that Delhi owed it to her diaspora to think creatively about how best to support them.”

Also read: When Muhammad Ali Came to Bombay and Floored the City

Over the course of those 90 minutes, Mahmoud was able to persuade the civil servant it was wrong to think that any revenue created from such a tour would somehow benefit Pretoria, or the white population. “I sensed I had his ear. But one important concern remained. What safeguards did the Indian government have regarding Rafi’s physical and emotional safety – after all, would he not be pushed off the pavement when approaching whites? And surely he would be denied hospitality at the best hotels and restaurants?”

Mahmoud denied that Rafi would ever encounter such humiliation, or, heinous as Pretoria was, that the singer would not be allowed to stay in a hotel suitable to his position due to his status as an international traveller. Legal help and the strong support of local Indians would ensure that.

“I must have chewed his ear off. The long conversation came to an abrupt end by Mr Bhargava telling me he had heard enough, and that he’d been persuaded to allow an endorsement on the singer’s passport to enable him to travel to the country.”

Four days later, the necessary permission was given to the Bombay office. Amazingly, the visa permit was extended for two weeks; enough time for double weekend shows in Durban as well as for performances in both Johannesburg and Cape Town.

A relieved Rafi welcomed the newly created impresarios to his Bandra bungalow on 28th Road where a contract was hastily signed in the presence of his manager, his brother-in-law Zahir Bari.

Rafi, flanked by Mahmoud (left) and Gora, Bandra, signing the contract. Photo courtesy: Kalim Rajab

It was Mahmoud’s first physical meeting with the great man himself, someone who had loomed so large in his consciousness for so long. “What struck me was how diffident he was; almost shy and always respectful. He seemed happy to answer only if you ventured a question first; otherwise he didn’t feel the need to command the room. If you didn’t know what he had achieved in life and how many people’s lives he touched, you’d never have guessed it.”

In terms of the contract, Rafi would be accompanied by an entourage of 15 people, including his wife Bilquis and Zahir.

Rafi had been irked by Lata Mangeshkar’s claim of having sung more songs than anyone else and throughout the South African tour, Bijnori would introduce him as “the singer with 26,000 songs under his belt!”

In May, the South African Airways flight from London touched down in Johannesburg and a nervous Mahmoud and Gora greeted the visiting contingent before flying with them to Durban. “Actually, it was Rafi who seemed anxious. He’d obviously been told stories of the country which were stereotypes difficult to shake off.” Mahmoud had arranged for the mayor of Johannesburg – a white man – to greet him, something which would have served to calm nerves.

The tour party, comprising Premilla Dattar, Bilquis, Rafi, Mahmoud, Gora, Zahir, arrives in Johannesburg. Photo courtesy: Kalim Rajab

Once in Durban, preparations began on setting up the acoustics at the Shah Jehan, our family cinema which, as the largest cinema in the southern hemisphere, could seat 2100.

Rafi and the entourage stayed at the sea-facing Blue Waters Hotel on Durban’s Marine Parade. During his stay, many locals visited him, and he was most amenable and friendly. But he still couldn’t shake off the apprehension of being accosted by a white man, and so tended to prefer either being ensconced in his hotel room or at our family home rather than explore Durban or the beachfront, except going out once in Cape Town.

Also read: The Rafi Protest in Mumbai is Yet Another Contrived Controversy Against a Big Bollywood Film

“He was a true gentleman. As long as he had good food, he was comfortable and his demands were never excessive. He was here to sing and reach out to the community.”

The brochure, produced by Goolam Mayet.

The shows were an unmitigated success, with tickets at affordable rates. All the four shows in Durban were sold out, as were the performance in Cape Town and Johannesburg. A secondary market soon emerged for selling tickets at a premium.

Because musical shows were still in their infancy, they were not yet the extravaganzas of later years. It was a simple format, with Rafi in the middle of stage, behind a stand upon which lay his harmonium. Saxophone, guitar, dholak and tabla players flanked him. No background images had been created, just the singer and his musicians. He sang for two and a half hours, and while he did occasionally take requests, he stuck to his repertoire with poplar songs like Kya Hua Tera Wada, but also Madhuban Mein Radhikan Nache Re, Chaudvin Ka Chand and Mere Mereboob Tujhe.

