Gaata Rahe Mera Dil: 50 Classic Hindi Film Songs

This book is dedicated to our friends across the border,

Faiza Sultan Khan, Mira Hashmi, Samar Ata-Ullah and

Ali Aftab Saeed

and

to All India Radio’s Vividh Bharati services

and the crackling, shortwaves of Radio Ceylon – where many

of these melodies were heard for the first time

CONTENTS

AUTHORS’ NOTE

WHEN Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri came up with the idea of the book, we started wondering. Fifty Hindi film songs? To have to select fifty songs from an estimated repository of around a hundred thousand is like being sent to Ali Baba’s cave of treasures with no hand baggage.

We knew that there could never be a list of ‘definitive’ fifty Hindi film songs. Never. Unfortunately, we have been able to include only about 20 per cent of our personal favourite top fifty songs. Every time we got down to discussing it, the list kept changing.

Hence, there is no denying the possibility of heartburn on your favourite number not featuring in this list. Most of ours didn’t, either. So don’t shoot the authors! Blame it on the publisher! Hindi film music has far more to offer than what we could gather in our arms. There could be at least ten, if not more, books befitting the title ‘Landmark 50 Playback Songs’.

This book is not a judgemental statement by us. It is just a representative selection using an algorithm that covers decades, composers, lyricists, genres, singers, actors and film-makers. Various aspects like melody, rhythm, musical arrangement, genre, situational fit, the landmark value, etc., were considered. Which is why the intrinsically classical ‘Poochho na kaise maine rain bitaayi’ appears on the list as does ‘Aap jaisa koi’, which ushered in a new sound in Hindi film music. If the four back-to-back song sequence in Hum Kisise Kum Naheen appears for the sheer innovativeness of the format and its ‘wow!’ quotient, ‘Dil hai chhota sa’ finds a place for introducing the biggest music icon of modern times to us.

Lest the term ‘algorithm’ hints at any scorecard-based selection process, let us clarify that the songs were selected straight from the heart. And the process of scripting each of the stories needed as much passion to write as it took wanderlust. From the leafy hamlets of Kochi to the serenity of a gurukul in the outskirts of Bhubaneshwar to a cheese farm in Coonoor, not to speak of the metro cities, for us this book is as much a travelogue.

The songs featured in this book span the era 1935 to 1993. Why 1993? Because we thought that for a song to be regarded as a ‘classic’, it needs to resonate with listeners at least twenty years after they were first enraptured by it. This takes care of the danger of falling into the trap of the ‘instant classic’.

There’s much more to film music than the singer, composer, lyricist and the assistants. Innumerable musicians, sound recordists, studio staff, all gifted beyond imagination, have dwelt in relative obscurity to contribute in their own way. They too deserve a standing salute.

We regret the absence of many greats in the book. To name a few: Kanan Devi, Husnlal–Bhagatram, Sajjad Hussain, Timir Baran, G.M. Durrani, Noorjehan, Shamshad Begum, Rajinder Krishan, Ravi, Hansraj Behl, Mahendra Kapoor, N. Dutta, Sonik–Omi, Sapan–Jagmohan, Usha Khanna, G.S. Kohli, Kanu Roy, S.P. Balasubramanyam, Suresh Wadkar, Hariharan, etc.

We can have them in another book. Meanwhile, we would like your take on this list and would also love to have your own list of Top 50 Hindi film songs and in the process make this book an interactive, ongoing venture.

Prologue: A song before playback became the order of the day

THE LAST NAWAB … AND THE FIRST

‘Babul moraa, naihar chhooto hi jaye’

♫

FILM: STREET SINGER (1938)

MUSIC: RAI CHAND BORAL

LYRICS: TRADITIONAL (SOURCES SAY WAJID ALI SHAH)

SINGER: KUNDAN LAL SAIGAL

♫

THE singer walked the street as his people wept. The pareekhana would no longer hear the patter of dancing feet. Never again would the city witness the generous Jogia Jashn on the nawab’s birthday. The corridors of the magnificent Qaisarbagh Baradari would no longer reverberate with the sound of music. No longer would men and women take to the streets, bedecked and joyous, on the occasion of Raas Leela. The balconies, once chock-a-block with people jostling for space, trying to hear the soulful dirges, would now hang neglected. The colourful bazaars would wear a pall of gloom.

In February 1856, on the basis of Captain Weston’s exhaustive account, General Outram decreed that the province of Oudh (Awadh) was to be annexed. Nawab Wajid Ali Shah was ordered to vacate his capital, Lucknow.

