THE FEMALE VOICE IN HINDUSTANI FILM SONGS
Ashraf Aziz
Since the release of Alam Ara, the bearers of much musical information have been women. This is borne out by the fact that Guinness Book of World Records lists Lata Mangeshkar as the world’s most recorded vocalist. To be sure, there is no aversion to showing males singing in Hindustani films, yet a female is more likely to break into song than a male. Alpha males (e.g., kings, great generals and stuntmen) are rarely shown singing. Similarly, stuntwomen are also exempted. For example, Nadia (generally shown as an avenging Amazon, what is the ‘hidden’ meaning of her whip?) was mostly not shown singing. In Mehboob Khan’s Aan, Nadira does not sing as long as she is an Amazonian princess; as soon as she gets off her high horse and adopts the sati savitri (subservient) clothing and posture, she starts to sing Tujhé kho diya. The song certifies her status as a ‘normal’ woman. In Sohrab Modi’s Jhansi-ki-Rani, the maharani does not sing (she, of course, was performing a male role); nor does the queen in Razia Sultan croon. Generally, such historical movies feature various surrogates (poets, courtiers, etc.) who sing for the alpha males and females.
Thus, even in the Hindustani film, the song is associated with vulnerability, weakness and femininity, Femininity is recessive. It is, then, ironic that in classical Indian culture women were (are) deemed unworthy of ecclesiastical singing and dancing. The documentary, Dance of Shiva, points out that men adopted the roles of women in ceremonial religious dance. Why? In the elaborate Indian socio-economic hierarchy it is generally the person at the lower rung who sings to the one above. With reference to the all-powerful gods, Indian men will adopt subservient postures, physical and musical. In effect, the Gods are bribed and beguiled (Oh! Please! Don’t let me die. Please make me rich) by men. And, of course, according to Manu, when it comes to ecclesiastical functions, a man’s mouth is purer than a woman’s.
Mirasi is a North Indian derogatory term applied to singers and performers. Mirasis (Punjabi have a worse word for them, Kanjjars) belong to a low caste. In this subculture women were (what else?) permitted to sing. It is to this culture of ‘fallen women’ that the earlier female vocalists belonged (directly or indirectly). Such singers were part and parcel of the so-called kotha or mujra society which was the dark reverse side of the ‘respected’ high Indian society. The great female thumri and dadra singers e.g. Begum Akhtar, Rasoolanbai, Girijabai, and others belonged to the pedigree of bazaar (or mujra) singers.
Even in thumri and dadra singing women were never far from usurpation by males. It is commonly said that the best ‘female singing’ has been accomplished by men—Ustad Abdul Karim Khan (Kirana Gharana) and Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan (Patiala Gharana). The extreme case is that of Ustad Faiyyaz Khan, doyen of the super-macho Agra Gharana, who ambushed the thumri and dadra for males.
Even entry into mujra singing could not have been a breeze for women. The bitter struggle of female vocalists to gain and maintain their footing and status as accomplished singers is amply recorded in the quality of their voices. Most of these women had heavy, contralto voices. To be good, a woman’s voice had to compete with/equal that of a man. Malika Pukhraj (now in Pakistan) is a prime example of the spartan female singer. Mr Gula Ram, a local (in my home town: Tanga, Tanzania—East Africa) afficionado of the thumri and dadra, used to play Pukhraj’s Abhi to mein jawan hoon and say: ‘Beshak! Is awaaz se tum sari raat pyar karo. Tum haro gé yé nahin jhuke gi.’
Clearly, he was alluding to the sensual prowess of Pukhraj’s voice. The thumri and dadra contraltos had battle-ready voices; when they opened their mouths vocal bullets flew out. It was war. Men ran for cover. These great contraltos were formidable vocal femme fatales. In the mujra setting, the man was caught with his ‘knickers down’; in this posture it is a bit awkward to maintain hierarchy. Desire was (and is) an equalizer. On the kotha an uneasy truce between men and women was struck.
A significant fixture of the kotha was (is) the Amazonian ‘madam’ who sat slicing the supari with her sharp sarota. ‘Aaiyé. Tashreef rakhiyé. Aapki sunnat ka waqt aagaya. Supari deejiyé. Sarota tayyar hai’. The psychological meaning of supari slicing is only too clear. It is circumcision time! Circumcision is partial castration (at least, it causes castration anxiety).
