THOSE INSTRUMENTAL IN CRAFTING
OUR ACE’S TUNES
Usne paimaana chhalkaaya – aa saaqi
Masti mein aanchal dhalkaaya – aa saaqi
Usne paimaana chhalkaaya – aa saaqi
Masti mein aanchal dhalkaaya – aa saaqi
Rum jhum rum jhum
Baadal aaya jhoom ke
Jab usne gesu bikhraaye baadal aaya jhoom ke
Mast umangen lahraayein hain ghamgein mukhda choom ke …
HEARD ABOVE – A FULL 11 YEARS BEFORE MEHBOOB’S MOTHER INDIA came to signal her vibrant fadeout from Naushad’s repertoire – is Shamshad Begum, singing away her youthful blues in A. R. Kardar’s Shahjehan (1946). This one is Majrooh Sultanpuri’s maiden film song, written in chaste Urdu. Yet it is an under-20 Goan sensation – someone barely knowing Hindi, leave alone Urdu – Anthony Gonsalves who, Western staff notatingly, is integrating the Naushad composition here. To think that it came off on Sulochana Chatterjee! For all that, nowhere in clear print would you be finding an instrumental listing of those comprising Naushad’s fabled orchestra. What about the crucial Goan component lending occidental form to the song’s oriental content? A look at how Naushad so orchestrated his career as to ensure that the spotlight remained upon him, and him alone, as the solo performer nonpareil.
As a film, Mother India saw Mehboob Khan feeling winsomely vindicated in the end. Here was not just a motion picture; here was a cinematic event in the life of the nation. Mother India also witnessed several things changing overnight on the silver screen (during the 25th of October 1957). It had Nargis emerging as her own woman, shaking off the cobwebs of a Raj Kapoor fixation. It had Sunil Dutt bringing a new dimension to anti-heroism in colourful overtones. It had Rajendra Kumar starting to register his presence as the superstar of superstars. It had Raaj Kumar making his impact felt in ‘Print by Technicolor’. It had a cozy cameo that found Naushad bringing, to the rural reality show, one of its welcome romantic moments in the Kumkum shape of Ghunghat nahin kholungi saiyyan tore aage, unveiling in perennial Pilu, as vocalized by Lata. It had Lata’s C. Ramchandra – fresh from a mega flop show called Aasha in which nothing truly was heard beyond Eenaa meena deeka – inveighing against Naushad by underlining that Mother India, as a film, belonged to Mehboob. C. Ramchandra here argued that Naushad was peripheral to the theme.
Totally out of tune with the pastoral leitmotif of the Mother India theme is CR’s viewpoint here, I say. I say that it was the folksy rusticity of our virtuoso’s musicality that lent spot authenticity to the theme. Naushad’s music sat flush on the film. No flash, no splash, just notes redolent of The Good Earth, the 1931 masterpiece by Nobel Laureate Pearl S. Buck set in rural China. Any wonder Mother India proceeded to make waves? By its very nature, Naushad’s music went with the theme. Yet, since it was the theme that went with the music in every other Naushad film, what was the contribution of our composing colossus, here, in tangible terms? The debate on Naushad’s music raged until the universal success of Mother India muffled all criticism.
Even as Naushad began work upon Mother India, Anil Biswas had revived his Mehboob connection after nearly 15 years, following Roti (1942). Anil Biswas had come into the Naushad citadel to compose the music for the Mehrish-directed Paisa Hi Paisa (1956) – as a Mehboob Productions’ undertaking flaunting, for its stars, Shakila, Kishore Kumar and Mala Sinha. Never anything less than self-assured, Anil Biswas had returned asserting that he would show Naushad how much more multifaceted a singer Kishore Kumar was compared to his Mohammed Rafi. Kishore Kumar needed no such Anil Biswas certifying; he always was a fine singer, if unschooled.
The issue is that Paisa Hi Paisa, under the weight of Anil Biswas’s 20-year-old baton, sank like a boulder. Not one song by Kishore Kumar from the film did we get to hear even fleetingly. This when Kishore Kumar sang in no fewer than six of the ten songs from Paisa Hi Paisa. There was no call for Anil Biswas to have run down Rafi to uphold Kishore. Equally, there was no call for Anil Biswas to have looked down upon Naushad, since no one, by 1956, looked up to this 1943 Kismat pathsetter. Yet what a calibre of composing talent was Anil Biswas! He showed the Naushads of the film world the way. Then Anil Biswas lost the way himself. After having, with such distinction, scored Mehboob’s 1940 Aurat, the original of Mother India (with Sardar Akhtar in the title role). Next, under the wand of the same Anil Biswas, guess who went prominently solo in six of the fourteen songs distinguishing Mehboob’s landmark Roti (1942)? One Akhtari Bai – none other than our ghazal legend Begum Akhtar, so perceptively performing here, for Anil Biswas, by 1942. That should give you an idea of the magnitude of composer that Anil Biswas was at his zenith. Treating therefore the then ground-breaking Anil Biswas as the sounding board, why not take this opportunity to explore the tone in which Naushad’s music came to be orchestrated, behind the screen, in our studios?