My aunt Zeenath, who was there for the first performance in Durban remarked how small he looked in the flesh. “Against that huge cinema screen, with the velvet curtains drawn in front of it, he cut a tiny figure. We’d imagined a “Yahoo!” type personality, like Shammi Kapoor. The hours just flew by.”

Years later, I grew up on memories and recollections of the shows. How he never held back when singing O Duniya Ke Rakhwale, the bhajan set in Raga Darbari which required his voice to reach for the heavens at its climax. How he was able to seamlessly glide from a quietly smouldering Dilip Kumar song to a flashy Dev Anand one, and back again. He didn’t sing any of his non-filmi ghazals, which the true connoisseurs craved, but for everyone else it was perfection.

And suddenly, it was over.

Departure from Johannesburg. Photo courtesy: Kalim Rajab

Tours from Indian artists have since happened with monotonous regularity, complete with glitzy dancing, fantastic light shows and fancy camera work. Performers have charisma and are expected to interact with their audiences and package their event in a far more sophisticated way. The 1978 tour was positively dowdy by comparison. But the soul of the music itself was pure, and that surely counts for something. For years afterwards, tapes recorded from the second show have remained in great demand. Mohamed Rafi playing to rapturous audiences may be just a footnote in the long history of subcontinental relations with pre – and post-apartheid South Africa – but what a charming footnote it is; a song well sung.

Kalim Rajab is a writer based in Johannesburg, South Africa. His most recent book was A Man of Africa, published by Penguin.

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”.

Ten Moods of the Master, Mohammed Rafi

Remembering Rafi on his 94th birth anniversary.

Note: This article was first published on July 31, 2015 and is being republished on December 24, 2018.

It is Mohammed Rafi’s 94th birth anniversary today and The Wire‘s editors have selected 10 great songs from his vast repertoire. It is a difficult task and opens us to questioning about exclusions, but we decided to show the master in different moods. He could mould his voice to suit any actor and any situation, from seduction to rousing patriotism. Instead of picking from his better known songs, this playlist contains some long forgotten gems.

Romance

Rafi could do soft romance and exuberant declarations of love. He could be direct or subtle, shy or super-confident. Here’s one in which he woos from afar. Even though Rafi sang regularly for Shammi Kapoor, this one is atypical, since the actor was not his usual energetic and high-spirited self. Usha Khanna, in her very first film, composed many hit numbers but this is perhaps her best.

Drunkenness

No dearth of songs in this category. Swaying on the streets, slurring his words, the drunk hero has been a regular on Hindi film screens and Rafi has given voice to many of them. More often than not, the tone is maudlin, but this one is different – Dev Anand is a happy drunk. The over two minute opening without any instrumentation is unique in Hindi films and Rafi carries it off with great aplomb, showing, once and for all, what a great singer he was.

Patriotism

The Hindi film industry goes into patriotic mood every now and then. Songs about love for the motherland often tend to be loud and melodramatic, but here, Kaifi Azmi did not go the obvious route. Instead, he gave voice to the dying soldier, who, having done his duty, is passing on the baton to others.

Comedy

Rafi was a great favourite with Johnny Walker, who, during his heyday, usually got a song sequence in his films. Guru Dutt always found a role for Johnny Walker and in Pyaasa, he played a street smart champiwalla (masseur). Sahir’s words, S D Burman’s music and Rafi’s voice – a song for the ages

Rock and roll

The 1960s saw a burst of western-inspired rock and roll songs, often shot in a party, club or picnic setting. Naturally, as the leading male singer of the decade, Rafi was out there, belting it out, as the younger crowd twisted and jived away. This is just one of his songs, but with its worldwide fame, it would be a shame not to include it. The music directors, Shankar Jaikishen, were the undisputed masters of this genre. On screen, the song was mimed by the great choreographer Herman Benjamin

Melancholy

It seems unfair to include so many Dev Anand songs, but Rafi gave voice to some of his best numbers. In this superb song from Guide, the hero’s deep sadness comes through. He is alone, while his lady love tries to sleep upstairs. The distance between the two seems small, but yet is unbridgeable

Longing

Thinking about one’s love and dreaming of how it will be when they meet—Rafi has done it in many films, right from Suhani sham dhal chuki. But this relatively lesser known song scores over the others, for the sweetly plaintive way he sang it.

