Yeh aaj ka rang aur yeh mehfil
Dil bhi hai yahaan dildaar bhi hai
Dil bhi hai yahaan dildaar bhi hai
Aankhon mein qayamat ke jalwe
Seene mein tadaptaa pyaar bhi hai
Seene mein tadaptaa pyaar bhi hai
Eis rang me koee jee le agar
Marne ka usse gham kyaa hogaa
Eis rang me koee jee le agar
Marne ka usse gham kyaa hogaa
Jab raat hai aesi matwaali
Phir subah ka aalam kyaa hogaa
Phir subah ka aalam kyaa hogaa …
As – ABOVE – YOU ARE ROUGHLY HALFWAY THROUGH, PICK UP ANY LINE you feel like doing from the quality poetry of Mughal-e-Azam (1960). Say, Seene mein tadaptaa pyaar bhi hai. How you latch on to it and just sing it through! Ever so naturally reaching the Yeh dil ki lagi kam kyaa hogi opening line in the process. This is the essence of a Shakeel–Naushad song. Each strand of thought so dovetails into the other as for the starting Yeh dil ki lagi kam kyaa hogi line to emerge crystal clear on your mental screen. The secret of Naushad’s music standing out in your ‘power of recall’ lies here. It is music without peer in the audiovisual matter of poetic form merging into tuneful content. What is Naushad but another name for Mughal-e-Azam? That prized K. Asif showpiece came to this connoisseur composer only after the name of the will-o’-the-wispy Madhubala had been finalized as the one to play the plum role of Anarkali. An Anarkali set to eternalize herself as the Pyaar kiyaa to darnaa kyaa ‘Madhuballad’ of Mughal lore. How the Mughal-e-Azam musical score took regal shape is a saga in itself. Naushad re-creates it in a style underpinning it as the Melody of Life.
As Raj Kapoor’s Awaara arrived as a scene changer, Messrs Shanker-Jaikishan scored big with Awaara hoon awaara hoon. For their Everyman’s Bhairavi to register as the youth anthem of the nation by end-December 1951. ‘Who but Naushad taught us how to play with those Bhairavi notes,’ Shanker had said then. Some 10 years down the line, by November 1961, Shanker was singing an altogether different Dil apna aur preet parai Bhairavi tune. ‘What is there about Raag Bhairavi that even Naushad could teach us now?’ gloated the senior member of the SJ duo. An omnipresent duo by then all poised to begin disputing Naushad’s number-one standing.
Shanker-Jaikishan’s Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai, by that crucial stage, had wrested the 1960 tables-turning Filmfare Best Music Director Award from Naushad’s high-octane Mughal-e-Azam. Truth to tell, by this end-1961 SJ–Naushad face-off time, we were already into the Junglee–Gunga Jumna colour crystallizing era of the cinema in India. In such a vista, Shanker sounded to be on the button as he sought to know: ‘Tell us, what really is new-sounding about Naushad’s Do hanson ka jodaa bichhad gayo re Bhairavi as it comes over, Lata rendered, in Gunga Jumna? Sighting the close of 1961 we are. And Naushad’s Bhairavi, it sounds no different, today, from what it did as far back as 1951 when we heard it as, say, Dekh liyaa maine qismat ka tamaasha dekh liyaa [Lata-Rafi upon Nimmi-Dilip Kumar in Deedar].’
‘But should a time-honoured raagini like Bhairavi be sounding any different any time?’ I opportunely quizzed Shanker, adding: ‘Staying within the fact of the metre parameter for the two songs that I am now going to cite being the same, could Dil apna aur preet parai not be sung as Ek dil aur sau afsane? I mean the Lata-Bhairavi solo that SJ have just recorded to go upon Waheeda Rehman in her maiden Raj Kapoor co-starrer called Ek Dil Sau Afsane. Maybe that film is due to hit the screen only by mid-1963. But Jaikishan – by way of a preview – played Ek dil aur sau afsane to me as his own Bhairavi. All that I am hinting at is that the two tunes, Shanker’s Dil apna aur preet parai and Jaikishan’s Ek dil aur sau afsane, could be hummed encapsulating both to be in SJ Bhairavi.’
‘They could be, I suppose,’ grudgingly conceded Shanker, ‘but only by acknowledging both numbers to be in SJ Bhairavi!’
In so stressing it to be SJ Bhairavi, the older duo partner gingerly sidestepped my jibe directed at the one Lata-Bhairavi melody being composed by Shanker and the other Lata-Bhairavi ditty being tuned by Jaikishan. Preferring to generalize, Shanker said: ‘The point that I am trying to underscore is that even Raag Bhairavi composition could be taken forward. Here SJ – I say with all emphasis at my command – have modernized tunes done in Bhairavi; Naushad has not. Naushad’s Bhairavi has become anticipatable, while SJ’s strength lies in their music being at all times unpredictable.’
‘But predictability …’ came back Naushad as our Sangeet Samrat. ‘Predictability about the song being in Naushad’s Bhairavi is precisely where the strength of my raagdaari lies!’