Remember that Indivar-written Anil Biswas bestseller, Jeevan hai madhuban by Talat Mahmood, from the never released Jasoos with its nine songs recorded and ready by the December of 1957? From among the nine, only Talat Mahmood’s Jeevan hai madhuban found instant Radio Ceylon acceptance. So much so that this languid hit you got to hear on the N52574 and the N52578 disc records alike of HMV. The enduring popularity of Jeevan hai madhuban was a pointer to how much listeners were missing, by 1958, the playback voice of Talat Mahmood. Especially when conceptualized by Anil Biswas. As now, early in 1958, when Jeevan hai madhuban carried the ambient Anil Biwas touch, no matter from where its tune had been sourced. At least the disc records of this master composer’s Jasoos came into the market, no matter that the film never saw the height of day.
Having said that, let it be here chronicled that Anil Biswas had encountered no end of trouble in getting his Jeevan hai madhuban tune passed by Tolaram Jalan – as one aiming to play S. Mukerji at Filmistan. Yes, by 1957, all powerful at Filmistan – marginalizing S. Mukerji – was Tolaram Jalan. Thereupon Anil Biswas, in sheer disgust, had sent his chief assistant, Ram Singh Thatte, the celebrated saxophone player, to get his tune okayed by Tolaram Jalan. ‘Tell him,’ said Anil Biswas, ‘that Jeevan hai madhuban is a copy of Doris Day’s Que Sera, Sera [Whatever Will Be, Will Be – as tuned by Jay Livingston from the song-lyric by Ray Evans, it being a number featured in Alfred Hitchcock’s 1956 thriller: The Man Who Knew Too Much].’ ‘Say that to Tolaram Jalan,’ Anil Biswas counselled Ram Singh Thatte, ‘and, who knows, he may pass it.’ And so it came to pass …
Now who played the piano in Jeevan hai madhuban from Jasoos? Enoch Daniels did. Who then played the violin so breathtakingly in Naushad’s Awaaz de kahaan hai (from Anmol Ghadi, 1946)? Anthony Gonsalves did. In fact, Amitabh Bachchan’s My name is Anthony Gonsalves persona (drawn from Amar Akbar Anthony, May 1977) is a cute harkback to the ‘Portuguised’ performer whose memory ‘violin-beckons’ via a medley of melodies by Naushad. The Goan wunderkind called Anthony Gonsalves it is, if you must know, the one playing the violin with such flair in Meraa salaam le jaa (from Uran Khatola, 1955); in Bachpan ki mohabbat ko (from Baiju Bawra, 1952); in Ta ra ri aa ra ri aa ra ri (from Dastan, 1950); in Chaandni aayee ban ke pyaar (from Dulari, 1949); in Mere bachpan ke saathi mujhe bhool na jaana (from Anmol Ghadi, 1946); and in Saawan ke baadalon (from Rattan, 1944).
Anthony Gonsalves had joined Naushad’s orchestra as a 16-year-old whizz. He first participated, as a group violinist, in the background score that Naushad wrote for A. R. Kardar’s Sharda (1942). He was with Naushad through Kardar’s Sanjog (1943) and his Geet (1944); M. Sadiq’s Rattan (1944); Mehboob’s Anmol Ghadi (1946); and Kardar’s Shahjehan (1946). Anthony Gonsalves, gradually, became a familiar figure in the orchestra of Naushad. ‘He had the singular trait of being a powerful player even while remaining surilaa (harmonious),’ as Naushad so pellucidly put it. A Naushad who, as a music director upfront by 1946, kept streamlining his mode of instrumentation.
In the bargain, our Goan phenomenon answering to the name of Anthony Gonsalves clashed head-on with none other than our maestro’s chief assistant Ghulam Mohammad. Clashed with the one who was Naushad’s esteemed senior by 12 years as the musician leading the rhythm section, being a superlative dholak player. Something that we exquisitely experienced at Ghulam Mohammad’s hands in Rattan (July 1944). As for the 19-year-old on-the-make Goan Anthony Gonsalves, his inborn grip on the Western musical idiom and Western staff notation found him to be on the same wavelength as the 26-year-old Naushad. A Naushad then full of go. In comparison, Ghulam Mohammad, already 38, was more Indianized, more traditional in his orchestrating outlook, as one swearing by Hindustani syllabic notation. Yet Ghulam Mohammad – if known for a short fuse – was no spring chicken to be yielding the palm to ‘this Goan braggart’. To one whose role in the orchestra was well defined as a performer engaged to play according to staff notation – as handed over to him by Naushad’s chief assistant. ‘It very simply was a mismatch of styles’ – as Naushad put it – ‘the two being musicians of contrasting insights.’ In such a setting, it is significant that – for three years or so – our Goan innovator chose to get away from the Naushad dispensation altogether, following Anmol Ghadi and Shahjehan (both releasing in 1946).
To be fair to Ghulam Mohammad, there is evidence to show that Anthony Gonsalves tended to be somewhat presumptuous even when nearing 30 years of age. Salil Chowdhury was one composer known for his total grip upon the Western musical syllabus. Indeed, by early-1956, Salil Chowdhury was preparing to set up the Bombay Youth Choir. Salil narrated to me how obstreperous had been his Goan arranger called Anthony Gonsalves in introducing certain orchestral changes. Changes totally uncalled for, in Salil’s well-set chords system of orchestration, authoritatively worked out for Awaaz. That was the title of the 1956 Zia Sarhadi-directed Mehboob production starring Nalini Jaywant opposite (hold your breath!) Zul Vellani (otherwise an all-round personality held in high vocal esteem as a top-notch Films Division commentator). Recall the Vellani–Nalini twosome’s Dil diwaana dil mastaana maane na as the Salil duet of Salil duets? ‘Following trouble on that Lata–Talat Mahmood mood duet written by Zia Sarhadi himself for Awaaz,’ revealed Salil Chowdhury, ‘I sacked Anthony Gonsalves on the spot. In fact, I had demanded to know from that chirpy Goan: “Who the hell asked you to do all this when I had staff notated, on paper, everything for you?” Given such a turn of events,’ observed Salil, ‘from that point I made it my business to “arrange” the music of Awaaz all by myself.’