Devotion

Rafi sang many devotional songs. He was as home at bhajans as he was at naats. It is not easy to pick one out of a long list, but this song from Baiju Bawra has a sublime quality that puts it above the ordinary devotional.

Philosophical

Dev Anand played the flaneur in many films. He loved singing on the move. Here, however, he is not a footloose vagabond but an army officer, fully aware that anything can happen at any minute. When life is so fragile, why worry about tomorrow? This optimistic spirit guides this marvelous song.

Remembrance

Even in the 1970s, Rafi was sounding as youthful as ever, singing for young actors who were not born when he began his career in the 1940s. Here, the on screen hero is reminding the girl before him that she had once loved him; what happened to all those promises they had made? R D Burman’s pop vibe enhances the charm of this evergreen song.

The Rafi Protest in Mumbai is Yet Another Contrived Controversy Against a Big Bollywood Film

Who are these people – the ones who are so fundamentally insecure about whatever it is that they claim to love – that a movie’s name, dialogue or plot turns their devotion to agitation?

Protestors holding up signs. Credit: Tanul Thakur

True protestors arrive early to protest. True protestors are well prepared. I met one such man on the evening of November 2, who had arrived more than half an hour early at Mohammed Rafi Chowk, in Bandra West, a Mumbai suburb, to protest against a dialogue in Karan Johar’s latest release, Ae Dil Hai Mushkil, which, according to him and many others, insults the singer.

Standing in front of a restaurant, whose yellow board had ‘pure veg’ written on it, the man, a real estate broker, asked me, “Have you seen a non-veg video of Karan Johar?” I hadn’t. So he made his cellphone meet my ear. It was a small video clip from a comedy show, hosted by the collective All India Bakchod, where Johar, along with Ranveer Singh and Arjun Kapoor, was singing a silly song full of profanities. The broker looked scandalised and then continued on to make conversation with two other protestors – all in their mid-fifties – about Johar’s video, his sexuality and the controversy surrounding his latest film.

The unfortunate association between controversies and Bollywood

Controversies – silly, frivolous and inane – have indeed been familiar to Bollywood films and filmmakers. In fact, no one has been spared the wrath of India’s offence factory. In November 2000, a few Vedic scholars in Varanasi got offended by a scene in Mohabbatein, where Amitabh Bachchan is reciting the Gayatri Mantra wearing shoes. In January 2009, armed guards were deployed outside theatres in Patna, as protesters threatened to burn effigies of Slumdog Millonaire’s director, Danny Boyle, because the word “dogs” was offensive to slum dwellers. Less than a month later, in February 2009, Shahrukh Khan renamed his film, originally titled “Billu Barber”, to Billu because an association of hairdressers and salon owners found the word “barber” offensive. In December 2014, a Delhi-based filmmaker filed a complaint against the PK‘s lead actor, Aamir Khan, for calling a cop in the film, “thulla”. And in June 2015, a social activist from Uttar Pradesh slapped a legal notice against Kabir Khan and Salman Khan, saying the title of the movie Bajrangi Bhaijaan hurt the sentiments of Hindus. How? Bajrangi is the name of a Hindu god and bhaijaan is used by Muslims to refer to an elder brother.

This unfortunate list of bullied actors and directors is rather long. Every few months, at the time of a big film’s release, it seems a group of people wake up from their stupor to take offence. But who are they, really – the ones who are so fundamentally insecure about whatever it is that they claim to love – that a movie’s name, dialogue or plot turns their devotion to agitation?

