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When emotions were poetry...
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Driving through a traffic-congested, smog-ridden city, why do we still have "Chalo dildar chalo... " on our lips, wonders BAGESHREE S.
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ONE IS tongue-tied during intensely emotional moments. And if we do manage to find a few words, they are seldom our own. As someone said, they are metaphors borrowed from books written by other people. So, if you are in love and can't seem to find a single appropriate phrase to express it, you simply quote a Latin American poet: "I want to do to you what spring does to the cherry trees."
If one may stretch the same logic a bit (keeping particularly in mind the "well brought up" Indian middle-class), songs from what is called the "golden era" of Hindi films ('50s, '60s and early '70s) come in handier than books on many a can't-find-words occasion.
Take this little test and you'll know what I mean:
What songs do you remember instantly when in the following moods: in love and charged by the devil-may-care attitude; full of self pity resulting from unrequited love; longing for the beloved who is far away; gay abandon; mad happiness; existentialist angst; drunken stupor... and come to think of it, even a strange bedfellow like patriotism.
Answers (in seven out of 10 cases, I bet): "Pyar kiya tho darna kya"; "Kya se kya ho gaya"; "Saranga teri yaad mein"; "Panchi bano udthe phiro"; "Chahe koi mujhe jangli kahe"; "Jaane woh kaise log the jinke"; "Thodi si jo pee lee hai"; and "Ye mere watan ki logon".
You can draw up another set of your own favourite shades of moods (revolving, of course, around love, separation, betrayal... and such highly romanticised emotions) and you will have your own "golden oldie" to match every one of them. There may be differences in individual choices though — you might prefer "Din dhal jaye hai" or "Aajaare mera dil pukare" to "Saranga... " and so on.
It is, perhaps, this faith in the magnetic power of the oldies that keeps a Bhoole Bisre Geet or a Geetmala going for ages, compels even a very contemporary, savvy, and youth-friendly Radio City to have Matinee Show dedicated to old Hindi numbers for a good two hours every weekday, and makes the 24-hour "pure nostalgia" channel, Star Gold, run. A friend of mine swears that one particular bar owner in Bangalore has perfected the art of making Devdases of mamma's mosaranna-eating boys by serving up large doses of Talat Mehmood and Saigal along with the essential brew!
So what is it about the songs of this period that draws even the hardboiled, politically correct souls to them? What makes a head-firmly-on-her-shoulders feminist abandon her better judgment and endure "Aap ki nazron ne samjha", "Dil me tujhe bitake" or "Chaudvin ka chaand ho"? How is it that we are quicker to remember Helen's "Piya thu ab tho aa ja" and not "Choli ke peeche" (made in what is thought as more "degenerate" times) when asked to name an unforgettable raunchy number? Simply put, what makes the music of the "golden era" so irresistible to all (almost) categories of people?
This period was, undoubtedly, marked by the confluence of great and very diverse musical and poetic talents. There was Saigal who made an entire subcontinent swoon with the reverberating "Jab dil hi tut gaya". Talat pulled at the heartstrings with his tremulous rendering of "Jalte hain jiske liye". Mukesh earned himself a never-before fan following with his raw, highly emotive voice with a distinct nasal twang. (Doesn't his "Teri duniya me dil lagta nahin" seem to compress a lifetime of heartache in a three-minute number?) Rafi was refined and versatile. He could sing a syrupy "Ehsan tera hoga mujh par" and a wild "Chahe koi mujhe jangli kahe" number in the same film! There was Hemant with the elegant glide of "Yaad kiya dil ne", and Manna De with his well-honed classical numbers such as "Pucho na kaise". Not to forget the eccentric genius of now-yodelling-now-poignant Kishore. The female voices too — which, over a period of time, reached a uniform, feverish high pitch as the hallmark of "femininity" — had greater variety during this period. There were the likes of Suraiya, Noorjahan, Shamshad Begum, and Geeta Dutt, who were not apologetic about their earthy voices. And Lata, who grew shriller by the year, had a certain innocence about her voice in those early "Aayega aanewalah" years. There was the more vibrant and sensual Asha too, though hesitant and less prolific.
The music directors of the time too offered equally diverse styles. While music composers like Madan Mohan and Naushad used the classical idiom to the best effect, S.D. Burman enriched his music with the inflections of eastern Indian folk music. While O.P. Nayyar gave Asha her place in the sun with all those peppy numbers, Salil Choudhuri brought in the cadence of Western classical music into Hindi films.