Yet Salil, if a knowledgable and stern taskmaster, was quick to forgive and swift to forget. He took back our fast-advancing Goan with Madhumati (1958), the Bimal Roy classic fetching Salil Chowdhury his maiden Filmfare Best Music Director Award. [It clinched for Lata Mangeshkar, too, her maiden (1958) Filmfare Best Playback Singer Award – that was for Aa jaa re pardesi on Vyjayanthimala as Madhumati, the heavenly baansuri there being the handiwork of Manohari Singh.] But we were on the violin wizardry of Anthony Gonsalves. A player re-summoned not by Salil Chowdhury alone. Naushad too opted to bring back our violinist turned arranger, Anthony Gonsalves, for Dulari, Dastan, Jadoo and Baiju Bawra in the most crucial phase of his career. In fact, it was as Naushad began toying with the idea of breaking with Kardar that he resurrected Anthony Gonsalves (in that 1949–52 purple patch) for the lad’s multiple gifts that included a rare grip on chords. As our Sangeet Samrat became a music director attached to no one banner in particular with Baiju Bawra (October 1952) – being by then sans Ghulam Mohammad too as his chief assistant – Naushad went ahead with exploring other orchestral alternatives. In such a scenario, only briefly did even Anthony Gonsalves, very busy elsewhere by that curve in his career, return to Naushad – for Uran Khatola (1955) and Mother India (1957).
As one set to be hailed as the violin guru of master orchestrator Pyarelal (of the Laxmikant-Pyarelal team), Anthony Gonsalves – today the silver screen’s status symbol of Goan tonal temper – was beyond doubt a musician to the innovating manner born. His versatility had become conspicuous from the moment in which, as one not even 20, he virtually acted as the arranger (when the term was unknown) for Naushad–Shamshad’s Jab usne gesu bikhraaye (in Shahjehan, 1946). True, Anthony Gonsalves was here supervised by a super violinist and arranger – years his senior – in Josico Menezes. Still, following the Jab usne gesu bikhraaye development, feeling built up, inside the Naushad camp, against ‘this Goan upstart’ so venturesome in his approach on how the orchestra could better blend with the tune. For all that, no matter whose back he managed to put up, Anthony Gonsalves happily found the demand for him only to be widening by this juncture. Where Naushad scored was in never letting any such ego hassle upset the even tenor of his orchestral progression. His composing maxim was that matching orchestral talent could always be spotted and marked out for recruitment. For this, you had only to scrutinize the evening bands performing with such zestful aptitude at Bombay’s Westernized five-star hotels. (No less interested in the music being made there was our Padma Vibhushan-to-be, Soli Sorabjee – the former attorney general of India, no less – who was to start, in Bombay, a band called Capital Jazz.) Soli Sorabjee makes for rapt reading as he writes under his own byline: ‘One of my most unforgettable musical experiences was an informal jam session in 1952 at a small house in Chembur, which was then a quiet, undeveloped part of Bombay. It started around midnight after the All Star Swing Concert was over at the Taj. It was an exclusive event and there were in all about 30 of us occupying every available inch of space. There were Chic Chocolate (trumpet), Johnny Gomes (alto), Lupus Theodore (bass), Solo Jacobs (piano), Eddie Jones (drums) and the great Rudy Cotton on tenor sax. Rudy had flown down from Calcutta to Bombay for the swing concert. He was tremendous. At times one felt that Lester Young [a famous saxophone player in the USA] himself was there blowing the tenor. Each tune lasted between 40 minutes and an hour. The tune was just an excuse for expressing the individuality of the performers. It became clear that there were no jazz compositions, only jazz musicians who played them. A jazz musician does not express the musical thoughts and ideas of the composer. He is his own composer.’
So was Naushad his own composer. His own composer with his own music group. Let us then take a good look at Naushad’s inside group during those days when he was dominant. When he was piquantly heading towards levying – over and above Rs 100,000 as his humongous fees for a film starting with Deedar (April 1951) – an added sum of Rs 10,000 by way of ‘orchestration supervision charges’. It is with reason that I here dwell upon there being such a select Naushad orchestral group.
In this context, do keep in mind the fact that Naushad never really believed in giving his assistant(s) an exposure in the film’s credits. Naushad – not entirely unconvincingly – reasoned that these men, already, were being recompensed, ad hoc, for the five-hour morning shift (in his case, 9.00 a.m. to 2.00 p.m. with one hour of overtime pre-paid) during which they were functional in a frame fixed from the word go. They were thus being paid to execute a recording as but their part-time duty – nothing less, nothing more, contended Naushad. In consequence, their commitment to Naushad as their boss – said our Movie Midas – did not extend beyond those five hours. In fact, their freelance stratagem it was to try and see if they could not clear out, with their ‘pocket money’, before those five hours! As Naushad invariably okayed the first take, these musicians were set free, usually, inside five – at times four – hours to be able to concentrate upon their more lucrative five-star hotel playing job in the evening. Bound by no written agreement, they thus played for the monetary moment, that is all – tenably argued Naushad.
