BECOMING A PLAYBACK SINGER
Manna Dey
Manna Dey is regarded as one of Bollywood’s greatest playback singers ever; he has completed six decades in the industry and has been honoured with the Padma Bhushan and the Dadasaheb Phalke Award. Here he recounts his early days in Bombay, where he was brought by his uncle, the legendary singer K.C. Dey. Interestingly, Dey recalls his conscious choice of a differentiator that would allow him to compete with the likes of Mohammad Rafi, Kishore Kumar, Mukesh and Talat Mehmood—all established singers already: he would be the only playback singer grounded in classical music. And it was in this role that he excelled.
Some of the films which I worked for [as a music director] were: Chamki, Shukrasta, Shivkanya, Jay Mahadev, Gouri Puja, Rishtey Ki Deewar and Sonal. Except for Sonal, the rest were released in due course, but they did not fare well at the box office. Naturally, my own work for them went unnoticed. Sonal found no takers at all and was never released. I remember a particular song from this film whose unique lyrics had impelled me to try and persuade Lata Mangeshkar to sing it. She had been kind enough to agree. Yet, the pity of it was that no one ever came to know how beautifully she had sung that number.
It was, indeed, a difficult time for me and I ended up feeling frustrated and embittered. It has taken me years to recognize the truth underlying the saying, ‘Failures are the pillars of success’. Had I become a successful music director at that point in my life, I would not have been motivated enough to make it as a singer. And that would have been a cause for regret later. What would have become of me, I wonder, if I hadn’t been what I am today— Manna Dey, who has made a name for himself as a singer, both in India and abroad.
What kept me going at the time was the other development in my life. In 1942, with Uncle by my side, I had encountered no problems in continuing my musical training. Now that I was living alone in Mumbai, I began desperately looking for a teacher who would instruct me in Hindustani classical music. My appointment as a second assistant to the music director had, undoubtedly, given me the advantage of fraternizing with the big names in the field of music at the time. It had also offered me the scope for acquiring valuable practical training. But this was not enough. I needed a teacher to improve my musical skills. If I was serious about staying on in Mumbai, I had to be ready to compete with established singers like Mohammad Rafi, Talat Mehmood, Mukesh and Kishore Kumar. And competition meant being able to best them at their game. That could be achieved only by surpassing them. Therein lay the key to winning the hearts of the public. If I fell short of the standards set by the reigning singing stars of the day, music directors would have no reason to prefer me to them. These concerns kept me preoccupied and were a source of much anxiety. I set about analysing the flaws of my competitors so that I could turn them into my areas of strengths. And an in-depth study of their singing styles gave me the clue to the area in which they were deficient: their comprehension of classical music. I was well aware that without a thorough grounding in classical music a singer could never hope to be proficient in all kinds of songs. And this was my trump card. My sound training in Hindustani classical music was a valuable asset when it came to picking up tunes, however complex. I made up my mind to use it to impress music directors. Before taking up the challenge of actually doing so, however, it was imperative that I brushed up my skills. With that objective in mind, I set out in search of an ustad who would help me in my quest.
During my first visit to Mumbai, Uncle had taken me to the legendary classical maestro Ustad Aman Ali Khan. He was nearly seventy at the time. Babu Kaka had approached him with due deference and asked, ‘Ustad-ji, would you consent to train my nephew? If you do, he’ll be grateful to you for the rest of his life.’
For some inexplicable reason, Ustad-ji had lost his temper on that occasion and yelled, ‘What do you take me for? Are you expecting me to teach a callow youth like him? Why should I bother?’
Both Uncle and I had been taken aback. It dawned on me later that Ustad-ji had behaved in that strange manner because he was ignorant of Uncle’s own stature as a classical singer. This was not unusual, as singers in Mumbai were unfamiliar with the names of singers from other states and condescending in their attitude towards them. This arrogance on their part explained Ustad-ji’s exasperation at Uncle’s suggestion. My crestfallen expression must have moved my uncle, for he made another attempt to persuade the maestro. ‘If you would, at least, consent to hear him sing, sir …’ he suggested tentatively.