That was said by Naushad around the middle of November 1961. That is, after his Gunga Jumna Lata-Bhairavi solo, Do hanson ka jodaa bichhad gayo re, became the first number from that tone-setting extravaganza to enter the Binaca Geetmala of Ameen Sayani. ‘I really fail to see,’ persisted Naushad, ‘how anyone could rationally lay a claim to having taken Raag Bhairavi forward by modernizing it. The beauty of Bhairavi lies in the fact that you are going back to this raagini even while you are indulging in the merry delusion of thinking that you are taking it forward! How do you take forward such an exemplarily set traditional song form adorning the rich vocabulary of our music?’
There you get a peep into Naushad’s other face in talking of a live rival, something that the ubiquitous SJ duo was by mid-1961. All that Urdu eloquence was for becomingly praising the ghazal-composing integrity of, say, a Madan Mohan posing no positional threat to Naushad! This became evident from that Naushad counter-sneer directed at SJ on their forward-looking Bhairavi stand. That mid-November 1961 Naushad sneer I let pass.
A full 30 months later, as we moved into mid-June 1964, I found Naushad to be in the throes, stung by the mid-March 1964 Leader backlash. This while SJ were up in the clouds with Ayee Milan Ki Bela (‘that moment’ theirs by mid-June 1964). At the time I let Naushadian Bhairavi be, opting to test our composing Canute four years down the ‘wave’ line, as the cine scene changed beyond identification. So, by November 1968, as testing times it was for our ace, I put it thus: ‘Raag Bhairavi was supposed to be your special preserve, Naushad Saab? Naushad meant Bhairavi and Bhairavi meant Naushad. That is, until Shanker-Jaikishan entered the RK picture with their own light-hued blends in Raag Bhairavi. SJ’s Bhairavi ranged from Seema [1955] to Ayee Milan Ki Bela [1964]. That is to say, “SJ Bhairavi” Lata-extended from Suno chhoti si gudiyaa ki lambi kahaani [on Nutan in stark black and white] to Tumhen aur kyaa doon main dil ki sivaaii [on Saira Banu in gorgeous colour]. That was the setting in the June of 1964. Now we are into November 1968. It is a makeover in our cinema viewing Shanker-Jaikishan having to pick up the gauntlet flung down by the Laxmikant-Pyarelal twosome. In such a landscape, did you ever, Naushad Saab, consider modifying your Bhairavi to keep pace with the featherweight flair brought to SJ Bhairavi by the younger pair of composers?’
‘Never ever!’ shot back Naushad. ‘Plus a spot correction there, if you will take heed. You stridently refer to it as SJ Bhairavi. Sorry, but that should be reading as RK Bhairavi. Actually, Raj Kapoor, beginning with Barsaat [1949], devised what you so grandly call SJ Bhairavi. How well Raj Kapoor understood music is something that I discerned as that idol came to play Suraiya’s romping hero in A. R. Kardar’s Dastan [October 1950]. Still all kudos to SJ for the high success that they have achieved with RK Bhairavi. Having said that, always remember that Naushad’s Bhairavi is Naushad’s Bhairavi. The song has only to begin playing as Mere paas aao nazar to milaao and gut touchingly will you mark it down as Naushad’s Bhairavi. Instantly will you be envisioning it as a Bhairavi encompassing the situational screen plight of “Munni” Vyjayanthimala in Sunghursh [end-1968]. Each composer has his style. The instant my Bhairavi fails to be accepted as Naushad’s Bhairavi, I will be feeling concerned, very concerned.’
‘Harking back,’ I said, soft-pedalling a bit, ‘any particular reason why the two songs underlying the theme in Mehboob’s Amar [October 1954] were both in Raag Bhairavi? I mean Rafi’s Insaaf ka mandir hai yeh bhagvan ka ghar hai and Lata’s Khamosh hai khevanhaar meraa?’
‘That is exactly how it was planned,’ responded Naushad. ‘Insaaf ka mandir hai had to come through as a prayer addressed by Shakeel to the conscience of Dilip Kumar playing Shekhar. Khamosh hai khevanhaar meraa – by Lata in a like Bhairavi – was designed to climax the idea of Nimmi, as the wronged Sonya, making a heartfelt plea to “Shekhar” Dilip Kumar. A heartfelt plea to tell the world that she is his and his alone. I am glad that you brought into focus these two vital song numbers of mine in Amar Bhairavi. They demonstrate how minutely the music director has to study the script to land upon the specific note. Never would you be finding a song number scored by me to be not in harmony with the spirit of the script.