Naushad’s own name, by contract contrast, had to, be displayed, equally noticeably, alongside that of the film’s director (as later insisted upon by C. Ramchandra too). Naushad said that he had ‘jubilee performed’ to earn this status. Even Ghulam Mohammad’s label, by way of ‘music assistance’, could end up as a part of the general listing, a listing disappearing from the screen inside 15–20 seconds. That Naushad’s degree of success guaranteed his name being projected in such an eye-catching light is something that carries its own logic. Take the 1944 booklet of that high-watermark film of his, Jamuna Productions’ Rattan, as a pointer here. While identifying the movie as shot at Kardar Studios, the Rattan booklet has its cover reading: The Makers of Musical Hits, MADHOK and NAUSHAD, with a handpicked cast. Only at the end of it all does Directed by M. Sadiq get to be glimpsed in small lettering.
This means that, even before Rattan (mid-July 1944), D. N. Madhok and Naushad had value-won spot attention as a hit team. Trust our composing ace to extract the maximum mileage from such a positioning when he had still to turn 25. Yes, Naushad believed in self-promotion. That he still came across as the picture of self-effacement is an intrinsic part of his success story. His think tank was made up of (1) dholak specialist Ghulam Mohammad (as his chief assistant); (2) super violinist and arranger Josico Menezes (not to be ever confused with the star RK-emblem violin player Joe Menezes); (3) sitar prodigy Mohammad Shafi; (4) harmonium expert Ibrahim Mohammad; and (5) tabla adept Abdul Karim. These men formed the Core Five.
Of the five, how Josico Menezes gained entry into such a charmed circle becomes clear when you look at his background. Born in the Seychelles, Josico Menezes had been trained in England by Professor Sweeting, a violinist in the London Symphony Orchestra. Josico Menezes had led his own band in Karachi before coming to Bombay, where he accompanied silent films at the Capitol Cinema (opposite the Victoria Terminus) under the baton of Jules Craen, another proven musician. Before joining the Symphonians (led by Jules Craen), Josico Menezes had spent some time conducting a symphony orchestra for the Maharaja of Bikaner (a part of Rajasthan state today). Josico Menezes was thus as qualified in his stream as were the four sharp Indian musicians helping to form with him the Naushad Core Five.
As a quintet, the Core Five mingled freely with flautist Bhalchandra Barve (a Swiss watch seller in his spare time) and Harishchandra Narvekar, an exponent playing second fiddle to no violinist, oriental or occidental. Harish Narvekar, as one able to read staff notation, was nothing less than Naushad’s Hindustani-model violin-playing counterpoint to the Westernized fluidity of both Josico Menezes and Anthony Gonsalves. Josico Menezes, for one, always had Naushad’s ear as his arranger (when the term had still to be coined). Our maestro told me that violin maven Josico Menezes – who could turn his hand to the saxophone too – was highly esteemed in the Core Five while Anthony Gonsalves was still on the fringe. Naushad encouraged each one from among the Core Five – even the two on its threshold (Harish Narvekar and Bhal Barve) – to put forth ideas while subtly making it clear that he himself held the baton-whip hand.
Naushad was the picture of musical flexibility those days when his interlude pieces became the talk of the town. Look at the way he vibed with the resourceful Cawas Lord, another exceptional talent to start out with him. Could you imagine that Naushad via Cawas Lord is employing coconut shells to replicate the hoofbeats that you get to hear in Bachpan ke din bhulaa na denaa (from Deedar, 1951)? It is Cawas Lord again – with the ghunghroo this time – that you come to hear in O jaane waale baalamva (from Rattan, 1944); also in Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re (from Mughal-e-Azam, 1960); and even in Madhuban mein Radhika naache re (from Kohinoor, 1960). But the Cawas cherry on the Naushad icing is lingeringly Latin American to relish.
Rewind to the summery May of 1951 perceiving Nalini Jaywant, as Sundari, being vocally ‘body-bounced’ by Shamshad Begum – as Laa ra lu laa ra lu laa ra lu in Jadoo. Evoking the compellingly cascading castanets sound effect here – with those concave little wooden pieces held separately in both hands – is Cawas Lord. A Cawas Lord incredibly light of foot and blazing a Spanish trail all his own. Naushad told me that he took Cawas Lord with him to view Rita Hayworth performing as the gypsy girl Carmen in The Loves of Carmen (1948). The underlying motive was for them to be able to reproduce the exact castanets sound wave that they wanted upon Nalini Jaywant. ‘I believe in doing even an imitation job well,’ Naushad rationalized. ‘Once the decision was made that Kardar’s Jadoo would follow The Loves of Carmen in every detail, there was no go but to fall into line.’
That might sound a specious alibi being offered for being at best ‘copy-catty’ but never forget that Naushad Westernized a lot right up to Jadoo (mid-1951). Maybe C. Ramchandra had a case when he said that ‘some of us admit it, some of us don’t’.
