As I walk down the cobbled pavement under the famous blue-and-white arches of Kitab Mahal, I almost walk past ‘Royal Music Collection’ without noticing it. But Lata Mangeshkar crooning ‘Chhod De Saari Duniya Kisi Ke Liye’ lures me to the shop tucked away between others selling helmets and mobile phone covers. I am immediately struck by the hundreds and hundreds of vinyls and cassettes that are immaculately organised in the tiny space.
The shop’s owner is Abdul Razzak, a man of few words. It is difficult to tease answers out of him; he prefers to reply in lists: genres, artists, languages, types, sizes, speeds of vinyl. He has facts about his collection of LPs and EPs and LDs at his fingertips.
“There’s Hindi, English, Gujarati,” he intones, “Marathi, Punjabi, Tamil, Bengali, Indian classical, Western classical, pop, rock jazz, blues, hard rock, soft rock, soft instrumental,” barely pausing to take a breath. If I slip in a word edgeways, he chides me gently, like a parent frustrated their child isn’t solving a math problem right.
A special bond
He pulls out stacks of vinyls, neatly arranged by genre in plastic bags, from a small, almost hidden, cupboard that holds his more expensive collections. He then lists out artiste names in another rapid-fire burst: “Boney M., ABBA, The Beatles, The Doors, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, The Who.” “I don’t really relate to them or understand them,” he says, but he clearly knows what to stock.
As the conversation progresses, the 54-year-old slowly begins to warm up. He tells me why vinyls are special to him. “When you play it, it feels like someone is sitting in front of you and singing,” he says. Razzak’s father worked at a printing press, and no one in his family was particularly interested in music. As one of five siblings growing up in Mumbai, Razzak would inevitably watch as many films as he could in theatres and religiously listen to their songs on cassette tapes. That is how his love for music began.
“I listened to old Hindi songs,” he reminisces. “I loved Rafi saab’s music. I’d listen to mix collections of Mangeshkar and Talat Mahmood.” Then, as a teenager, Razzak discovered a friend’s collection of vinyl records. There was no turning back. “Once I realised the quality of records, I would only listen to them. The sound is so sweet to the ear.”
One day, the friend gave Razzak his entire collection of 300 records. This was the impetus that kick-started Razzak’s vinyl business in 1980. The collection had songs and dialogues from classics like Raj Kapoor’s Barsaat (1949) and Shree 420 (1955), and Sholay (1975). With these classics, Razzak began to expand his collection and also his network of collectors.
Razzak had gone into business with his uncle, who sold old stamps and coins at the same spot in Kitab Mahal where Razzak now sells vinyl. Uncle and nephew still work together and, in fact, the shopfront abutting the pavement sells coins and stamps during the day, and in the evening after his uncle closes shop, Razzak moves in from the alley at the back where he sits during the day.
Gandhi on 78 rpm
The oldest record in Razzak’s possession is Ashok Kumar’s Jhoola (1941). He also has Mahatma Gandhi’s voice on a 78 rpm. Kanan Devi, Suraiya, Noor Jehan, they all feature strongly in the mix.
The shop has changed little in the 37 years of its existence. A store in Chor Bazaar is offering competition, but that doesn’t appear to worry Razzak. “A lot of the stuff in Chor Bazaar is from scrap dealers, from posters to antique furniture,” he explains, “but they sell at high prices.” Why doesn’t he do the same, I ask. “I don’t want to. I want to run this place as it has always been run,” making enough to cover his family’s expenses.
Kala Ghoda’s famous Rhythm House shut down last year because music downloads proved too big a competition. But online streaming doesn’t affect Razzak whose customers seek him out for a different era, a different sound, for an experience that digital cannot give.
The demand for his wares has slowly grown, as vintage becomes hip and electronic vinyl players buttressed the market. From DJs to interior designers to Bollywood stars, Razzak attracts a tony crowd. He proudly shows me a picture of director Madhur Bhandarkar visiting his shop. Nobody in his family has shown any interest in continuing the shop, but Razzak is unfazed. “I’ll sell them for as long as I can. I can definitely run the shop for another 10 years.”
Anahita Panicker is a Mumbai-based freelance journalist who is as obsessed with cinema as she is with gender rights.