For reasons known only to him, Ustad-ji condescended to agree. ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘Proceed.’
This was a golden opportunity indeed. I realized that if I could please him with my performance, he might accept Uncle’s proposal and teach me.
‘What do you wish me to sing, Ustad-ji?’ I asked in desperation.
‘Whatever you like,’ he replied non-committally.
Without wasting words, I launched into Iman, the raga my uncle had taught me. After completing my recital, I waited quietly for Ustad-ji to comment.
No word of appreciation was forthcoming. Just another question: ‘How many forms of Iman are there?’
‘Four.’
‘Fine. You can come to me from tomorrow. Be here on the dot at nine p.m.’
A smile of relief hovered on Uncle’s lips at my little triumph. What worried me, though, was my uncertainty about being able to make it to Ustad-ji’s place every evening after a tiring day at the studio. Moreover, his house was miles away from our own apartment. Full of misgivings, I asked him, ‘Ustad-ji, would you allow me to come to you for lessons at some other time? Actually, after a day’s work, I usually have my dinner at nine.’
‘In that case,’ he retorted coldly, ‘there’s no need for you to come at all. You might as well have your dinner.’
I lapsed into silence, then said in an apologetic voice, ‘No, Ustad-ji, I’ll make it a point to be here at the time you specified.’ It was infinitely better to forego dinner than to be deprived of Ustad-ji’s lessons, I told myself.
The very next evening, I was at Ustad-ji’s doorstep by nine sharp. My lessons with the maestro commenced. The moment he started singing a raga, his voice transported me to a different sphere of music altogether. Its unique quality, coupled with his expertise in rendering the nuances of a raga, captivated me completely. No wonder he was regarded as a living legend of Hindustani classical music! Uncle, too, sang beautifully, but Ustadji had a rare style. As I sat there in his presence, I fell to wondering whether I would ever be able to match his standards.
Anyway, at that moment, I was simply grateful that my lessons continued, uninterrupted by any untoward incidents. Ustad-ji began by teaching me Raga Iman, a very different version from what I had learnt earlier. He followed it up with Raga Multan. Although structurally identical to what I had learnt, his version was unique in every other respect. Along with the ragas, Ustad-ji also taught me the Noom. A novel exercise peculiar to classical music, the Noom is designed to teach a singer the correct pronunciation of the vowels. ‘Be careful not to distort a word while singing it,’ Ustad-ji would tell me. ‘Articulate every word clearly and pronounce it correctly. Otherwise, your song will lack aesthetic appeal. A song is actually a judicious blend of words and melody. If something is missing from one, the other automatically suffers. So, pay equal attention to both melody and pronunciation, the way you would if they were the body’s two vital organs.’
My lessons in Noom continued for the next three months, until Ustad-ji had expressed satisfaction with my rendition. Repeated stress on the difference between a long and short vowel would go a long way in teaching me how to distinguish between the two. The other vital point that Ustad-ji clarified for me had to do with the correct distribution of the words in a song, so that their meaning would emerge. I faithfully followed Ustad-ji’s advice and used the words in a song the way he had taught me to. Now, when people come to my recitals and praise my clear pronunciation, my mind goes back to the painstaking care with which Ustad-ji had inculcated the habit in me.
Unfortunately, the truth of the adage, ‘Kopaley sobar sukh soyena’ (‘Happiness is not everyone’s birthright’)—incidentally the words of a song by Jahar-babu—was brought home to me with a vengeance when Ustad-ji passed away quite suddenly. His demise left me deeply troubled. I had not managed to learn everything I had set out to. With Ustad-ji gone, I devoted myself completely to my work at the studio. The same routine of training the singers and arranging music that I had followed all along continued without a break. I grew steadily more frustrated. With renewed vigour, I started looking for another teacher who would help me to pick up all that remained beyond my area of knowledge and expertise. Meanwhile, I had enrolled myself as a regular classical vocalist at AIR, Mumbai. There, I would give recitals of classical forms like thumri, dadra, kajri and ghazal. This provided, to some extent, an outlet for my urge to fulfil myself as a singer.