Reluctant to admit it, in a totally different context, appeared Naushad as I posed to him, in the company of his long-time musician C. M. Lobo, the question of questions: Who played the piano upon Dilip Kumar in Andaz? C. M. Lobo was his acknowledged pianist, so that the question auto-suggested itself. But Naushad, for once, was not forthcoming in the matter. He hummed and hawed without coming to the pith of the matter. Whether out of his innate regard for C. M. Lobo or for some other reason, Naushad looked reluctant to discuss this one detail so vital for us vintagers to ascertain.
Was that out of a sense of guilt about having sacrificed C. M. Lobo, on the piano, in the case of such a big Dilip Kumar show pitting Nargis and Raj Kapoor opposite each other in Mehboob’s Andaz (March 1949)? Every effort to ferret out of Naushad such a priceless piece of information failed. This when I could put it down, on paper, only if Naushad himself told me so. I had thus abandoned all thought of sorting out the name of the Andaz pianist – in a definitive mould – when, as late as the November of 2012, something that Enoch Daniels said left me dazed and amazed. I relate what that ultra-proficient player said – without comment – for you to go on to draw your own conclusion. Here is how Enoch Daniels, very serious in his overall attitude to music and himself no slouch at handling that keyboard instrument, put it: ‘He was an amazing piano player: Sunny Castelino. I had come to Bombay in 1955 with Western Classical for my base. I was told that I could not expect to make a living out of Western Classical and was advised to meet Sunny Castelino for a possible piano opening in films. I established live contact with Sunny, who asked me what I could play for him on the piano. I said that my personal fancy, from my college days, was Dilip Kumar in Andaz playing Tuu kahe agar jeevan bhar; Hum aaj kahin dil kho baithe; Jhoom jhoom ke naacho aaj; and Toote na dil toote na on the piano. “Well, it is I who played those four on the piano in the case of Dilip Kumar where it came to Andaz,” said Sunny Castelino casually. “Now let us hear you play any one of them.”
‘I chose to play,’ added Enoch Daniels, ‘Tuu kahe agar. As I did so, I proceeded to discover what a superb piano teacher Sunny Castelino was. His piano-playing skills apart, Sunny had taken the trouble to learn the basics of Hindustani music. Therefore, even as one of those accomplished performers – specializing on, say, an Indian instrument like the tabla – was about to finish his bit in the orchestra, Sunny knew, with surgical precision, how to “pick the gap” into which to play. You got to sense this in Sunny’s piano playing.
‘What certainty of finger, what attuning of a predominantly Western instrument to those Hindustani musical modes! I have since myself learnt a bit about playing on the piano in films. But Sunny Castelino, to me, remains inspirational,’ concluded Enoch Daniels.
Yes, what keying, what sensitivity of touch! It is almost as if Naushad himself is playing the piano for us in Andaz. To this day we sway to the musical feast that is the mood amalgam of Hum aaj kahin dil kho baithe; Tuu kahe agar jeevan bhar; Toote na dil toote na; and Jhoom jhoom ke naacho aaj. Naushad teaming with Majrooh Sultanpuri; Mukesh toning with Dilip Kumar; the dream piano tuned for you and for me; and for no one else …. Is there anything more will-o’-the-wisp in the song history of the motion picture in India? Such is the spell cast by Dilip Kumar that we all but forget that there is the telling acting of ‘Sheila’ Cuckoo too, ‘playing’ – on the same Andaz piano – Meri laadli ri meri laadli ri bani hai, as vocalized, on ‘Neena’ Nargis, by Lata.
About who is actually playing that Andaz piano, you decide. I merely seek to place on record the fact that Sunny Castelino was the arranger in the first five films of Shanker-Jaikishan through the 1949–51 span – Barsaat, Nagina, Badal, Kali Ghata and Awaara. It was Sunny who brought in the ‘Harry James1 of India’, Peter Monsorate, to play the trumpet, so mind-blowingly, in Patli kamar hai. That is, in the 1949 SJ–Mukesh–Lata Barsaat beauty, so sinuously enacted by Cuckoo on the screen – with Premnath ‘singing’ and Nimmi moping. After being the arranger for those five SJ films, Sunny Castelino, with Daag (1952), made way for Sebastian D’Souza, being, at Goan heart, a freelance all the way. From Shanker-Jaikishan to O. P. Nayyar – among a host of others – did Sunny Castelino travel, being, like all remarkably endowed performers – a roaming spirit. As Nayyar fell out with Hariprasad Chaurasia on the flute and told off that baansurinawaz – saying that he would take the tune on the sitar and ‘show’ him – OP began to think of someone with whom he would not have to share the spoils. With Rais Khan on the sitar, OP would have had to split the kudos.
Therefore OP called in, on the piano, a Sunny Castelino getting on in years. But Sunny had lost none of his piano knowhow, a fact driven home by the way he played to immortalize (on Mala Sinha in Mitti Mein Sona, 1960) OP–Asha’s Puchcho na humen hum unke liye, so tenderly written by Raja Mehdi Ali Khan. Just think, Sunny Castelino performed on the piano, in Puchcho na humen, the while his Goan benefactor, that ‘teamwork man’ Sebastian D’Souza, functioned as his arranger. Nayyar disclosed Sunny Castelino’s name to me but grudgingly, feeling disappointed that I should have first mentioned, on Puchcho na humen, not Asha’s ultra-supple vocalizing, but this Goan’s piano playing. To which I responded: ‘But, OP, see how surpassingly does Sunny Castelino synthesize his piano-playing notes with the wistful vocalizing of your Asha.’