‘Take the script in Mughal-e-Azam – how closely I follow it in allying my composition to the character on the screen. Plus study my background scoring here; how it sits pat on the situation. Music direction is not about scoring with a few hit tunes. The concentration in music direction is upon the term direction. A direction is what your tunes have to give to the film’s theme. Nowhere would you be finding this movie maxim to be better illustrated than in K. Asif’s Mughal-e-Azam. Take any tune of mine from Mughal-e-Azam – from Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re to Khuda nigahbaan ho tumhaara. You would be finding it to be attuning with the theme. Each tune here reflects the purity of notes that I struck on Madhubala as Anarkali via the bee-like vocals of Lata,’ underlined Naushad.
Ponder over the fact that, after Amar (1954), Mughal-e-Azam (1960) is the one Naushad film with which you tune through the vocalizing of Lata Mangeshkar alone. Mohammed Rafi, otherwise a Naushad favourite, is incidental to the K. Asif Mughal theme. He has just one number going for him here in the shape of the chorus-accompanied Zindabad zindabad ae mohabbat zindabad. There have been, to be sure, other Naushad films in which Lata has been vocally predominant. Why then does this vintage composer select Mughal-e-Azam for such a special Lata mention?
‘The Lata–Madhubala triumph on Mughal-e-Azam is rather saddeningly memorable to me as a film,’ apostrophized Naushad, going off at a tangent. ‘It is so memorable, ironically, simply because I failed to be awarded for it by our number one movie magazine: Filmfare. Here, in front of Filmfare, was a movie classic that, by critical consensus, had heralded a musical revolution in Indian cinema. Here was a historic cine happening, a landmark into which I had poured my all, endeavouring to uphold the ideal of Hindustaniat in its thematic scoring. But I was not awarded for the Mughal-e-Azam score – the very way in which S. D. Burman was not going to be Filmfare rewarded for his hallmark Guide music, some six years after Mughal-e-Azam. Therefore I made bold to be upfront with the only one that I knew to be genuinely knowledgeable from among the members of the Filmfare selection panel. “Take a thinking call” – I now petitioned the gentleman in question – “and you would be getting an answer to whether Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai is the film to have been musically awarded in place of Mughal-e-Azam.”
‘To be [1953] awarded by your Filmfare for that one Tuu Ganga ki mauj song from Baiju Bawra, yet not for those 12 compositions of Mughal-e-Azam [1960], hurts to this day. This was not just my personal feeling; it was a point of view that came to be shared by music connoisseurs. Interestingly, I ran into your all-powerful Times Group general manager, J. C. Jain, as he was travelling by the same plane. J. C. Jain’s spot explanation was that there was a deadlock in the selection panel over the musical merits of Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai and Mughal-e-Azam. The one, it was felt, qualified for a filmi (popular) award and the other for an ilmi (literary) award. There thus was a sharp cleavage of opinion among those comprising the Filmfare selection panel. To resolve the thorny issue – so asserted J. C. Jain – he used his casting vote in favour of Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai.
‘This argument of his left me speechless. J. C. Jain, in point of fact, was saying that the choice was between the crass and class. He was upholding going for the crass alternative. “With what justification after this, Mr Jain,” I sought to know, “would you be writing in any of your numerous publications, asking why the standard of Hindustani cinesangeet is going down?”’
Mughal-e-Azam became with reason a sentimental fixation in the Naushad tunescape. ‘Never forget,’ said this aristocratic composer, ‘how I persuaded such a nationally acclaimed Hindustani classical vocalist as Bade Ghulam Ali Khan – at a time when he was most unwilling – to perform for this K. Asif opus. I did that knowing that his vocals alone could sit square upon a Surendra playing Tansen. Bade Ghulam Ali Khan refused us flat, saying that he would have nothing to do with films. But K. Asif was undeterred even when Khan Saheb – in 1959, mind you – asked for an astronomical Rs 25,000 per rendition just to shoo us away. “Done!” said K. Asif, placing Bade Ghulam Ali on the horns of a dilemma. To think that, in that era of plain black and white, Lata and Rafi were charging, each, no more than Rs 2000 for a song. That should give you a perspective on K. Asif being willing, without batting an eyelid, to part with Rs 25,000 per rendition to Bade Ghulam Ali Khan.
‘I now got Khan Saheb to expound the delicate cadences of Raag Sohani and Raag Rageshri, as he vocalized Prem jogan ban ke sundari piyaa oar chali and Shubh din aayo rajdulaara for Mughal-e-Azam. There were problems as Khan Saheb insisted upon sitting and singing. To this end, we had to lower the mike. Plus he wanted the tabla player to be next to him, as at a musical soirée. Clincher – he would agree to sing only if the rushes of the picturized sequences were run on the screen alongside the recording! We managed to do even that for him; still his lips kept wandering from the microphone. We finally put two more mikes – one each on the side of the central one – and somehow accomplished a Herculean task.
‘I shaped the title music of Mughal-e-Azam in chaste Darbari – as the raag majestically tuning with the tone of the theme. Did you not carry out a written study of how each raag employed by me, in the background score of Mughal-e-Azam, is eminently in tune with the time of day in which it is rendered in the film?1 That observation you made while assessing C. Ramchandra’s [1953] music in Anarkali alongside my [1960] Mughal-e-Azam score.