Female cinema singers of the thirties were generally large-throated; some of them (e.g., Begum Akhtar) sang close to the contralto range. The apparent exceptions were Bibbo and Kanan Devi. Both were mezzo-sopranos. However, even in their voices I detect the force of gravity; listening to Kanan Devi’s voice I am led to suggest that her voice was well grounded with an underlying heavy tone. Certainly, Bibbo’s and Kanan Devi’s voices are not small’.
During the forties—an important maturation period of the Hindustani film song—the field was plied by solid-voiced, strong singers such as Ameerbai Karnataki, Zohrabai Ambalawali, Meena Kapoor, Khursheed, Sitara, etc. In films, of particular significance were the voices of Noor Jahan, Suraiya and Shamshad Begum.
To be sure, Noor Jahan was a soprano; however, she had a formidable range encompassing coloratura, lyric and dramatic categories of soprano. To this day no female cinema singer has quite matched the enormous amplitude and scope of the lady’s voice. One need only listen to two songs from Zeenat (Ahen na bhareen; Aja ri nindiya) to ascertain this. Somewhere in her singing she also produced the ‘little girl’ voice—a premonition of things to come.
Noor Jahan was a camouflaged she-spider who spun an enchanting web to trap male conceit. Many music directors used her voice to investigate the efficacy of various vocal strategies in cinema singing. Suraiya had a limited vocal range which was ideal for straight geet singing. She perfected the art of artless singing. Hers, too, was not a slender voice; it had weight. Shamshad Begum was gifted with a robust, sharp, minty voice. In Mela, Babul and Naya Andaz, she had no difficulty in maintaining a decided edge over Mukesh, Talat Mahmood and Kishore Kumar; only Rafi was evenly matched with her (note Chandni Raat). Shamshad was very precise, emphatic and articulate; she flooded the song with sensuality.
The principal male singers of the forties—e.g. K.L. Saigal, Surendra, G.M. Durrani, Amar, Karan Dewan, etc.—tended to be understated. Saigal asserted himself towards the end of Diya jalao (Tansen) but that’s about it. The strongest male voice of that era belonged to Pankaj Mullick who, even while being categorical in his delivery, retained an unprovocative posture. With the exception of Saigal, the songs of the forties were the eminent domain of women. They were at least half a step ahead of the males in militant vocalization.
The forward march of women singers ended somewhat abruptly following India’s independence. Which factor(s) brought this abrupt change? More to the point, why were men so accommodating to women prior to 1947? I suggest that this change is attributable to the political events in India in the twilight of British Raj. These events are outlined below.
The sound track was added to the first Hindustani film Alam Ara at the time of the Salt March (1930) resistance under the leadership of Mohandas Gandhi. This protest was a physical manifestation of an earlier call for Purna Swaraj (total independence; 1929). With the acquisition of voice, the Hindustani film also charted a resolutely independent course. Whereas silent Hindustani films were visually related to international cinema, the obligatory singing sound track put the Hindustani film on a divergent path.
Resistance against the British involved the mobilization of the masses. Women were also enlisted in opposing the colonialists. Avenues of political expression previously closed to Indian women were more open in the thirties and the forties. Satyagraha involved militant non-violent resistance. No wonder women—even in cinema singing—were more militant. Women’s greater voice within cinema was a manifestation of women’s equal participation in the Independence struggle.
On 15 August 1947, independence arrived in India ‘not in full measure but very substantially’ (Jawaharlal Nehru). Amongst the losses were several dominant female voices (Noor Jahan, Khursheed, Nasim Begum and Roshanara Begum) which flew towards Pakistan. Several other voices (Ameerbai Karnataki, Zohrabai Ambalawali and Meena Kapoor) were at an eclipse. Except for Suraiya, Shamshad Begum and Raj Kumari, there was relative quiet on the female front. This lull allowed men to regroup and chart a new strategy for the future. Independence achieved, it was time to send the ladies back to the kitchens.
It is instructive that a similar history was experienced by women in the United States and Western Europe during World War II. With the men at war, it was necessary to mobilize women to run factories and provide important services on the home front. As soon as the war ended, women were compelled to leave the work force (at least leave the factories).
In India, men found a willing and ardent ally of their cause in a teenager—Lata Mangeshkar. Women were homeward bound with Lata’s entry into cinema singing.