During the protest, I saw at least 30 such people, standing in front of more than half a dozen photographers ready to get their pictures clicked. Most of them were carrying placards affixed to small wooden sticks, declaring: ‘Aye Dil Hai Mushkil: A film by default. Karan Johar you correct your fault’. Another read, ‘Mr. Karan Johar, requesting deletion of derogatory line about Bharat ke ratna, Mohd. Rafi sahab from the movie Ae Dil Hai Mushkil.’ There was some awkward attempt at poetry too which clearly needed a rewrite: ‘Mohammed Rafi bharat ki shaan hain, aaj bhi laakhon gallon ki aan hain‘ (Mohammed Rafi makes India proud; even today he’s the reputation of millions of voices).

The protestors’ moment in the setting sun

Quite quickly, the protest became about the protesters. They were getting their pictures taken. They were talking to the cameras. They were finally having their moment in the quickly setting sun. One by one, the protest’s main organisers expressed their discontent, and their voices, like echoes, began repeating themselves: that Rafi was India’s national treasure, he didn’t just sing weepy songs (“his voice infused honey in pain”); the film’s title, Ae Dil Hai Mushkil, was taken from a popular Rafi song (“Karan Johar copied it”); a memorandum would be sent to the filmmaker to delete the objectionable dialogue from the film (“Karan Joker should accept his mistake and apologise”); if he didn’t, then, on behalf of Rafi’s family members and with their permission, a criminal and civil defamation case, of Rs 100 crore, would be filed against him (“he should be taught a lesson”). When the photographers switched off their lights and cameras, they were asked to switch them on again, as the protest’s two main figures, S. Balakrishnan, a former Times of India journalist and Binu Nair, the founder of Rafi Foundation Trust, hadn’t spoken yet. When Balakrishnan and Nair finally spoke, they failed to add anything new.

Soft intimidation, through frivolous lawsuits and protests, has always followed big Bollywood films. But what made this protest remarkable were the recent events clouding Ae Dil Hai Mushkil’s release. To be fair, this protest was fairly quiet and peaceful, although at one point a protester did wonder, “Bade diwane hain Rafi saab ke, main bata dun, aisa na ho ki koi chhuri maar ke chala jaaye” (Rafi sir has many admirers; I hope this doesn’t result in a murder). It’s quite evident from the recent events — from the Cinema Owners Association of India boycotting the film to Johar releasing an apology video to the filmmaker being asked to pay Rs 5 crore to the Army Welfare Fund – that extortion and intimidation are becoming a normalised part of the business. Although many present at the protest did say that their motives were apolitical (“we won’t comment on the issue of Pakistani artistes; art shouldn’t have boundaries”), it seems unlikely that the culture of protests against films –for reasons either political or personal – is going to end soon. As if the whims of the Central Board of Film Certification aren’t absurd enough to keep filmmakers feeling permanently insecure and fighting for their most basic rights, now we also have coercion by political parties and individuals to help with the process of hammering nails into the coffin of artistic expression and freedom.

Ordinary life is mundane and listless. And to make it tolerable and livable, you need to invent a cause, a sense of purpose. The protestors at the Mohammed Rafi Chowk emitted this sentiment even if they didn’t express it. The Rafi dialogue in Ae Dil Hai Mushkil and the outrage accompanying it had offered them power and validation; and presumably instilled in them what they always wanted to believe: That their lives mattered; that they, too, could contribute to a worthwhile cause. Several of them looked eager to associate themselves with the protest, talk about their lives; they became all the more interested when they found out that I was a journalist. The protestors had come from places as far as Thane, Mira Road and Andheri. They handed me their visiting cards; the owner of an orchestra group, who had earlier spoken to the reporters for a few minutes, wrote his name, website, e-mail address and profession in my notebook; a housewife recited a devotional couplet written by her in memory of Rafi. “I’ll send this to you on mobile,” she said, smiling. “The family members of Rafi sahab have heard it, and they really like it.”

By seven in the evening, nearly all protesters had dispersed. And all that remained on Mohammed Rafi Chowk was the noise and confusion of daily life.