Thus, the poet-ruler had to leave his throne, his people and city. The poets wrote:

Lucknow bekas huwa Hazrat jo gaye,

Fazl-e-gul kab aayegi, kab honge aakar naghma sanjh,

ek muddat ho gayi murgaane gulshan ko gaye

On being ousted from his kingdom, the nawab lamented:

Babul mora, naihar chhooto hi jaye

chaar kahaar mile, mori doliya sajaawen

mora apna begaana chhooto jaye

The words allude to a bride leaving her parents’ home in a palanquin to go to her husband’s house. One also associates a palanquin (that requires the support of four shoulders) with a bed of sorts, used to carry a dead body for burial or cremation. The nawab would never return to his beloved Lucknow.

What remains unclear is whether ‘Babul mora’ was actually penned by Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, or if it existed before him. It is possible that the nawab is not the original lyricist as the verses are in Awadhi interspersed with Brij bhasha, the language of the commoners. One would expect the nawab to write in Urdu, Persian or Arabic, which were the languages of the court. His court had talented writers and poets, including Syed Agha Hasan Amanat, the creator of the opera, Indrasabha. Jaganmoy Mitra, aka Jagmohan, who also sang a version of the song, however, recounted that he heard from his guruji, Shambhuji Maharaj, that the lyrics ‘Babul mora’ were indeed written by the nawab.

In the absence of a recorded version, there is no conclusive proof that the nawab had sung it as a thumri in Raga Bhairavi, but the earliest rendition of the song in this form was most probably by Ustad Faiyaz Khan, one of the best-known exponents of the Agra Gharana, in 1932. The format has almost become the template. With the passage of time, singers like Begum Akhtar, Gauhar Jaan, Kesarbai Kerkar, Khadim Husain Khan, Girija Devi, Shobha Gurtu, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, Jagjit Singh, Manna Dey and Lata Mangeshkar have kept Nawab Wajid Ali Shah alive with their immaculate rendition of the Raga Bhairavi thumri.

Then there was another nawab: the first singer-actor star of the Hindi film history – Kundan Lal Saigal (1904–47).

One of the cornerstones of Saigal’s stardom was his association with New Theatres Ltd in Calcutta. B.N. Sircar, who founded New Theatres in 1931, wrote in remembrance of Saigal: ‘I first heard of Saigal from K.H. Kazi of Pathe-India. Mr Kazi invited me to dinner at the house of his would-be father-in-law, and I met Saigal there. On Mr Kazi’s request, I listened to Saigal’s songs and liked his voice so much that I signed him on right there. That’s how Saigal came to be associated with New Theatres at a princely sum of Rs 130 per month. He was a bachelor, his wants were limited, and he used to live in our Dharmatala Street office building.’

♫

According to Jagmohan, his Guru Shambhuji Maharaj

had taught ‘Babul mora’ to a young man in his early

thirties in just three days. Jagmohan was a little upset

as his guru had claimed it would take six months for

Jagmohan to learn the song. So how did the other

fellow learn it in just three days? ‘You know who this

young man was? He was Kundan Lal Saigal,’

Shambhuji Maharaj said.

♫

According to Saigal’s biographer Pran Nevile, G.N. Joshi, a friend of Saigal (and also the author of Down Melody Lane), recollected an evening at a kotha in Allahabad in 1935. Joshi and Saigal were to perform in a music conference. One evening, their host, a young zamindar, took them to the house of a nautch girl. After the soirée, at about 2.30 a.m., Joshi and Saigal headed back to the zamindar’s house. Presumably inebriated, Kundan started humming while Joshi accompanied him on the harmonium which, we assume, was provided by the zamindar. Taking a cue from his friend’s humming, Joshi broke into a thumri in Mishra Khamaj – ‘Mane nahee samiya’. Saigal lapped up the refrain. The musical duet between the two friends sounded like the merging of the holy rivers not far away. Neither would have realized how soon the rest of the night went by. As dawn broke, Saigal settled into ‘Babul mora’ in Raga Bhairavi.

In an interview in the 1930s with Kirit Ghosh, the editor of the Bengali magazine Jayati and a student of Santiniketan, Saigal said Bhairavi was his favourite raga. ‘To know Bhairavi is to know all ragas. There is Todi in it, there is Kafi in it, and Bhimpalasi and the flavour of so many ragas.’ Little wonder then that his rendition of this number in New Theatres’ Street Singer (1938) was full of vigour. ‘Of the many versions of "Babul mora" that Father had heard, he thought Saigal’s was the best,’ Shikha Biswas-Vohra, daughter of composer Anil Biswas, says.