Lata Mangeshkar’s voice was inaugurated by Master Ghulam Haider (many years earlier he had introduced Noor Jahan). Masterji had recorded a Lata–Madan Mohan duet for Shaheed (1948) but decided not to use it in the film. Instead, he used the stouter voice of Surinder Kaur in this war-related movie. The movie also featured a powerful two-part marching song by Rafi (and chorus)—Watan ki raah mein naujawan. In this song Rafi was leading men against the British; he was also calling (covertly) for the men (note the emphasis on naujawan) to step ahead of the ladies. Under the cover of Surinder Kaur’s voice (the ladies had to be kept in the dark for a bit at least), Masterji introduced Lata’s recorded voice in Majboor (1948). In the same year Lata was also showcased by Khemchand Prakash in Ziddi (recall Chanda re). Let me describe her voice.
When first heard, Lata’s voice had a novel sound; the novelty was more apparent than real. It was Noor Jahan’s ‘small-girl’ voice. It was a soprano-range voice devoid of much volume or amplitude. It was a small voice which travelled lightly and with effortless agility. There was just enough weight in the voice to give definite shape to the melody. At first she had a limited ability for coloratura singing—later she developed this quite a bit. However, her coloratura skills never matched those of Noor Jahan; indeed, in this she even takes a back seat to Asha Bhosle, her younger sister. Whereas the voices of the earlier singers were imbued with daunting sensuality (indeed, passion), Lata’s voice had a ‘neutered’ sound. Hers was (and is) a desexed voice—she sounded like a prepubertal adolescent. Lata’s laundered voice appeals to the spirit rather than the senses. Furthermore, she infantilized the female voice. The threatening magic spell of the femmes fatales was at last broken. Men could now experience women without encountering the dark anarchic force of female sexuality, or assertions of equality. The world was safe Shukr hai! Bach gaye!
1949 was the ‘Year of Lata Mangeshkar’; she was here, there, everywhere. For other singers, 1949 became the ‘Year of Living Dangerously’. All major composers made sudden mid-course adjustments to accommodate her. Naushad had four films (Andaz, Chandni Raat, Dillagi, Dulari); one belonged to Suraiya (Dillagi), one to Shamshad (Chandni Raat), one was split between Lata and Shamshad (Dulari; but Lata was dominant) and one (his most ambitious film of the year—Andaz) was Lata’s. Shyam Sunder’s two pictures (Lahore, Bazaar) leaned heavily on Lata. She also towered over Raj Kumari in Khemchand Prakash’s Mahal (Lata sang its title song). In C. Ramchandra’s Patanga and Namoona Lata was knocking on Shamshad’s door and shouting ‘Boo!’ In Gajre Anil Biswas pitted Lata against Suraiya and for the latter it was curtains. Shankar–Jaikishan began with a bang using Lata’s voice in Barsaat. By the end of 1949 the Indian film industry was a cemetery of heavy voices. Lata was leading a march—a backward march by Indian women.
Two other important female singers—Asha Bhosle and Geeta Dutt—of the post-Independence period deserve discussion. Asha’s voice is considerably smaller and finer than Lata’s. In the beginning her voice was used for children (Boot Polish) or for the heroine’s subservient sakhis. O.P. Nayyar brought Asha out of Lata’s deep shadow and gave her free reign. Under Nayyar, Asha explored the considerable nuances of her voice; significantly, Nayyar brought to light the hidden sensuality of her voice. Perhaps the only other music director who allowed Asha to sing with a fuller scope was S.D. Burman. Other composers generally used her for mujra songs, thus exploiting her sensuality. It is undeniable that Asha reintroduced sex to the female voice. However, this was not the awesome, militant sexuality of the contralto of the forties; rather, it was a safe, watered-down, manageable sexuality. Asha offered sensuality at affordable discount rate. Her larynx offered a laundered, deodorized sexuality. Waving high above her sensual voice was the white flag of truce (or surrender?). I have yet to meet the man who started to load his musket when he heard Asha. Does anyone draw on one’s ‘little sister’?
Geeta Dutt had a deep, resonant voice—a potential instrument of reviving hope for women. However, composers conspired to subvert it. Bulo C. Irani utilized Geeta’s voice in several bhajans in Jagan (1950). She sang these bhajans in a pleading, weepyweepy, rona dhona style. From then onwards, she would be called again and again to weep for spurned, miserable Indian women. She quickly became the ‘Nirupa Roy of the voice’; Nirupa epitomized the defeated, victimized, miserable Indian woman. Again, it was O.P. Nayyar (in Aar Paar) who discovered the sexuality in her voice. Generally her voice was used by Nayyar on westernized, whorish, Amazonian cabaret women. Thus began Geeta’s (Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde) vocal schizophrenia; she was either the mother or the whore. The squandering of her capabilities is evident in one of her last songs: Waqt né kiya kya haseen situm (Kaghaz ké Phool). The song has an eerie atmosphere now; it is a lament of lost political opportunities. The necessity of dominating women is common to most cultures. It is not possible, on a one-to-one basis, for a man to lay a woman low. He needs the help of another woman. Men needed Lata, Asha and (weepy-weepy) Geeta to vanquish the femmes fatales of the forties. Furthermore, men in their own ranks found and unleashed considerable vocal gun-power to finish the task.