Between 1953 and 1954, an interesting development was to affect my musical education in ways I hadn’t foreseen. I had just recorded a programme at the radio station and was leaving the building when an elderly gentleman came up to me. ‘Where are you off to, sir?’ he inquired pleasantly.
I was a trifle annoyed at his inquisitiveness. How does it concern him? I asked myself. Yet, in deference to his seniority, I found it difficult to be discourteous. ‘I’m on my way home,’ I replied.
‘Where do you live?’ was his next question.
I was beginning to get really irritated. However, since his manner revealed him to be a thorough gentleman, I couldn’t help giving him my address.
‘May I accompany you home?’ he asked me.
I was taken aback. Was he asking me for a lift? But that could hardly be the case. He just didn’t seem to be the kind. ‘Which way would you like to go? I asked him.
‘I would like to go with you,’ he admitted frankly.
Doubtful about the man’s sanity, I risked offering him a lift, nonetheless.
Once we had got into the car, he started praising me to the skies. ‘I have heard you sing,’ he told me. ‘You have a marvellous voice. Few singers are blessed with such dulcet tones. The other remarkable aspect of your singing is your perfect enunciation of words and their correct intonation. This is really worth mentioning, since Hindi is not your mother tongue. Something tells me that you are eager to learn more about music. Am I right?’
As a singer who had miles to go before reaching the peak of his profession, I was grateful for his compliments. Forgetting my earlier annoyance, I confessed that I desperately needed a music teacher to complete my musical training.
‘Fine, I’ll teach you. Don’t you worry,’ he replied reassuringly.
This irritated me all over again. How dare this man consider himself fit to teach me, the nephew of the renowned Krishna Chandra Dey, I fumed indignantly. Maintaining, however, a semblance of politeness, I told him, ‘I do appreciate your comments on my qualities as a singer, but how can I accept your offer to train me? I don’t even know you. Besides, why would you be interested in teaching me?’
He smiled in answer and said in soothing tones, ‘I do understand the reason underlying your scepticism. But I am sure you have heard me singing over the radio. You must have heard of Suresh Kumar, the classical singer who frequents All India Radio, Mumbai? Well, that’s me. I prefer singing light music under that pseudonym. My real name is Abdul Rahman Khan.’
I couldn’t believe my luck. So, this was the legendary Abdul Rahman Khan of the Patiala Gharana! I was at a loss for words. Wondering whether I was dreaming, I actually pinched myself. After a pause, I said to him, ‘I am quite overwhelmed, Ustad-ji. I am a mere novice in the realm of Hindustani classical music and, therefore, find it hard to believe that a stalwart like you is actually offering to take the trouble of teaching me. I feel both honoured and delighted. But one thing worries me, Ustad-ji. I am a man of limited means. How will I afford your fees?’
Smiling at me affectionately, he replied, ‘My son, I won’t be teaching you for a fee. On the contrary, it’ll be my pleasure to teach a talented person like you. I know you’ll be able to do justice to my art. Even after I am dead and gone, you’ll be able to carry forward the rich legacy of our school of music. Please do accept my offer.’
I was speechless with joy.
After he had left, I fell to wondering whether I had heard right. Could this, indeed, be true? I had always betrayed a partiality for the Patiala Gharana, right from the time I used to live in Kolkata and had heard Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Saheb sing at the concert organized by Damodar Das Khanna—or Lala Babu, as connoisseurs of music referred to him—at the latter’s residence. Naturally, the advent of Ustad-ji could bring me nothing but joy. But I wondered sceptically whether he was serious about wanting to teach a neophyte like me. I endured an agony of uncertainty until the following morning. And to my unmitigated delight, there he was, at my doorstep!
Our lessons began right away and my new guru made it a point to have these training sessions every single day. As luck would have it, Ustad-ji’s arrival coincided with a period of increasing work pressure from the studios. Not only was I being offered assignments as a music director, but film producers had suddenly started expressing keen interest in my abilities as a playback singer as well. As a result, I would already have left for the studio on one assignment or the other by the time Ustad-ji arrived for our lessons. This was becoming almost a daily feature and I felt really embarrassed about the whole situation. The very thought of a man of Ustad-ji’s stature being put to such inconvenience every other day by my absence from home for professional reasons, began to weigh heavily on my conscience. I could not allow it to go on. So, one day, I broached the subject with Ustad-ji, explaining how my increasing workload was preventing me from attending the music lessons.
