Music
Mood:  lyrical

What Music Means To Me

Well, one can go on and on about how music is divine, a means to tune in to the consciousness within or to establish communion with one’s inner being, to listen to the harmony of the spheres, to experience calm and bliss, to enjoy with like minded friends, to converse with the great masters of yore, to establish a rhythm of life, to express one’s creativity and give vent to one’s artistic urges. And one would not be far from some profound truths if one does.

My concerns are somewhat more mundane here.

For me, music arouses a myriad of memories. Some of the most tender, and most fulfilling. Besides being important landmarks in whatever little variety that adorns my musical life. I shall list here two formative, defining, influences. One is of my father, the second of my guru. To tune in to them, to actualize the nuances of their performance and reaffirm their ideas about music is the greatest activity that I can possibly perform. And the most fulfilling. That, in essence, is what music means to me.

Here, I shall talk of the first influence.

The First Influence, Father

My earliest memories of music are of my father’s singing. A maverick of sorts, a man of modest means, who would go out of his way to help others, who enjoyed the good life but had a peculiar contempt for the obsession with money and wealth he found around him. He would get into a mood and sing in his rich baritone voice for hours on end, to no one in particular. He was a great fan of the legendary K.L. Sehgal, and contemporaries Pankaj Mullick and K.C. Dey, and a great appreciator of Talat Mehmood, and later on of M. Rafi too. He was one who voiced his opinion in the 60s that he preferred Asha Bhonsale’s voice to Lataji’s because he found her more versatile. This, at a time when Lataji ruled the musical world, and the only person who ever gave a chance to Ashaji to sing was the great O.P.Nayyar. He enjoyed singing new numbers of Ashaji in his rich baritone, almost like Sehgal singing Ashaji’s songs. And while we smiled and felt embarrassed, he carried on regardless. The voice still rings in my ear, the song of a man who sang from the heart, whose voice emoted every word that escaped his lips.

He also had a great sense of poetry. He went to great lengths to explain the subtleties and nuances of the lyrics of a song, and got into the skin of the poet to understand what the poetry conveyed. The first poetry he taught me was a lovely poem by the great English poet Henry Longfellow, which I have by heart:

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints that perhaps another
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main
A forlorn, or ship wrecked brother
Seeing, shall take heart again.

He explained the meaning of the lovely metaphor, ‘Footprints on the sands of time’. He explained what ‘o’er’ meant, that it was a poet’s license for the word ‘over’, so as to help in the recitation. What the word ‘main’ meant (it means the sea). How can life be a ‘solemn main’ for some. Why the ‘forlorn or ship wrecked brother’ sentence. How, when the footprints on the sands are seen, it gives courage to the despondent to take heart and carry on without losing hope. And how, finally, and this was the most important lesson he taught, we should all try to lead our life so that we leave our impress, howsoever small, ‘on the sands of time’.

To the tiny, impressionable mind, it was an ennobling experience to hear him expound so effortlessly on the meaning of the poetry. He did not have to persuade me very hard to learn it by heart. Having understood its profound meaning, I was myself motivated to learn it.

The incident that follows is noteworthy. I must be in the VII or VIII standard. Once the teacher had not come for her class. One of the office staff, a learned senior who had a very good handwriting, came to engage the class. He asked the students to come to the black board and write anything, in the best hand possible. The usual hesitation amongst students was noticeable. Friends egged me on. I just went to the black board, took the chalk piece, and wrote out Longfellow’s poetry quoted above. Just like that. The class gaped in wonder, but what I still remember is the open mouthed look of wonder and awe on the wise man’s face. He was nonplussed. Gathering his wits, he asked almost in a whisper, ‘Who taught you this?’ And I was proud to say, ‘My father, sir.’ The look of admiration on his face for the man who could teach such a lovely poetry to his son at so tender an age, a poetry not in any syllabus and not for any exam but just for the love of poetry itself, that look is still etched in my mind as one of the fondest memories of my childhood.

What applied to English poetry was equally applicable to his music. He could never sing a song just for the music, or for cheap thrills. The meaning had to be heart touching. Then the music had to be soul stirring too. And, finally, the rendition by the singer had to convey the sense of the poetry and the mood of the music. Any disparity, and it would jar him, which he was quick to realize, and point out.

The First Song, of Childhood, and the Farewell Number

For me, the greatest moment in my life was the first Hindi song he taught me, which I, like so many youngsters, was so very reluctant to learn. When a tiny tot. He sat me one day and said, ‘I will teach you a song of childhood’. And proceeded to teach me:

‘O, bachpan ke din bhula na dena…’

Just remembering him sing in his baritone gets the eyes to cloud over even today. In grateful thanks for the great childhood he gave me, and the immortal gift of aesthetics and music appreciation that has been an enduring aspect of my personality.

I had never seen him refer to any book for the words of a song. We did not even have a radio at home. I just wondered how he mastered the words so well. And then I knew. The true appreciator of poetry that he was, the words left an indelible impression on his heart. For it to flow from there to his tongue was, therefore, effortless.