‘Another important point to note is that each song done by Lata Mangeshkar in Mughal-e-Azam was recorded in what was nothing more than a tin shed of Rooptara Studios [in the Dadar East sector of Central Bombay]. We urgently called for a set of woollen blankets from the bazaar to shut off the tinny vibration that we continued to get in that shed as the skies opened up. I tell you, our technicians were second to none. To think that some of the finest recordings done in our films were executed by Robin Chatterjee in such a daunting setting. The musicians, some 20-25 of them, were huddled with us in the same tin shed, alongside Lata as my main singer. Yet look at the calibre of each Mughal-e-Azam recording done in the voice of Lata, each rendition cushioned by woollen blankets!
‘Let us now join Mohammed Rafi,’ went on Naushad – by this juncture re-living a film abiding in his mind as marking a watershed on the silver screen. ‘Take the instance of Rafi’s Raag Kirvani-based Zindabad zindabad ae mohabbat zindabad going upon character actor Kumar. There were – perhaps for the first time till then – more than 50 chorus voices to be coordinated in the song. So much so that the main singer Rafi – along with those 20-25 musicians immediately forming the orchestra – was on the first floor in the recording theatre. This while the 50-plus chorus singers were occupying the ground floor on the big shooting stage at Mehboob Studios [in the West Bandra sector of Bombay]. Was it a task tunefully harmonizing the ground floor with the first floor of Mehboob Studios? I do not think that we have had such a two-floor 70-75 piece recording done since that astounding happening at Mehboob Studios. To think that Zindabad zindabad ae mohabbat zindabad, as Mohammed Rafi’s sole song in Mughal-e-Azam, was the one number from that film to have been recorded at a studio other than Rooptara.
‘Over to Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re,’ continued Naushad. ‘A Lata solo – yes, a Lata solo – had already been recorded for that Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re situation and been scrapped. That was K. Asif all over. If he was not fully satisfied, out went that edition of the song. Yet another Shakeel-penned song number, Dil haar ne waale aur bhi hai, was contemplated for Mughal-e-Azam. But the idea was dropped. No, the tune for the [April 1966] Dil Diya Dard Liya Asha solo, Dil haar ne waale aur bhi hai, is diametrically different. Only the start-off line sounds the same in the Mughal-e-Azam case of that Dil haar ne waale aur bhi hai song. A song not going beyond the preliminary point in the K. Asif show.
‘Over and above the 12 songs therefore – that were actually used in Mughal-e-Azam – there definitely were two songs recorded. One of them was that Lata solo, recorded only to be rejected. K. Asif was firm in his belief here. Therefore this Lata solo just could not be scripted, anywhere else, into the Mughal-e-Azam photoplay. I could understand such a set K. Asif viewpoint on this Lata solo going as Nigahen neechi keeye. After all, this Nigahen neechi keeye Lata number had been pre-empted by Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re. But Husn ki baaraat chali mausam-e-bahaar mein had come to be supremely put over by Shamshad Begum, Lata Mangeshkar and Mubarak Begum. How therefore I wish that K. Asif, somehow, had found a slot for this one in Mughal-e-Azam. It is a number to remember.
‘Now for those two contrasting Mughal-e-Azam Lata numbers: Humen kaash tum se mohabbat na hoti and Ae ishq yeh sab duniyaa waale bekaar ki baaten karte hain. Endearing hearing did they make on the Mughal-e-Azam canvas in the end. Yet I, for one, had treated them as packed off for posterity by K. Asif. Then, as [by the July of 1961] Mughal-e-Azam was but weeks away from celebrating its golden jubilee, K. Asif – just like that – asked me if I could retrieve those two Lata solos. He explained that he had a brainwave! How with that wave went Humen kaash tum se mohabbat na hoti upon Madhubala! How, with that wave, Ae ishq yeh sab duniyaa waale bekaar ki baaten karte hain, too, unveiled upon Sheila Dalaya playing Suraiya! Ae ishq yeh sab duniyaa waale bekaar ki baaten karte hain is now a cherished screen fragment from the golden jubilee tome of Mughal-e-Azam.
‘Here do bear in mind the most important part of my Mughal-e-Azam equation with K. Asif,’ observed Naushad – set to startle us with his disclosures now. ‘With K. Asif, there was no written contract for either Mughal-e-Azam or Love and God [end-May 1986; see Chapter 9]. In fact, I do not recall any payment – for the music to be made by me – ever being discussed with K. Asif. That man of impulse just said: “You are taking over Mughal-e-Azam from Anil Biswas as Nargis has belatedly said that she is not agreeable to playing Anarkali. So Madhubala it finally is for that role. Just as you are the one now assigned to score its music. Here is the Mughal-e-Azam script as it stands. Do study it but, after that, Shakeel Badayuni and you just begin work. After all, what is there about scoring music, Mughal thematically, that a composer commanding your background needs to be told by someone like me?”