In Mohammed Rafi men found their macho, vocal Rambo. Composer Shyam Sunder introduced Rafi in Gul Baloch (Punjabi; 1944); in the same year Naushad used him (note!) in a marching song in Pehlé Aap. In 1945 he sang a lovely, low-key song in Zeenat and we find him receiving the baton from Saigal (Ruhi, ruhi) in Shah Jahan (1946). However, it was the Jugnu (1947) duet, Jahan badla, which brought him fame. Significantly, in this song, he was overpowered by Noor Jahan. Again, though, it was Ghulam Haider who gave Rafi his [break] in Shaheed (1948). Rafi kept marching on until his death. Numerous Rafi clones (e.g., Mohinder Kapoor, Anwar and Shabbir Kumar) notwithstanding, the man was an ‘original’. There has yet to be—in India—a voice as authoritative, supple and militant as that of Rafi. Rafi had an enormous range, depth and malleability. In duet, only Asha was able to keep up with him; even she could not quite match his supple volume. Furthermore, his Punjabi accent only augmented his militancy. What’s a woman to do? When Rafi came, it was time for the ladies to strike their tents and retreat. Rafi was often used for politically regressive purposes because of his awesome voice.
Two other prominent singers—Mukesh and Talat Mahmood of the late forties and fifties—deserve comment. Mukesh started in Pehli Nazar (1946) as a Saigal Xerox but discovered his individuality within a short period. He had a deep, resonant voice and his delivery was crisp. However, he had a limited range and was never threatening. Talat had a gossamer, tremulous, soft, blue voice. He was ideally suited for sensitive, introverted ghazals and geets. He exuded vulnerability and defeat. Both Mukesh and Talat—regarded by many as vocal wimps—struggled under Rafi’s Strum und Drang. Everyone lined up and marched behind him.
It is not easy to wipe off centuries-old traditions of gender inequality found in almost all nations. The Indian constitution grants equality to women; however, ancient traditions and the sociopolitical set-up prevent them from enjoying their full citizenship rights. Women are kept subservient. In all sectors of Indian social life reactionary elements place roadblocks to the advancement of women. On the whole Hindustani cinema has been progressive. For instance, at first, it took a great deal of courage for women to work in films. This is no longer the case. And yet, even in the cinema, clever devices have been employed to keep the women subservient. Women such as Shabana Azmi and Smita Patil have done a great deal to advance women’s causes. Reactionaries (especially men) take endless pleasure in directing their microscopes on certain apparent contradictions in their personal lives (e.g. marriages to married men) in order to muddy the water. The purpose seems to be to undermine women’s progress.
Wittingly or unwittingly men (producers, directors, composers, lyricists) have participated in thwarting women’s progress; ironically, they have employed female voices to achieve their aim.
Later, newer voices (Anuradha Paudwal, Hemlata, Vani Jayram) were heard a little more. Yet, most of these voices followed the Lata paradigm, and Vani Jayram, who did not, was not given much opportunity. There is, of course, the magnificent Chitra Singh; we have seldom heard a voice as fine (thin) as this lady’s. And yet, she wields it with such sure power (and passion) that she is able to match Jagjit Singh’s baritone (easily the richest male voice we have in India and Pakistan—it is a treasure). She refuses to accept second (vocal) billing. The lady has formidable prowess.
Across the border, in Pakistan, where women experience much stronger repression than in India, the heavy-voiced Iqbal Bano, Tahira Saiyyad and others continue to represent and press for women’s equality. Such voices exist in India as well. Let us bring them before the mike. Let us enrich the tape and the vinyl. They will represent the liberation of women from subservience and men from carrying the dehumanizing burden of oppression.
REFERENCES
De Bary, William T., 1958. Sources of Indian Tradition. New York: Columbia University Press.
Rangoonwalla, Firoze, 1968. Indian Films Index. Bombay.
Sheed, Wilfrid, 1978. The Good Word and Other Worlds, New York: E.P. Dutton.
Watson, Francis, 1974. A Concise History of India. London: Thames and Hudson.
Extracted from Light of the Universe: Essays on Hindustani Film Music.