Ustad-ji grasped the problem right away. ‘That’s all right, son,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you let me know beforehand when you have to leave for work early? On those particular days, I’ll come here in the evening.’
And so, Ustad-ji would keep adjusting the time of the lessons to suit my schedule, just so that he could teach me every day. Even today, I have no words to express my gratitude to him.
After a few training sessions, I discovered, to my delight, that I could reproduce the intricate modulations of voice that classical singing demanded. It was exactly what I had been looking forward to. It was not that I had ever aspired to become a professional classical singer. Light music, I felt, was my forte. Yet, to sing light music well, a basic training in classical music was indispensable. This was the reason why I had been looking for a teacher and Ustad-ji had come into my life at the opportune moment. Once I thought I had achieved what I wanted to from my training in classical music, I asked him to teach me something other than pure classical songs. He was overjoyed by my request. ‘That’s what I have been wanting to tell you all this while, my son,’ he admitted. ‘From tomorrow, I’ll start teaching you light classical songs.’
And that’s how it all began, driven by my lack of interest in the much-too-long khayals from which I always found my attention wavering.
Ustad-ji began with a thumri—‘Moree budh ladhkayeea meye ka janu ram’ (‘My intellect is like that of a child; hence I don’t know what to do’). Interestingly enough, before teaching me the melody, Ustad-ji felt it necessary to read aloud the lyrics a couple of times. Then turning to me, he said, ‘This is the song of an adolescent yearning to be a youth. The dilemma of this transitory period is the subject matter of the poem. Now, it is for you to decide how you can sing it most effectively.’ Ustad-ji’s approach to teaching the song quite amazed me. So, this was the secret of singing a thumri, I mused.
Later, when I devoted myself to singing light music, Ustad-ji’s valuable training would come in handy. My teacher’s words of advice come to mind when journalists keep asking me the same question: ‘How do you manage to conjure up an image, create a visual effect, as it were, with your songs?’ My admiration for my teacher is boundless. How many men are there in this world, I wonder, who would be ready to stake everything in life just for the sake of training new talent. Very few, probably!
Having trained extensively under Ustad Abdul Rahman Khan, I followed it up with a long stint with yet another legendary singer—Ustad Ghulam Mustafa Khan. His style was radically different from that of his peers and he specialized in Raga Multani. It was through his rendition of Multani, in fact, that he would become a veritable legend. The way he improvised on the raga while retaining its basic framework was a feat in itself, unequalled by any other. His most celebrated rendition in Multani was the khayal, ‘Langar more chat de banwari’. I heard him sing it often and the pathos inherent in the words always moved me to tears. So poignant, in fact, was his recital that I sometimes wondered whether the raga had been created exclusively for him.
I am much obliged to Ustad-ji for another reason as well. While performing as a playback singer, I had been encountering a strange problem. Ustad-ji took the trouble of helping me to solve it. I had noticed that I felt more comfortable singing bass than tenor. Ustad-ji being my only guide, I turned to him for help. He reassured me that I would learn to overcome this shortcoming of mine in no time at all. Accordingly, he advised me to be more flexible with my scales. Normally, I preferred singing in D-sharp. Ustad-ji asked me to change from the fifth key to the sixth before practising my notes. I did so for a couple of days and was delighted by the results. I had actually done it! Travelling down the notes had become child’s play for me. Noting this variation of range in my voice, I remember Rafi-ji asking me once, ‘Dada, how do you manage to let your voice soar with such ease?’ Ustad-ji’s training had widened the range of my voice and for that alone I shall be indebted to him for the rest of my life.
