To me, as a little boy growing up in the ’70s, S.D. Burman was just R.D. Burman’s father. Yes, R.D. who sang “Mehbooba mehbooba” in the epochal Sholay and preceded it with Yaadon ki Barat , the film with that wonderful song “Chura liye hai tumne jo dil ko”. Often, I rode my one-step scooter in the courtyard of my house singing, “Mehbooba, mehbooba” only to be rebuked by my Ammi, who wouldn’t hear of a song as loud, or maybe she considered it raunchy coming from the lips of a nursery school boy. Probably, she was just upset that the boy she had put to sleep on many a night, humming S.D. Burman’s “Chanda hai to mera sooraj hai tu” should so forget the man who composed the song.
Be that as it may, for my young mind, R.D. Burman was the man who could do no wrong. When the Vividh Bharati announcer on the popular “Anurodh Geet” programme said that the music of the upcoming song had been composed by R.D. Burman, I would momentarily stop trying to hone my bowling skills by hitting a single stump with a ball and sit quiet next to my radio. And S.D. Burman? Even when I became a little familiar with his work — I use the word ‘familiar’ with an element of generosity to myself — he remained, in my thoughts, a music director of yesteryear; the distance in time having diminished his genius in my eyes. Until it all changed a few years later. On November 5, 1983, to be precise.
My brother and I stood next to a grave as a body wrapped in white was lowered into it, then looked vacantly as the grave was covered, slab by wooden slab, head to toe. My father was gone. A door shut, never to open again. I took recourse to prayer. My pain eased, the sense of loss not as hurtful.
A few years passed, I started smiling again, often humming along with Hindi film songs even as I studied, walked in the park or travelled. Until one cold December evening, unannounced, unprovoked, a tear moistened my eye as I thought of my father and subconsciously found myself humming, “Tum na jaane kis jahan mein kho gaye, hum bhari duniya mein tanha ho gaye”. It was cold, semi-dark and drizzling; the rain helping to wash away my tears of sorrow.
The song from the 1951 film Sazaa stayed with me. Only perseverance helped me to get its audiocassette. It was then that I discovered Sachin Dev Burman. Then he became part of my life, part of me. He was no longer dead. He lived on.
So when I got a copy of Sathya Saran’s “Sun Mere Bandhu Re: The Musical World of S.D. Burman”, I treated the book with the reverence one reserves for family elders. With due deference I started reading it, bit by bit. And found a new world open in front of me. Neither as a fan nor as a critic had I ever met S.D. Burman, so I knew him only through his songs. It is a reliable way to know the talents of a man, not his temperament. Sathya filled the gap admirably.
She writes, “S.D. Burman would never get angry, he was never heard raising his voice, never known to throw a tantrum.” Well, for all his humility and patience, S.D. Burman did get into problems with at least two of his contemporaries, as Sathya informs us frankly in a well researched book replete with anecdotes, instances and occasions one had seldom heard of. Illustrious lyricist Sahir Ludhianvi and he fell out over the songs of Pyaasa , as Sahir had written the songs and S.D. had to set to tune his words. Sahir wanted to be paid a rupee more than S.D. Burman too. The music director walked out of the long relationship, the debate over the supremacy of poem versus song remaining undecided.
Then filmmaker O.P. Ralhan and S.D. had a difference of opinion on using Mukesh’s voice for Talash , following which the music director left the film midway, only to return after a chastened director had learnt his lesson. Similarly, he had earlier stuck his neck out for Geeta Roy who repaid his faith with the memorable “Mera sundar sapna beeta gaya” in Do Bhai , a film where Madan Mohan assisted S.D. These are interesting instances that show the humane side of the genius.
The other, more brilliant aspect shines through when Sathya talks of numerous songs and how they came about. Like the fact that the superhit song of Aradhana , “Roop tera mastana” is actually inspired from a folk melody and “Safal hogi teri aradhana, kahe ko roye” is based on a Baul melody. While “Wahan kaun hai tera” from Guide is done on Bhatiali lines. These little asides, these little gems add great value to a book that is like a river in the plains, quiet, tranquil, profound.
Sathya has helped me dispel my ignorance about the man just as his songs helped heal my wounds. More recently I found myself alone once more. And lonely. Ammi had gone to join my father. I took recourse to prayer. It helped. Then one day on a testing summer afternoon, even as boys in the neighbourhood played Prasoon Joshi’s ode to mother in Taare Zameen Par , I remembered my Ammi and sang to myself, “Meri duniya hai maa”. My eyes turned moist. S.D. was part of my life again. My talash continues.
The author is a seasoned literary critic