‘That is how, out of the blue, did I come to be launched by K. Asif,’ divulged Naushad. ‘So what if payment to be made was never discussed? Every three months or so – whether we had shot for the film or not, whether we had recorded something or not – I would be finding a certain amount reaching me at my home. He was at once a master filmmaker and a master paymaster, K. Asif. You never needed to put down anything on paper. He did not believe in it; his demeanour was such that you instinctually reposed faith in him.
‘But why in heaven’s name have we switched to talking of something so mundane as money when we are discussing the music of something so profound as Mughal-e-Azam? We were on Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re, if I am not mistaken. I think I have told you this before, but I reiterate it here. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto,2 as a student, was there on the Mughal-e-Azam sets to watch Madhubala enacting Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re. There he was, intently viewing that sequence in which Madhubala looked a veritable Gopi – as you put it in enchanting print. That analogy has stayed with me by which as a Gopi did our very own Madhubala come to be portrayed as the female companion of Lord Krishna. Here K. Asif’s inspired concept it was to turn Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re into a Krishna Jayanti song-and-dance number on the Mughal-e-Azam screen. Janmashtami carried a very special flavour. It was a flavour with which I was familiar, it being a very big festival in my home state of Uttar Pradesh. I therefore had a fair idea of how to go about it.
‘Actually, as already indicated, Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re was initially visualized as a Lata solo to be picturized upon Madhubala in the main. The thought of adding those choral voices – for the tune to turn even more picturesque in audience eyes – was mine. Do you know about the two voices honed along with the vocals of Lata Mangeshkar in the case of Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re? The voices of Meena Mangeshkar and Usha Mangeshkar they are, a fact that is little known. I set Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re in Raag Gaara. The fluting wizardry of Pannalal Ghosh, as the one-and-only, did the rest. I had, in the result, cast Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re in the genre of Hindustani classical music that we know as the thumri ang. I had adapted it from the gharana of Kalka Binda Din, court dancer in the darbar of Wajid Ali Shah.3 Not for the divine fluting of Pannalal Ghosh alone is Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re notewothy. It is remarkable for having as many as 10 sitars – playing in different octaves all at once – around and about Madhubala! Leading this sitar team is the inimitable Halim Jaffer. How many times have you heard, in our films, 10 sitars playing, in different octaves, all at once?
‘Still your personal fancy in Mughal-e-Azam, you tell me, is Lata’s deeply felt Bekas pe karam keejiye Sarkar-e-Madeena. An Anarkali imprisoned in love it is here, so that all the latent agony of Madhubala had to come out via this tune. So the mood, I felt, was best set by Raag Kedara. Bekas pe karam keejiye Sarkar-e-Madeena is what we call a naat – a poetic prayer in praise of Prophet Muhammad. The tune therefore had to suggest atmosphere. This it did, as Lata strikingly evoked the mood in bringing home how supple of throat she could be. Of course I had the visage of Madhubala to work it for me. That agonized look in Madhubala’s eyes struck a chord in the audience heart. I had Lata malleably moving in the Kalyan thhaat to explore Raag Kedara in all its delicacy. You tell me that Lata named Bekas pe karam keejiye Sarkar-e-Madeena among the Ten Best Songs of her life during her silver jubilee [in April 1967]. Well, it is a tuning to esteem.
‘Side by side, let us take a look at Mohabbat ki jhooti kahaani pe roye. The song’s true Madhubala elegance lies in Shakeel’s follow-up punchline – Badi chot khaayi jawaani pe roye. As I sat at my piano to compose Mohabbat ki jhooti kahaani pe roye, it just went into the Kaanada ang. It is thus in Raag Darbari Kaanada that you finally get to hear Mohabbat ki jhooti kahaani pe roye. I pitch upon it as Darbari Kaanada even while proceeding to contend that the raag that gets to be projected, in any song number, is incidental. The tune is induced according to the scripted situation, nothing more. The feedback lies in whether you get to like Mohabbat ki jhooti kahaani pe roye the moment in which you hear it upon the screen. If you do not get to like it, I have missed my aim. If you do take to it then and there, it means that you have caught the mood with me. This capturing of the mood, do keep in mind, is everything in an audiovisual medium like films,’ homed in Naushad, making a point.