I heard him sing for hours, into the wee hours of the morning at times, without any accompaniment, to no one, for no applause, simply because music welled up in him. He often urged me to sing with him but I was like any typical shy son, imbibing the music, but not adding my voice to his.

There was a traditional farewell function as we were to leave school. College beckoned, and all the excitement of being a young man, and being no longer treated as a mere kid. That was the time he suggested a song. He did not force it on me but said, see if you would like to sing this song. This was the second song he taught the shy reluctant teenager. It was a long forgotten melody even in his time, ‘Ruk na sako to jao, tum jao...’ It goes like this:

Ruk na sako to jaao, tum jaao (Repeat)

Ek magar hum sabki hai fariyaad
Kabhi hamari bhi kar lena yaad (Repeat both lines)
Hum to tumhe na bhool sakenge (Repeat)
Tum chahe bisarao, tum jaao…
Ruk na sako to jao, tum jao….

Jane kab phir mile purana saathi
Jane kab phir mile prem ki paati (Repeat both lines)
Aj bichadne se pahele tum (Repeat)
Ek bar muskao, tum jao…
Ruk na sako to jao, tum jao…

He explained that ‘paati’ meant a letter; it was a poetic license for ‘patra’, and what poetic license meant. He also explained that the original singer said, ‘bichudne’ rather than ‘bichadne’. But the latter sounds better, so it should be pronounced that way, rather than like the original. Even when he sang the Sehgal numbers, he never copied his style and his intense nasal twang. His pronounciation of words was always impeccable. This was an important lesson to learn, for often later singers ape even the mistakes of the original singer, something he strongly disapproved of.

I remember the still silence in my class room in the 11th Standard when I sang this song during the farewell function. The class mates were stunned. After I finished, there was silence for a while, and then the applause of friends. I came to know later that our School Principal had tears in her eyes as I sang.

This was a number by K.C.Dey, the illustrious uncle of the great Manna Dey. It was not a very popular song, ever. But that was not important for him. His likes were never dictated by what was popular. It was solely by what appealed to his heart. And he justified singing as an art where, if the song does not tug at your heart, you have no business singing it.

He had a great fascination for melodious sad songs. He sang the beautiful Talat song to explain why he liked them:

Hain sabse madhur woh geet jinhe
Hum dard ke sur mein gaate hain (Repeat)
Jab had se ghuzar jaati hai khushi
Aansoo bhi chalak ke aate hain (Repeat)

And the Shelley poetry on the Skylark, which said something similar:

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts.

For the young me that was an important lesson to learn. It helped shape my likes and dislikes at that impressionable age. At a time when the young were busy thinking of cheap thrills and seeking joy through singing only foot tapping numbers, I learnt that pain, separation, and unhappiness could be equally soothing if expressed in music and song. A conviction, which remains with me till date. Not that I abhor the joyous and mirthful, but the depth and intensity that pathos can convey cannot be ever matched by any mirth, howsoever lilting.


Urdu Diction, and Subtleties of the Language

The correct pronunciation of Urdu words, in which most filmi ghazals and other good songs of yester years were written, was a sine qua non of Hindi film singing for him. So that I could know the language, he requested a polished Muslim gentleman who used to visit our house almost every Sunday to teach me the language. This young man had been helped by my daddy to complete his education. He came from a very poor family but wanted to study further. Somehow my daddy came to know of him, and helped him all through so he settled down to a reasonable job. His logic was, well, we Hindus complain that Muslims are in general a violent lot; many are uneducated, and live in dirt and filth. But what do we do to uplift them? So he did his bit for this boy, who was ever grateful to him. The young man, after his marriage, came home one day and sought his blessings. He spoke impeccable Urdu. The Dilip Kumar and Naushad style of Urdu. My daddy welcomed him and invited him to come over whenever he desired. Sundays were the days this young man came, and we all ate special mutton dishes cooked exclusively by my daddy.

One day, the young man said, ‘ You have done so much for me. What can I do in return?’ My daddy was nonplussed. He was not used to taking any return of favours from anyone. He only knew how to give, not to take. He said something like that’s ok, I am so happy you thought of doing something, etc. But the young man was adamant. So he thought for some time and then said, ‘Ok, if you are so insistent, do this. My son is bright in studies. But I want him to sing too. And unless one knows good Urdu, one cannot sing. Will you teach him Urdu?’

He was more than willing. Books were bought and my first lessons in Urdu were started. The correct pronunciations of guttural words, which are a characteristic of the beautiful language, I learnt from this patient gentleman. How ‘saghar’ is not ‘sagar’, how ‘qayamat’ is not ‘kayamat’, how ‘gham’ is not ‘gum’, how ‘phool’ is not ‘fool’, when it is ‘afsana’ and when is it ‘phir’ and not ‘fir’, how it is ‘mujhe’ and never ‘muzhe’, how it is ‘nazaaqat’ and not ‘hajaakat’ – all these subtleties of the language I was fortunate to learn at an early age. And I owe a deep debt of gratitude to both these souls, my daddy for teaching me the nuances of singing, and his protege for introducing me to the delicacies of the beautiful language that Urdu is.

(To be concluded)


Ajai
12 May 2006

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The President Speaks His Mind