Street Singer, directed by Phani Majumdar, was one of the two big hits of 1938, the other being Dharti Mata, also produced by New Theatres, starring Saigal. Dharti Mata was directed by Nitin Bose. The story of Street Singer is about two struggling artistes, Bhulwa (Saigal) and Manju (Kanan Devi). Manju gets a lucky break while Bhulwa’s struggle continues. Majumdar spun a storyline whose thread was used to weave similar stories in movies several decades later: Sitara (1980) and the Raj Kapoor-Padmini section of Mera Naam Joker (1971). Ram Gopal Verma’s Rangeela (1995) bears a strong resemblance to Street Singer in the story of the established actor mentoring the struggling starlet – and along the way, mistakenly believing that she loves him. Incidentally, there was a Bengali version of Street Singer too – Saathi (1938).

The song’s shooting was extremely difficult. A microphone was hung from a truck that moved with Saigal but stayed out of view of the camera. There are also unverified stories about Saigal’s wig being blown off by a strong gust of wind from a large pedestal fan inside the studio.

R.C. Boral’s career in composing began along with that of Saigal in New Theatres. Their first three films together – Mohabbat Ke Aansoo, Zinda Lash and Subah Ka Sitara (all in 1932) with Saigal as the actor and Boral as the composer – garnered a tepid response. However, both of them found tremendous success with Puran Bhagat (1933). After Street Singer there was no looking back.

The selection of ‘Babul mora’ itself for the film seems to have arisen from a combination of Saigal’s fondness for Raga Bhairavi and Boral’s affection for thumri. They could not have made a better choice. One can only wonder how Saigal infused pathos, solitude and tenderness into a song in a span of around three minutes, that too without any major instrument accompanying the rendition, unlike music recordings today. There is also a version of the song by Kanan Devi in the same film.

‘Babul mora’ remains one of the most rendered scores with numerous maestros paying homage to this classic in their own inimitable style. These were compiled in a collection of three CDs by Delhi-based music fan Satish Chopra. But the innate charm and depth of the original Saigal version has perhaps outlived all others.

Seventy-five years later, a mention of ‘Babul mora’ on a Facebook page triggered off scores of comments and dozens of ‘Likes’.

That’s the staying power of a classic!

A NOTE ON THE ORIGINS OF PLAYBACK IN INDIAN CINEMA

AS the director of the film Bhagyachakra, Putul-da’s (Nitin Bose) workload had increased dramatically. As a result, he had started going to the studio very early, consequently forcing me to get ready early too. One day, Putul-da, as usual, arrived in his car while I was dressing up in my room upstairs.

In the adjacent room, a famous song of the day was playing. The song was from the acclaimed motion picture Pagan and was sung by the celebrated Ramon Novaro. The song’s title was ‘Pagan love song’ and if my memory serves me right, the lyrics went like this:

Come with me where moonbeams

Light the Tahitian skies

And the starlit waters

Linger in your eyes…

Native hills are calling.

To them we belong

And we will cheer each other

With our Pagan love song…

Lost in the song, I was humming along, blissfully unaware that Putul-da was waiting for me. Suddenly, his voice reached my ears: ‘Pankaj, Pankaj!’ However, I continued singing till the record had run its course. Meanwhile, my father came up and hurried me to get out there. How could I keep Putul-da waiting?

When I went out, I saw Putul-da’s face contorted with worry. Sensing all was not well and aware that I had delayed him, I silently sat in the car. Me in the back seat and Putul-da and his driver, i.e., his brother Mukul in the front.

The car started. I felt uncomfortable seeing Putul-da’s silent and serious countenance. Apologetically, I said, ‘Putul-da, please don’t mind, actually, an English record was playing and I was so engrossed in singing that…’ Without paying me any attention, Putul-da started smoking. I tried to reach through to him a few times but he remained resolute and pensive. Was all this just because I had been late?

Near Lighthouse on Chowringhee, the car stopped at the traffic sergeant’s signal. Putul-da went out, giving his brother orders to wait by the museum. A little later, we saw Putul-da emerge with a couple of English magazines. The car started after he boarded. He continued to be gloomy, misting the car over with his smoke. Where had his jovial nature and colourful cheer vanished? Was my crime that grave?

When the car pulled into the studio at Tollygunge, Putul-da disappeared in an instant. I walked towards my allotted place and Mukul, after parking the car, started preparing to make way to his designated location. Suddenly, Putul-da summoned me. Apprehensive, I said, ‘Putul-da, please don’t take to heart the events of today, I was…’

This time he replied, ‘Just shut up, will you? There is an idea in my mind and you are distracting me.’ Saying this, he put on a record on the gramophone. Along with the magazines that he had bought at Chowringhee, he had also bought a record. As it rang out, I identified it as the ‘Pagan love song’. Putul-da suddenly said, ‘Pankaj, sing along with the record. Now. Just as you were singing in your house. Now! Quick!’

At first, I understood nothing. However, at Putul-da’s insistence, I started singing. During the song, Putul-da began observing me from all sides. I could not understand the motive behind his actions.