Graciously, Naushad here did not tell us how Shakeel and he had landed upon the strain of thought going as: Badi chot khaayi jawaani pe roye. Lata has enlightened us on how particular Naushad was about a bol (word to be sung). Indeed, Naushad asked Shakeel to change the entire line if he was not satisfied with a bol. Well, Badi chot khaayi jawaani pe roye is that instance of a line that Naushad got rewritten for it to ring musically idiomatic. But the matter, as always, remained between Shakeel and Naushad; it never came out. Then, one day, I heard Naushad going into raptures over the ‘Madhubalaura’ exuded by Badi chot khaayi jawaani pe roye. Straight away I asked him if he had got it re-written as Badi chot khaayi jawaani pe roye. It escaped Naushad’s lips that he had …
Here I would have liked Naushad to pause in his narration for a second. If only to be able to ask him about how fulfilled he had felt during that ‘Binaca Geetmala hour’. In the hour during which he had experienced his Mohabbat ki jhooti kahaani pe roye Lata–Madhubala lovely as materializing. Materializing as the first number, from K. Asif’s Mughal-e-Azam, to make the Ameen Sayani Wednesday 8.00 p.m. to 9.00 p.m. grade, that too, after what had been an excruciating wait! But Naushad’s flow by now was such that I just let him carry on for him to reminisce: ‘Take Khuda nigahbaan ho tumhaara. Keep in view the fact that Madhubala as Anarkali is not entombed alive [as was Bina Rai in Anarkali, 1953]. Here Madhubala, as Anarkali, is exiled to Iran by Emperor Akbar. The formidable Prithviraj Kapoor, how imperious was the authority that he brought to that thespian role. As the climax number, I set Khuda nigahbaan ho tumhaara in Raag Yaman. During the third rehearsal on the day before the take, I felt that I had got Lata in just the tonal temper that I wanted. The muted shehnai of Ramlal created just the climactic feel for which I had yearned.
‘Still, if you asked me to single out a song from Mughal-e-Azam in which Lata truly came under critical scrutiny, I would say: Yeh dil ki lagi kam kyaa hogi. In going for Raag Jaijaiwanti here, I had to ensure that each antaraa, each stanza, in this pivotal number of Mughal-e-Azam had a different tune. Thereby connecting with its being a woman power sequence. A sequence seeing Nigar Sultana breathing fire as Anarkali’s implacable rival Bahar. A different tune for each antaraa it came to be here so as to match the rapidly changing visuals in the picturization of the song. A song witnessing Anarkali being tantalizingly taunted vis-à-vis her Salim, a role throbbingly thematized by Dilip Kumar. How vocally resilient was Lata, on Yeh dil ki lagi kam kyaa hogi, while negotiating the vibrantly varying notes! Notes mirroring the swiftly alternating moods on the silver screen. Let me be forthright and confess that I would not have composed Yeh dil ki lagi kam kyaa hogi in the way that I did but for knowing that Lata was there to articulate the song number in all its subtleties.
‘For all that, it actually matters little, in fine, how highly its composer thinks of something like Yeh dil ki lagi kam kyaa hogi. That is to say, no matter how dextrously Lata comes to grips with its vocal niceties, the tune must so screen-unwrap as to compel viewer attention. K. Asif’s taking is everything in Yeh dil ki lagi kam kyaa hogi. I could go on to make, here, the very best in music to euphonize for Lata because I had the unstinted backing of a dreamer like K. Asif. Ah, but I have missed out upon a personality making our day during this round of Mughal-e-Azam recordings. That was the always punctual Shamshad Begum – of the peerlessly transparent voice – zestfully manifesting herself. One last time she came to perform for me – to render a misty Mughal-e-Azam number going as: Teri mehfil mein qismat aazma kar hum bhi dekhenge [with Lata and chorus].
‘Why did I replace Shamshad Begum [62 songs]4 with Lata Mangeshkar in my tune vocabulary? My rejoinder to that would be: “Why did I not I stay with Zohrabai Ambalewali [31 songs]? Why did I stop recording with Amirbai Karnataki [17 songs]? What about Nirmala Devi [17 songs] and Rajkumari [16 songs] similarly being phased out? Why did I not send for Geeta Roy-Dutt through 13 years after she put over, upon Baby Shyama in Dillagi [1949], her cute little vocal edition of Tuu meraa chaand main teri chaandni? Suraiya, following her swinging singing for me in as many as 11 films [54 songs], why did I not record with her again, once both of us left Kardar Productions [in the May of 1952]? As late as end-1962, in Mehboob’s Son of India, why did I flip for Geeta Dutt upon Kumkum in Mujhe huzoor tum se pyaar hai? Why did I turn to someone so established as Asha Bhosle [39 songs] only much later in my career?”
‘There are no ready answers to such posers in the fleeting firmament of films. In a field like cinema, where the picture metamorphoses overnight, in spite of yourself, are you overtaken by trends and events. Therefore asking about Shamshad Begum [62 songs] is like your wanting to know about Mukesh [26 songs]. I had no real reason to let Mukesh go either. Yet I did, because I wanted a voice with a greater range. There always is a span limitation in the matter of which artist you retain for how long. That Lata Mangeshkar [167 songs] and Mohammed Rafi [149 songs] prevailed for so long in my vocal lexicon is a tribute to their sustained virtuosity.