To think that Sunny Castelino was but one of the Goan champions on the piano scene. What about the first lady of the Hindustani film music orchestra, Lucila Pacheco, frequently asked to play pieces on the piano by Anthony Gonsalves? Lucila too played on the piano for Naushad. So did that Goan piano supremo Robert Correa. In later years, we had performing, for our maestro, even Mike Machado, the piano notable you get to hear, almost all through, in the ornate orchestra of C. Ramchandra.
Sunny Castelino, Lucila Pacheco, Robert Correa and Mike Machado – will we get to hear their Goan likes again? We will not, because the synthesizer came and blew away all of them.
No longer could we hope to hear a Joe Gomes playing the clarinet crystal clear for C. Ramchandra – as in Eena meena deeka (from Aasha, 1957). Oh for the tuneful fluting of a Naushad pet like Bhalchandra Barve – so evocative upon Shyam ‘playing up’ to Suraiya as she warbles: O bansi waale tujhe meri qasam tujhe meri qasam (from Dillagi, 1949). By the same token, to think that Naushad hardly ever turned to the Southern Brahminic Jairam Acharya, strumming the sitar in the ear-caressing way that he did for Salil Chowdhury on O sajana barkha bahaar aayi. A shower of melody so superbly evoked by Lata upon a Sadhana giving vivid vocal expression to Shailendra’s quality poetry while emoting so well under Bimal Roy’s direction in Parakh (1960).
It is, again, Jairam Acharya sitar-capturing our imagination via Saari saari raat teri yaad sataaye, as tuned by Roshan for Lata on Geeta Bali, in Aji Bas Shukriya (1958), and as penned by the sadly underrated Farooque Qaisar. As, by September 1959, we move from the sitar to the sarod, how Navrang-themingly does mandolin marvel Kishore Desai switch to the more exacting sarod. This while invoking the keynote Yeh kaun ghunghroo jhamkaa part of Asha–Manna Dey’s Tuu chhupi hai kahaan for C. Ramchandra, as picturized upon Mahipal–Sandhya, and as written by the V. Shantaram-favoured Bharat Vyas. From the stringed artistry of a many-skilled Kishore Desai back to the strumming sensibility of the Salil Chowdhury-preferred Jairam Acharya. Performing for C. Ramchandra some 22 months before Navrang, how Jairam Acharya sitar-enraptures us in such a 1957 Asha–Lata Sharada all-timer going as O chaand jahaan woh jaaye. A Raag Shankara attuned duet sounding so featherweight in the way it is lyricized by Rajendra Krishna to unfold upon Shyama and Meena Kumari as the two praying, in song, for the safe landing of a Raj Kapoor plane bound.
Looking for more such pearlies of sitar infotainment buried in the quicksands of Time? Reflect upon how Abdul Halim Jaffer Khan sounded just out of this world, on the sitar, in C. Ramchandra’s Yeh zindagi usi ki hai – the feelingly Rajendra Krishna-penned Lata evergreen on the ever black-and-white Bina Rai as Anarkali (1953). Did you hear something ‘sitar matching’, upon Madhubala as Anarkali, in Naushad’s Mughal-e-Azam (1960)? The answer to that is to be found in a later chapter having our sangeet savant speaking upon that K. Asif epic. Having got to Mughal-e-Azam, let us stay put on that grandstand movie of August 1960. In fact, we are still revelling in the ambrosial music of Mughal-e-Azam as along comes Kohinoor (in the November of 1960). The way Halim Jaffer goes Kohinoor ethereal on the sitar in Dhal chuki shaam-e-gham (Raag Khamaj) – as in Madhuban mein Radhika naache re (Raag Hamir) – is there anything left to be heard on that instrument?
Verily does Halim Jaffer – with Dilip Kumar just inimitable on the Kohinoor sitar – represent the ultimate in our musical kaleidoscope. Unless you come up with the plea that Rais Khan, on the sitar, goes one better – for Dhoondho dhoondho re saajana dhoondho re saajana more kaan ka baala to ‘ring’ so true (in the wispy voice of Lata) upon ‘Dhanno’ Vyjayanthimala in Gunga Jumna, 1961. How Rais Khan’s sitar notes, here, leave the mere male in the audience groping for that missing earring of ‘Dhanno’! But even Rais Khan’s sitar can be only as expressive as the Naushad tune lets it be. For instance, it is Rais Khan, on the sitar again, in the 1974 Bhairavi-based My Friend solo: Naiya meri chalti jaaye. Mohammed Rafi is supposed to be on the comeback track under Naushad here. But is Naushad himself back? Our maestro here sounds but a Naushadow of the composer who, with such discernment, got Buji Lord to prevail upon the vibraphone in Dil Diya Dard Liya (1966) – upon that dainty by Rafi going as Koee saaghar dil ko behlaata nahin. How possibly could we forget Koee saaghar dil ko behlaata nahin, Rafi-redolent as it is of the Kalavati raag-mantle in which Dilip Kumar (as Shankar) wrapped his Waheeda (as Roopa) while ‘imaging’ her as his muse?