The Saddest Song of Them All

A song of real grief cannot be merely sentimental, but something that even within its private world, sings a context, provides a historical echo, and even gives a political meaning to the situation of life.

Unlike what Shelley said, all songs that tell of our saddest thoughts are not necessarily sweet. There are songs that are simply sad, as sad can be. They make you brood deeply or drown you in intense melancholia. Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’, Dinah Washington’s ‘Bitter Earth’, and Cesária Évora’s ‘Sodade’, are such songs. The sadness of a song not only emanates from the lyrics, or the tune in which the song is set, but also from the voice and the singing. The Kurdish singer Aynur Doğan’s dirge, ‘Ahmedo’, which I first heard in Fatih Akin’s documentary, Crossing The Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul is exceptional. It is a song dipped in wailing, where Doğan mourns perhaps a personal tragedy along with the desperate situation of her people.

In the world of the ghazal, a genre ripe with sadness, there are quite a few exemplars. All of Begum Akhtar is a veritable plunge into the river of sadness. From Shakeel Badayuni’s ‘Mere Humnafas Mere Humnawa’, to Ghalib’s ‘Ibn-e-Mariyam Hua Kare Koi’, Akhtar scales songs of bereavement full of longing. In her memory, the late Kashmiri-American poet, Agha Shahid Ali, wrote,

‘Ghazal, that death-sustaining widow, / sobs in dingy archives, hooked to you. / She wears her grief, a moon-soaked white, / corners the sky into disbelief. / You’ve finally polished catastrophe…’

The gypsy singer from Rajasthan, Reshma, came to be famous for her song in Hero, where Laxmikant-Pyarelal made her render the Hindi version of the Punjabi folk song, ‘Char Dinan Da Pyar O Rabba Bari Lambi Judai’. But it is in the ghazal, ‘Aksar Shab-e-Tanhai Mein’, in which Reshma, with faltering strokes of emotion, finds her soul.

The song, interestingly, is an Urdu translation of Irish poet Thomas Moore’s poem which begins, ‘Oft in the stilly night’, by Nadir Kakorvi. What prevents Farida Khanum from scaling the same heights of sorrow as Akhtar or Reshma is perhaps the velvety texture of her voice, which tempers the effect of ‘Mohabbat Karne Wale Kam Na Honge’ and other songs.

The men in comparison, including the maestro, Mehdi Hasan, charm with the richness of their singing but can’t get really close to the piercing vulnerability one experiences listening to the women singers. Jagjit Singh’s rendering of Ghalib may be an exception. As Vikram Singh Khangura put it, his rendition of Ghalib, as “poetry recitation”, something that is suitably “less ornamented”, brings us closer to the poetry than classical and other forms of singing Ghalib. So, though Abida Parveen sings ‘Bekhudi Besabab Nahi Ghalib’ brilliantly, her singing rather than Ghalib’s poetry becomes the point of appeal. Jagjit simply touches upon the bare notes of pathos in Ghalib, bringing it closer to our experiencing the language of the poems.

In Hindi film music, there is too much artifice to arouse pathos: techniques of dramatisation and sentimentality are used to cajole the listener’s sensibility. The problem with Madan Mohan’s ‘Rasm-e-Ulfat’ is that the song hurries the poetry, and Lata Mangeshkar makes it too melodious. In fact, melody is the central problem in Hindi film music; it cushions the effect of sadness, and makes it consumable. A similar problem afflicts a host of Lata songs, from ‘Betab Dil Ki Tamanna’ to ‘Na Koi Umang Hai’ from Kati Patang There is more elegance in songs like ‘Haal-e-dil Yun Unhe Sunaya Gaya’ and ‘Woh Chup Rahe To’, both from Jahan Ara. A gentle air of melancholy pervades ‘Pal Bhar Mein Yeh Kya Ho Gaya’ while Lata reaches her shrill pinnacle in ‘Dikhayi Diye Yun’ from Bazar. Khayyam uses Lata’s pitch to exploit the depths of the song but what he loses in this ghazal by Mir is his usual, masterful sense of ‘thahrav’ (poise), which he gifts Bhupinder in ‘Karoge Yaad To’.