‘But I have digressed; we were on the noble theme of Lata singing Mughal-e-Azam for me. Let us turn to the song-and-dance number that became the benchmark by which to invoke Lata as the voice of Madhubala. In the test case of Jab pyaar kiyaa to darna kyaa, do I need to go into that challenging number’s odyssey all over again? Shakeel and I were up all night on the terrace of this Ashiana bungalow of mine, before an eastern Uttar Pradeshi Poorbi line of native thought clicked in my mind’s eye – as Prem kiyaa ka chori kari. We then worked intensely upon the tune to the point of finally quadrupling Lata’s voice to produce that all-important reverberating effect on the Sheesh Mahal set – by now so extolled in Madhubala lore. For all that, not until Mughal-e-Azam was released [on 5 August 1960] could we come to know that the quadrupling experiment had really come off. It is in Ragh Megh that I have moulded Jab pyaar kiyaa to darnaa kyaa. The underlying idea was to achieve a cloudburst sound fallout, sitting flush upon the scene as it unwinds on the colour screen still retaining a shimmer of silver.
‘As a point of detail, Lata had rehearsed Jab pyaar kiyaa to darnaa kyaa repeatedly with me for Mughal-e-Azam, knowing me to be a great believer in okaying the very first take. Jab pyaar kiyaa to darnaa kyaa was one take in which the disparate vocal and orchestral elements had to coalesce. In the circumstances, there was no question of settling for the first take for the sake of the first take.
‘Maybe the fact that this crucial Sheesh Mahal sequence alone was to be in colour, in Mughal-e-Azam, made us a trifle self-conscious about having to put in an extra effort. Yet all that exertion was not wasted; the very first take was okayed. It all finally sounded so eminently natural as it unveiled upon Madhubala as Anarkali in the film. One thing let me place on Mughal-e-Azam record – that Lata never once shied away from the slog. In the case of each song in this film, there was rehearsal after rehearsal – in quest of that elusive entity called perfection. The thrill lies in the quest – there is no conquest. Ask Lata and she would be telling you that she still has to come up with the perfect rendition. Never ever ask me if there is any tune of mine that I rate to be my best. Your creative end as a composer it is, the second you think a tune of yours to be your best. You could never hope to repeat a Mughal-e-Azam if you started wallowing in its music as your lifetime best. There is no such thing as your lifetime best. There is only giving of your best.
‘By way of exemplification, wind back to Mere Mehboob, coming during 1963 Divali time, when Dilip Kumar was still a box-office force. Did I not prove with Mere Mehboob that I could be as musically valid upon a Rajendra Kumar as upon a Dilip Kumar? Tuu kahe agar jeevan bhar on Dilip Kumar via Mukesh in Andaz [March 1949] and Ae husn zaraa jaag tujhe ishq jagaaye via Mohammed Rafi on Rajendra Kumar in Mere Mehboob [October 1963] …. Is there anything really to separate the two in terms of finesse of presentation? In both cases, as audiovisualized by me, did not the tune sit flush upon the artist performing on the screen?’
Did Naushad’s standard of music go down after Mughal-e-Azam (1960), treating Mere Mehboob (1963) as an exception? No way! In fact, he did some of his career-best work after, first, Mughal-e-Azam and, then, Mere Mehboob. Yet there is total unanimity on the fact that Naushad attained his classical zenith with Mughal-e-Azam (1960) following Baiju Bawra (1952).
Alongside C. Ramchandra’s 1953 Anarkali, which film’s music, if not the score of Naushad’s Mughal-e-Azam, has become a part of your system? Where Naushad did 65 films, C. Ramchandra scored for 109 movies. But by one, and only one, film does each stand tunefully tall in your songscape today. If it is by Anarkali you remember forever C. Ramchandra, it is by Mughal-e-Azam you never ever forget Naushad.
‘I knew all along that Anarkali was not so much history as a legend created on the stage by Imtiaz Ali Taj,’ as Naushad now put it, adding: ‘It is true that Madhubala made her appearance on the Mughal-e-Azam sets – as the neo-Anarkali – as early as August 1952. This, in fact, was as I took over the film’s music from a giant like Anil Biswas. Yet, after that first day of shooting in earnest, there was a time lag. So much so that, by the time I actually got down to starting work upon composing the music for Mughal-e-Azam, we were into early-1953. By then Bina Rai as Anarkali had already become a part of our screen fable, following the dream music made upon her by my gifted friend, C. Ramchandra. Such had been the impact of that film’s music, made upon the persona of Bina Rai playing Anarkali, that I recount an argument that raged in the Mughal-e-Azam camp.