Unaided by as many gizmos as we have today, the music directors of the time had fewer on-the-platter (rather, on-the-keyboard) options and this precisely, in retrospect, seems like the strength of the time. See how many songs of the period stand on the strength of a single, original instrument — for instance, the heart-rending strains of sarod in "Man re thu kahe na dheer dhare" or the playful accordion of "Babuji dheere chalna". The analog recording system of the pre-digital era, the more musically knowledgeable have argued, also allowed for the blending of sounds in a more natural way. So much so that there have been instances of musicians (in the U.S.) doing a technological leap backwards to go back to analog recording.
Going hand-in-hand with all the charming music was a great deal of alluring poetry marked by understatement, wit, and of course, the fatal attraction of old world romanticism. Let's admit, they recycled pyar, wafa, chand, sitare, and so on again and again and seldom touched the larger range of human experiences. And yet, a good number of them — penned by the established poets of the Urdu literary tradition such as Sahir Ludhianwi, Shakil Badayuni, Majrooh Sultanpuri, and Shailendra — managed to touch you with their sheer subtlety. With the staid, Sanskritised language taking over the Hindi film lyrics scene over the years, this hallmark of the Urdu tradition died a slow and steady death. It was replaced by more straightforward, readymade Archies card-like sentiments, but for an occasional Gulzar, who comes up with a "Yaar hai jo khushboo ki tarah/ Jinki zuban Urdu ki tarah... "
So, mid-2003, amidst the swirling deluge of new music, one yearns for the songs of Pyaasa made over 50 years ago — with its deadly combination of Guru Dutt, Sahir, S.D. Burman, Geeta Dutt, Rafi, Hemant Kumar, Waheeda Rehman, and cinematographer V.K. Murthy. So, one forgives even the completely self-indulgent romanticism (that one otherwise balks at) when Hemant sings: "Humko to apna saya thak aksar bezaar mila... " And is there any resisting the intense longing in Geeta Dutt's voice: "Zulf kande pe mudi/ Ek khusboo si udi/ Khul gayi raaze kahin/ Baat kuch ban hee gayi/ Jane kya thune kahin/ Jane kya maine sunee/ Baat kuch ban hee gayi... "?
Well, there actually is. Even as half the world chooses to be swept off its feet, some do manage to keep their critical faculties afloat even in such a seductive whirlpool. For instance, Dr. S.V. Srinivas, whose work at the Centre for the Study of Culture and Society revolves around the history and cultural context of Indian films, refuses to jump onto the nostalgia bandwagon. A 30-year distance, he insists, casts a sepia-tinted charm on anything. That was how R.D. Burman, once seen as someone who "corrupted" Hindi film music bringing disrepute to his father, has now been anointed "great". There was a phase in the early post-Independence period when film music was banned on All India Radio for its corrupting influences. Songs of the same period are now cited as shining testimonials of the "purity" of a bygone era. He also thinks that it is rather puerile to see "golden oldies" as one amorphous category of "good music, good lyrics" without looking into the diversities within. He reminds us that nostalgia is highly marketable commodity that has been very successfully packaged and peddled by both music companies and television channels.
You actually see Dr. Srinivas's point when you go into a music supermarket. There are genres of music neatly slotted, and you find rows after rows of music under what's marked "Evergreen". One sees an amazing number of permutations and combinations — categorised by the singers, composers, actors, decades... — with, of course, hundreds of overlaps. You know very well that if you pay through your nose and buy the 10-cassette "golden collection" of Mukesh, you will not find more than 10 songs you really love and that you can't bear to listen to them all at a stretch. But, in all likelihood, you will end up buying the Mukesh collection for the sheer kick of having all of Mukesh in your cassette rack!
So, to what extent does hard-headed reasoning temper your fascination for a hopelessly unrealistic "Chalo dildar chalo chand ke paar chalo"? Not much, if you are already a convert. If one may be forgiven for some simplistic psychoanalysis, one wants to finally put one's love of those occasionally naughty, but mostly weepy, syrupy numbers (it actually hurts to even call them that!) down to a human being's constant yearning for highly improbable romance. Doesn't A.K. Ramanujan talk of a sweaty traveller in a crammed bus who suddenly remembers Kalidasa's description of a cool, fragrant evening in the woods and fancies being elevated to a different plane? Are we like this only, one wonders.
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