You can hear the poignant poetry along with the song. But whether in ‘Karoge Yaad To’, or ‘Koi Nahi Hai Kahin’ – R.D. Burman’s masterpiece in Kinara where he creates the feeling of sound in the middle of a vast emptiness – or in the exquisite ghazal ‘Piya Tujh Aashna Hun Main’, by Quli Qutub Shah set to music by Vanraj Bhatia, Bhupinder is a bit too sophisticated for getting into the raw, rocky bottom of sadness.

Asha and Geeta Dutt

Asha Bhonsle’s most memorable songs have the same problem of tunefulness. It is the melodic quality of melancholy that becomes the soaring point of ‘Chain Se Hum ko Kabhi’ or ‘Yeh Saaye Hain’, or the songs of Umrao Jaan. R.D. Burman responds to the challenge of Gulzar’s non-rhymed poetry in ‘Mera Kuch Saamaan’, by making the song move like a rivulet. Asha’s sense of sadness is imbued with a strong bodily effervescence, a sensuous angst that adds a sense of materiality to the suffering she sings.

Both Asha and Geeta Dutt, when they sing a ‘Sapna Mera’ or a ‘Ja, Ja, Ja, Ja Bewafa’ respectively, show they are good with the spirit of Hindi jazz, if one can use a phrase like that. Both can be lively in the midst of grief, and also dare to be tempting. Dutt’s ‘Waqt Ne Kiya Kya Haseen Sitam’, is her other extreme, where she renders a sterner version of a sad song in comparison to Lata’s.

Mukesh, Rafi and Manna Dey

Among the leading male singers of Hindi cinema, Mukesh’s voice was always more tragic than Rafi’s. His sadness is simple, each word clearly outlined when he utters them. He neither downplays nor exaggerates the song of despair, whether it’s ‘Chal Akela’, or ‘Jis Gali Mein’. Raj Kapoor thought Mukesh could carry off the most difficult act, to sing the melancholy of the clown. But then, both were a team. ‘Jaane Kahan Gaye Woh Din’ sounds eerily disembodied, floating in the air without a body, a pure memory of hurt’s vanishing footsteps. Rafi’s limitation is again that he is too melodic for the sadness his voice desperately sought in songs like ‘Hum Bekhudi Mein Tum’ and ‘Din Dhal Jaye’.

Rafi could make his voice float on air and embrace a whole landscape with his poignant sur of longing. The same can be said of Manna Dey, who, whether singing ‘Zindagi Kaisi Hai Paheli’, from Anand, or ‘Pucho Na Kaise’, seems to be more keenly engrossed in the craft of singing. For both Rafi and Manna, singing is a country where sadness is a stranger they meet and whom they impress along the way.

Talat, Kishore and Hemant Kumar

Talat Mahmood and Kishore Kumar are the exact opposite of Rafi and Dey. Talat’s quivering voice is the epitome of sadness. In ‘Phir Wohi Shaam Wohi Gham’ or ‘Zindagi Dene Waale Sun’, he is more involved in the sadness than the singing. But melody chases his despair to prevent him from losing himself completely, and keeps him measured and poised.

About Kishore, Zakir Hussain once said the most striking thing ever: When you hear him, you feel as if he is singing for you and you alone. Kishore, perhaps more brilliantly than others, manages to individualise the feeling of pathos, creating an intense, private relationship between himself and the listener. Though he mastered all moods, it is in songs like ‘Badi Sooni, Sooni Hai’, from Mili, or ‘Panthi Hoon Main’ that you find him, completely himself, thoroughly involved in mapping the contours of sadness.

In Kishore’s sad songs, a certain gravitas weighs more heavily than melody. That is why Kishore could evoke the sombre depth of ‘Tum Bin Jaoon Kahan’ in Pyar ka Mausam better than Rafi, and ‘Mere Naina Sawan Bhadon’, better than Lata.