‘K. Asif had summoned his film’s crew for a chat session as we prepared to begin work upon Mughal-e-Azam. Sultan Ahmed, as one of K. Asif’s assistants, was having his say upon how we should be building up to the Mughal-e-Azam climax. The substance of his argument ran thus: “Never must we overlook the fact that the one big emotion-charged sequence in S. Mukerji’s and Nandlal Jashwantlal’s Anarkali is the climax in which Bina Rai dies with a Lata-immortalized Yeh zindagi usi ki hai song upon her lips. After that, how do we expect the viewing public – even these many years later – to go along with Anarkali as still living in the Mughal-e-Azam climax? In the public eye, Anarkali has already been entombed alive …”
‘K. Asif’s comeback to that is worth hearing,’ recalled Naushad. ‘Said K. Asif: “What are we here for if not to generate our own illusion? If Anarkali died as Bina Rai in the earlier film of that name, she must now come alive as Madhubala in my Mughal-e-Azam. If we nurse our climax with care, forgetting that there at all existed an Anarkali in the form of Bina Rai, we could do it. After all, the [1953] Filmistan movie was not the first time that Anarkali was made. Nor will Mughal-e-Azam be the last time that Anarkali is remade. Each film, each central character, needs to have its visibly separate identity. What is our Mughal-e-Azam if it is not different from the earlier Anarkali? You people just wait and watch. Wait and watch how undying the memory of the beauteous Madhubala being banished to Iran turns out to be in our Mughal-e-Azam climax. A Madhubala thus leaving a no less lasting effect, visually speaking, than the final impress that we carry of Bina Rai as Anarkali. In creating this visual illusion is where the director’s ingenuity is going to be put to the proof. A director in command of the motion picture as a visual medium could bring off any illusion. By any illusion, I mean any illusion. Just see how I make it look that Bina Rai came to be entombed alive only so that the ethereal beauty of Madhubala finds its own sanctuary in sacred Iran!”
‘On paper,’ surmised Naushad, ‘everything thus stood very well worked out. As we got down to work, the Madhubala climax, too, appeared to have been arrestingly visualized by K. Asif. No, I am not going to say anything more about my Khuda nigahbaan ho tumhaara climax tune in Raag Yaman, formatted meticulously by me to unveil upon a Madhubala on her way to Iran. I am going to speak, instead, on how imaginatively my colleague, C. Ramchandra, tuned that climax song. That [1953] Yeh zindagi usi ki hai theme song of Anarkali, as crafted by the man, was remarkable. C. Ramchandra’s Alwidaa alwidaa refrain here, how could anyone viewing it possibly forget? C. Ramchandra had started off by operating within the ambit of the Kaafi thhaat. The komaldhaivat4 was in Kaafi as he slipped into that raag. How deftly he moved from Kaafi to Kirvani – only to land in Bhimpalasi. Some tuning feat, that. It sent the message to me that, in Mughal-e-Azam, I had to be at the pinnacle of my composing powers – even given the Madhubala melisma of Lata – to excel that C. Ramchandra score in Anarkali.
‘Who excelled whom is not important. After all, both of us made sincerely themed music. But one thing do keep in view. As a composer, I take due cognizance of the [1953] Anarkali score while sitting down to compose Mughal-e-Azam. But from that point I forget that I have to create a competing score. There is no competition; there is only composition – as you write a musical score. Thus C. Ramchandra’s Anarkali has its own musical niche in our cinema. My Mughal-e-Azam is my walk down the corridors of screen history. I did my best, so did C. Ramchandra. Now we are both out of the picture – for you to take your pick betwixt and between Bina Rai and Madhubala!’
That is Naushad condemning us to pick and choose from between Yeh zindagi usi ki hai and Khuda nigahbaan ho tumhaara. As between Duua kar gham-e-dil khuda se duua kar and Bekas pe karam keejiye Sarkar-e-Madeena. From between Mohabbat aesi dharkan hai and Mohabbat ki jhooti kahaani pe roye. As between Mujh se mat poochh mere ishq mein kyaa rakhaa hai and Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re. From between O aasmaan waale shikwaa hai zindagi kaa and Humen kaash tum se mohabbat na hoti. As between Mohabbat mein aese qadam dagmagaye and Jab pyaar kiyaa to darnaa kyaa.
You do not pick, you do not choose. You just image, you just fantasize. About your melodies as memories. About your memories as melodies. As you do so, you discover that, mentally, you have to banish Naushad’s Madhubala-Anarkali to Iran if you are to CR-hug the vision of Anarkali Bina as Alwidaa alwidaa alwidaa alwidaa alwidaa … Bina Rai or Madhubala – whom do you expel from your Anarkali mind and heart? Whom indeed when the trip down reverie lane is a journey rekindling an era when melody was milady? When Bina was Lata even as Lata was Bina. As Madhubala was Lata even as Lata was Madhubala …
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1 Naushad’s reference is to a four-page featured article titled ‘Anarkali Sings Again’ in The Illustrated Weekly of India, 25 November 1979.
2 Zulfikar Ali Bhutto steadily grew in stature to become Pakistan’s president and then prime minister in the 1970s.
3 Wajid Ali Shah (1822–87) was the fifth king of the kingdom of Oudh/Avadh (now in Uttar Pradesh). He held the position from 13 February 1847 to 11 February 1856. He was the tenth and last nawab of Avadh. He was a playwright, poet, dancer and a patron of the arts. He is known for reviving the Kathak dance form.
4 In this paragraph and in the one to follow, the numerals in brackets indicate the number of songs that a particular performer has put over for Naushad – as distinct from the singer’s renditions for other music directors.
5 Is the ninth note in the chromatic scale.