I have spent much of my life listening to the recitals of many maestros, including Uncle. And though I am not one myself, I have come to discover an interesting fact about classical singers in general: Muslim singers are more proficient in singing classical songs than their Hindu counterparts. The way they experiment with their music is truly amazing. Within the given framework of a raga, they will keep on improvising the notes, with varying effects. Although I have yet to find an explanation for it, the issue continues to preoccupy me. I had, for instance, closely observed Ustad-ji’s method of composing a tune. It was certainly very different from the way Hindu classical singers approached the same task. Normally, a classical singer begins his song at a slow tempo and develops it as he goes along to explicate the form of the raga. But Ustad-ji preferred to lay out the form from the opening note itself. This set him apart from contemporary Hindu pandits of classical music.
The other point of departure probably lies in their sense of commitment to music. Muslim ustads consider music a way of life. Their offspring are, therefore, imparted rigorous training in music alone, without the option of an alternative profession. From their very childhood, the sons of Muslim musicians are segregated from their family members and made to devote their days to practice without a break. By the time they are adults, they have acquired sufficient proficiency in music to be able to earn a living from it. So, the question of a job isn’t really of paramount importance in their lives. Being nurtured in a musical environment, where either their parents or other relatives are proficient in the art, naturally helps them to develop their talents with greater ease. All of them religiously preserve their classical legacy which distinguishes one musician’s family from another’s.
I may be mistaken, of course. But suffice to say that it is my way of interpreting this strange phenomenon. In his article, ‘Sudha Sagar Tirey’ (‘On the Shores of Music’), written a few years ago, Suresh Chakraborty had offered a similar explanation for this divergence in perspective. Differentiating Pandit Omkar Nath Tagore’s style from Ustad Abdul Karim Khan’s, he had commented that when both rendered Raga Malkauns, their approach to it varied along with their styles.
As for my preference for light music, it surprises many of my listeners. How is it, they ask, that in spite of having received rigorous training from Uncle and, subsequently, from other ustads, I have chosen to devote myself exclusively to light music? I have an answer for them. First, never in my life had I aspired to be a classical singer. From the very outset, I had been set on making a name for myself exclusively in the field of light music, including pop music. But I was well aware of the importance of training my voice in order to do justice to light music. The modulations which enhance a song’s melody can never be mastered without a sound training in classical music. My serious rivals in the field of light music were all established singers and the only way I could surpass them in their own areas of strength was to master the art of voice modulation.
Second, I usually found classical music rather monotonous, with the rare exception of a few songs rendered by a handful of ustads. Classical music had, undoubtedly, been my first love, but my interest in it had palled owing to the sheer tedium of the performances I attended. ‘Can’t they shorten the recital a bit?’ I would reflect bitterly at times. ‘Why stretch it endlessly like an elastic string?’ Contemporary singers tend to curtail their songs a little. That, no doubt, enhances their performance and keeps audience interest from flagging. When I started out, however, singers were inclined to prolong their recitals, a tendency that naturally put me off.
Third, barring the rare exception, most classical singers were reduced to abject penury once they stopped performing. Few patrons were willing to continue sponsoring their hour-long programmes. The common refrain in their circuit was, therefore, ‘Where will we find an audience?’ I did not relish the prospect of such a life. Perhaps, if I had persevered, I could have established myself as a classical singer of repute, but by the time the world chose to recognize my talents, my hair would have turned grey. Besides, the fact that I had begun my career relatively late in life would have proved a drawback in the long run, had I chosen to specialize in classical music. I dared not, therefore, take the risk of opting for a career in a genre of music fraught with so many uncertainties.
It will, perhaps, not be out of place here to offer some of my personal opinions on the style in which classical songs were rendered in those days. One of the factors preventing me from enjoying classical music recitals was the general tendency among its exponents to mumble the words while singing a raga. Why not enunciate the words clearly for the audience to appreciate? I would wonder with a certain degree of exasperation. Another irritant on many occasions was the discrepancy between the melody and the import of the lyrics. It would set me wondering why there was so little effort on our part to improve on the performance of this genre of music—so integral a component of the rich classical heritage we boasted of to the world. For these reasons alone, I would make it a point during my own public performances of classical songs to be mindful of audience enjoyment and curtail the duration of the recital. I also took pains to clearly enunciate each word of the songs I had chosen to sing. My efforts paid off and ensured a positive response from my audience.
Extracted from Memories Come Alive: An Autobiography.