Staying upon wonder enactor Dilip Kumar, let us go over to Manohari Singh. Over to that 1964 Leader-song testimony to Rafi’s vocal elasticity: Mujhe duniya waalon sharaabi na samjho. Upon Dilip Kumar here, Naushad has Manohari Singh wielding the saxophone and how! No less ear-catching, on that extra-tough instrument, is the same Manohari Singh, the second Simi (playing Rajni) comes over as Mere jeevan saathi – to ‘Ravi’ Rajendra Kumar’s disquiet – in Saathi (1968). Look at the way in which that freshly brought in arranger, Kersi Lord, has orchestrated, as spelt out by Naushad, Lata’s Mere jeevan saathi. Kersi Lord, in comprehending consultation here with Naushad, has introduced Manohari Singh to give a neo-impetus to our virtuoso’s song presentation. This is thematically underscored in the tones in which you find Manohari Singh’s saxophone to be aiding the gripping unspooling – in the happy and sad editions alike – of that two-shaded 1968 Suman–Mukesh Saathi duet: Meraa pyaar bhi tuu hai. Did you not get the feeling that you were hearing a refreshingly resurgent Naushad in Saathi, seeing how very conventionally, otherwise, Meraa pyaar bhi tuu hai is set in Raag Pilu and Mere jeevan saathi is cast in Raag Tilang?
Cast in a getup far removed from any suspicion of Tilang comes Bindu, bindaas as Chambal Ki Rani (November 1979). On song are we here, still, via Aesi najariya maare saanwariya. Your Jan Nisar–Naushad–Lata selection, in Chambal Ki Rani, lies between Aesi najariya maare saanwariya (in Gaud Sarang) and Yeh bekasi ke andhere zaraa to dhalne de (in Raag Tilang). In these two numbers so absorbingly Naushad scored, it is Sultan Khan that you are hearing on the sarangi – with Abdul Karim too there, on the tabla, in Yeh bekasi ke andhere zaraa to dhalne de. Clearly, Sultan Khan is something recognizably different on the sarangi. But even Sultan Khan, does he quite excel one-time Naushad performer Zahur Khan – so soul searing, on the sarangi, in Aansoo bhari hai yeh jeevan ki raahen? I mean, of course, Dattaram Wadkar’s 1958 Raag Yaman Mukesh classic picturized upon Raj Kapoor in Parvarish (as a torch song so heart-holdingly written by Hasrat Jaipuri)? ‘No Ramnarain, no acclaimed sarangi player there!’ rejoiced Dattaram. ‘There was a film musicians’ strike on at the time, so that I had to get hold of a player from outside our unionized orchestra circle. You will agree that my sarangiya choice of one-time Naushad favourite Zahur Khan, for Aansoo bhari hai, is a master stroke; Raj Kapoor himself thought so.’
Dattaram – full of hope – was there, sitting right in front of me, at the May 1958 South Bombay Embassy Minuet Parvarish press show. In our films, you could always ‘anticipate’ a Raj Kapoorized situation – in this case, vis-à-vis Mala Sinha – taking songful shape on the screen. Envisioning such a cinematic sequence, tapping him on the shoulder, I whispered to SJ’s Man Friday: ‘Let us hear you now, Dattu, this is your chance of a lifetime to prove yourself upon your Raj Saab!’ And did Dattaram oblige? How uplifted Dattaram felt as I began to hum, in a low tone, Aansoo bhari hai yeh jeevan ki raahen as Mukesh happened on Raj Kapoor.
Of such musical moments is cinema in India made. Indeed, as one executing the role of Shanker-Jaikishan’s chief assistant, Dattaram was a past master in the art of playing the daf. Tabla mastermind Abdul Karim, as a fellow percussionist, belonged, on the other hand, to the rival Naushad group. Here SJ’s Dattaram related to me a diverting incident involving a personal tussle with Abdul Karim. It was a question of playing the daf – to Kumkum’s dancing – in O moraa naadaan baalama na jaane ji ki baat. This one came to us, as written by Hasrat Jaipuri and as tuned by Jaikishan for Lata, in F. C. Mehra’s Ujala (September 1959). Dattaram – in studiedly going on to make fun of Abdul Karim as one good enough to play the tabla only in Naushad’s set-piece orchestra – now asked that highly rating performer to watch. Watch how Dattaram Wadkar took off on the daf in SJ’s O moraa naadaan baalama. ‘What’s so great about your daf-playing?’ shot back Abdul Karim. ‘Here, give me your silly daf and see how I play it even better than you do!’
Whereupon Jaikishan felt shaky. Abdul Karim, as a percussionist, he had adored on the tabla, even on the dholak, but surely not on the daf? Yet Abdul Karim, from the Naushad group, clearly felt challenged, so that Jaikishan was inclined to give it a try. ‘Believe it or not,’ Dattaram told me, ‘the way in which Abdul Karim played the daf that day for Kumkum’s dance, even I could not have done better. Jaikishan actually sought my permission to retain that performer’s daf in O moraa naadaan baalama. I readily gave my assent. Yes, it is Abdul Karim, not Dattaram, that you are hearing playing the daf in O moraa naadaan baalama.’