However, his real madness unveiled itself very shortly. No sooner had the song ended than he grabbed me and, without a care for time and place, he danced like crazy. Along with his dance, he screamed, ‘I’ve got it! Understand, Pankaj? I have finally got it! You have no idea about the magnitude of the problem that I have just solved after so much time! How do I begin to thank you? Which side of the bed did I wake up this morning? What wondrous moment was that when you started singing along to the song! You haven’t got a clue about what an incredible idea you put into my mind when you did that.’

It took some time for the fact to register that I was the first and direct witness to the genesis of the idea of playback singing in Indian cinema.

Needless to say, the first instance of playback was in Putul-da’s film, a Bengali–Hindi bilingual, Bhagyachakra and Dhoop Chhaon. The Hindi song, written by Pandit Sudarshan, was ‘Main khush hona chahun, khush ho na sakun’. It was sung by Smt. Suprava Sarkar (nee Ghosh), Smt. Parul Ghosh (nee Chowdhury) and Smt. Uma Shashi Devi.

____________________

(An excerpt from Pankaj Kumar Mallick’s autobiography Amar Jug Amar Gaan, published by Pharma KLM Pvt. Ltd, 257 B, Bipin Bihari Ganguly Street, Calcutta 700012, translated for this edition by the authors.)

1

THE HOOF TROT

Chale pawan ki chaal, jag mein chale pawan ki chaal’

♫

FILM: DOCTOR (1941)

MUSIC: PANKAJ KUMAR MALLICK

LYRICS: KAVI PRADEEP

SINGER: PANKAJ KUMAR MALLICK

♫

A few years before ‘Babul mora’ hit the screen…

Rai Chand Boral, the composer of Street Singer, was the assistant programme director of Indian State Broadcasting Service (which became All India Radio in 1936). One of the artists on its payroll was Pankaj Kumar Mallick.

Haren Ghosh, impresario par excellence and widely known among the film, dance and music fraternity, met Mallick and Boral and offered them an opportunity to score the music for films. Those were the days of silent films. ‘Talkies’ were yet to come to India.

Ghosh asked Mallick and Boral to compose the background music for the silent Bengali film Chorkanta (1931) directed by Charu Roy for International Film Craft. The movie was to be shown at the Chitra Theatre in Calcutta’s Shyambazar area. The theatre had reportedly been inaugurated by Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose.

Thus began the journey of two of the most famous gurus of Indian film music. After Chashar Meye (1931), another silent film, International Film Craft changed its name to New Theatres.

New Theatres’ first talkie was the Bengali film, Dena Paona, released in December 1931. Both Mallick and Boral were to compose its music. They retained the style they had followed for the previous films, blending Chamber music – on most occasions an organ, an ensemble of violins and other string instruments – with Rabindra Sangeet.

♫

Dena Paona was perhaps the first instance of a film

based on a story by Sarat Chandra Chatterjee that had

tunes inspired by Tagore’s works. Tagore’s drama

starring Tagore himself, Natir Puja (1932), would later

be filmed by New Theatres. And Sarat babu would be

an occasional visitor on location.

♫

In his autobiography, Mallick mentions something that bothered him for quite some time: both he and Boral worked together for the film’s music. However, he was shocked when he saw the credit titles roll for the first time. Rai Chand Boral was credited as the music director of the film and Pankaj Mallick was mentioned as the assistant.

Mallick was distraught as he had composed the tunes for all the songs in the film. Probably disillusioned by this incident, he started focusing more on singing than composing. Though history would go on to acknowledge him as a composer of film songs too, he would mostly remain the assistant in the early years of New Theatres. However, he did make a mark later. He was the first music composer to be conferred the Dadasaheb Phalke Award. His legacy would live on as a Rabindra Sangeet exponent, a composer par excellence and as someone who blended popular forms of melody with Western arrangement.

New Theatres’ second talkie was an Urdu venture, Mohabbat ke Aansoo (1932), which would mark the debut of a lanky gentleman from Jalandhar – K.L. Saigal – who was working as a sales officer for Remington typewriters in Calcutta. The film did not excite the nation. It was Pramathesh Barua’s bilingual film, Devdas (1935) that brought Saigal unprecedented fame – both as an actor and as the singer who gave voice to sarod maestro Timir Baran Bhattacharya’s compositions. Saigal also made a guest appearance in the Bengali version of the classic, singing two songs at Chandramukhi’s kotha.

♫

Pramathesh Barua, the director of Devdas, was initially

sceptical about Saigal’s ability to sing in Bengali, but

was overruled by Mallick, saying that the songs were

being sung at a kotha and any mispronunciation could

be attributed to the inebriated state of people there.

♫

It