There is a problem that afflicts all male singers, including the ascetic-sounding Hemant Kumar singing ‘Jaane Woh Kaise’ for Guru Dutt in Pyasa. I would like to call it, using Milan Kundera, the problem of ‘homo sentimentalis’, the term he invents and describes in his novel, Immortality: “Homo sentimentalis cannot be defined as a man with feelings (for we all have feelings), but a man who has raised feelings to a category of value.”

All male actors, be it Guru Dutt, Dilip Kumar, Rajesh Khanna or any other, suffer, in differing degrees, from a deep-seated masculinity that draws them towards their own centre, and makes them let their emotions loose from that centre alone. Their sentimentality keeps them on a tight leash. It is this (self) centeredness of their pain, their sense of suffering, sometimes masquerading as a larger, universal ethic that their playback singers translated for them. It is a division of labour which hides a tacit flow of masculine superiority and limits their portrayal of hurt-filled emotions. Kishore’s ‘Kahan Tak Ye Man Ko’, picturised on Amol Palekar in Baaton Baaton Mein, by its effusive detachment, offers something other than the private, male core of sadness spilling over. Suresh Wadkar’s ‘Seene Mein Jalan’ from the film Gaman, goes further, as he manages to merge the personal with the social grief enveloping an era. In the other song from the film, Jaidev’s masterpiece, ‘Aapki Yaad Aati Rahi’, he introduces us to the unique Chhaya Ganguly, whose voice sounds like a bee-hive of gloom.

The one male singer who comes closest to a certain feminine sense of vulnerability, despite the heavy maleness of his voice, is Kabban Mirza. In his rendering of Nida Fazli’s ‘Tera Hijr Mera Naseeb Hai’, for Khayyam, we hear a man who finds himself abandoned in the no-man’s-land of sadness, yet without losing his maleness, his self-assurance, he sings a slave’s sombre pride on his ill-fated love with a queen. I am referring more to his singing than the actual lyrics of the song, though both of course go hand-in-hand. The folk version of Kabban is of course S.D. Burman. In ‘Doli Mein Bithaike Kahan’ and ‘Safal Hogi Teri Aradhana’, Burman sings like a boat in turmoil. In folk music, the singer never sings of himself alone, but of life and landscape around him, of things that throw him out of himself.

And in the end…

The saddest song of all, in my book, is by a virtually unknown singer, Jagjit Kaur. She lends her voice to Sahir Ludhiyanvi’s ‘Tum Apna Ranj-o-Gham’ in Shagun and Amir Khusro’s ‘Kahe Ko Byahi Bides’ in Umrao Jaan.

Both songs were set to music by her husband, Khayyam. In the saddest song I am referring to, melody falters, singing takes a back seat, and the world comes to an end. A song of real grief cannot be merely sentimental, but something that even within its private world, sings a context, provides a historical echo, and even gives a political meaning to the situation of life. So when she sings ‘Dekh Lo Aaj Humko Jee Bhar Ke’, Nawab Mirza Shauq’s ghazal in Bazaar, which Khayyam sets to music haltingly over bare strings, you can’t go anywhere, you can’t move, because the song throws you not just into the life of the woman who’s enacting the song but also the life of the nation, not only the separation of lovers but love as a metaphor of a larger, historical separation, faced by oppressive structures, partitioning all possibilities of love.

When Kaur sings, you feel the figure of Heer, Amrita Pritam, all the women in Punjab singing alongside her, humming from the shadows. ‘Koi Aata Nahin Hai Yun Mar Ke’ – nobody returns from the dead – sings Kaur, and you imagine a silent crowd of women in mourning, their grief inconsolable, with no hope for redemption. That is when time pauses to listen to history.

Manash ‘Firaq’ Bhattacharjee is a poet, writer and political science scholar. His first collection of poetry, Ghalib’s Tomb and Other Poems (2013), was published by The London Magazine. He is currently Adjunct Professor in the School of Culture and Creative Expressions at Ambedkar University, New Delhi.