Who then plays the daf on Rishi Kapoor in Sargam, as a classy dance musical so eye- and ear-arrestingly directed by K. Vishwanath, come September 1979? Rishi Kapoor, as our very musical hero, had, for his heroine in Sargam, someone so stunningly beautiful as ‘new find’ Jaya Prada. A Jaya Prada, schooled in Bharatanatyam, dancing to his tune, as called by the intuitively inventive duo of Laxmikant-Pyarelal. For starters, it is Anna Joshi playing the daf here, as articulated on the Sargam screen by Rishi Kapoor. But, if you watched the daf ‘takes’ on the Sargam sets, what you beheld was almost a relay race of players performing upon Rishi Kapoor. After Anna Joshi – depending upon the accent in which the daf had to be played at that point in Sargam – it could be Bhavani Shankar; or Samir Sen; or Suresh Soni. Any time you get to watch Sargam (1979) anew, just prick up your ears and form your own view of who wins the daf relay race on Rishi Kapoor. Is it Anna Joshi? Or is it Bhavani Shankar? Maybe it is Samir Sen. It could be Suresh Soni, for that daf matter. If you cannot tell one player from another, just rest content with considering whether, in our films, you have seen a better impersonating dafli waale than Rishi Kapoor?
Oh, but you have seen and heard someone playing the daf even better in our cinema, have you not? You have seen – if some 58 years ago – Rishi daddy Raj Kapoor himself playing the daf like a dream, on the Indian screen, in giving expression to Dil ka haal sune dil waala. I mean the 1955 Shailendra–Shanker Shree 420 creation as it came to be put over by Manna Dey and chorus for the Eternal Tramp. You should have watched Raj Kapoor in RK Studios action, picking up the daf and, while idly playing upon it, urging Shanker-Jaikishan: ‘Come on, let us hear something new from you two’ (‘Kuchch naya sunaao, bhaai’). Thereupon Shanker would be landing his ‘right’ on the harmonium even as Jaikishan could be seen to be pitching in with his ‘left’. What you could then be getting to hear from the SJ duo is something close to the birth pangs of the Goody Seervai accordion-oriented Har dil jo pyaar karegaa woh gaana gaayega.2 In which RK song collaboration of the Hasrat Jaipuri–Shanker team, next, does the accordion of Goody Seervai make no less engaging hearing? Anything here to rival Lata’s Sunte thhe naam hum jin ka bahaar se dekha to dolaa jiyaa jhoom jhoom ke? I mean the Lata solo picturized, in RK’s Aah (May 1953), upon the come-hither Vijaylaxmi trying to press down on Raj Kapoor like a Goody Seervai accordion. ‘The girl with the bedroom eyes’ is how filmindia editor Baburao Patel habitually described Vijaylaxmi. A Vijaylaxmi who, here in RK’s Aah via Lata, has your eye and ear alike as Goody Seervai’s accordion does the rest.
But when and where did the RK accordion take over from the RK daf here? Remember that Raj Kapoor’s personal daf pick was Dattaram in the orchestra of Shanker-Jaikishan, as that duo debuted with RK’s 1949 Barsaat. Did Dattaram, then, remain merely instrumental – over the years – in, say, getting Abdul Karim to play the daf on O moraa naadaan baalama from Ujala (September 1959)? In other words, did our crack daf exponent, even after composing something so soothing as Aansoo bhari hai (for Parvarish, May 1958), lack the chutzpah to turn into a full-time music director? Why did Dattaram – as Shanker-Jaikishan’s long-serving assistant ultimately going over to Laxmikant-Pyarelal – not graduate to full-time music scoring in films? For the same reason that Ghulam Mohammad let himself get stuck for 10 long years in Naushad’s orchestra? You need the Laxmikant-Pyarelal scale of guts to bring yourself to jettison all idea of mandolin-violin instrumentation and prepare, in the grand slam, to take on Naushad himself. Ghulam Mohammad left it until too late in spite of having five silver jubilee hits against his name inside four years, as an independent music director, while assisting Naushad.
All this talk of Ghulam Mohammad not getting his 1972 Pakeezah due from Naushad might sound great to hear. Let us get down to brass tacks here. Did Naushad forgo claiming residue credit for the slog that he put in upon completing the score of Ghulam Mohammad’s Pakeezah after his one-time chief assistant passed away in March 1968? Naushad did not so forgo credit because, in this glam-sham industry, it is each man by himself. As Ghulam Mohammad formally parted from Naushad following the August 1952 advent of Aan, our composing commandant, quietly, promoted Ibrahim Mohammad, his brother, to be his chief assistant. Naushad did that while being careful to ‘transpose’ things – for Ibrahim Mohammad (perhaps sounding a hangover of Ghulam Mohammad?) to read as ‘Mohammad Ibrahim’ in the October 1952 Baiju Bawra titles! The point to bear in mind is that Naushad did a litany of films, after Baiju Bawra, with Mohammad Ibrahim as his chief assistant – without Ghulam Mohammad. No one knew how a harmonium expert thus came to displace a dholak specialist as our composing czar’s chief assistant for 20 years up to Pakeezah (February 1972). No one cared so long as Naushad himself remained silver jubilant from Baiju Bawra down.
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1 Henry ‘Harry’ James (1916–83), in the USA, was an ultra-adroit trumpeter of the 1930s and the 1940s.
2 From Raj Kapoor’s Sangam (1964). Music by Shanker-Jaikishan. Song-lyric by Shailendra. Rendered by Mukesh, Lata Mangeshkar and Mahendra Kapoor.