English translation of a Marathi
article by the late Shri. Madhav Moholkar, first published in the
January 1971 issue of 'Satyakatha' magazine, and later included in
Shri. Moholkar's book 'Geetyatri'.
I can still
remember the day Shailendra entered my life. Twenty years ago I was a
schoolboy in Solapur. Our school building housed a theatre on the
ground floor, and another on the second floor. There was a third one
adjacent to it. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that our
school was on the first floor of a theatre. In those days, the
theatres blared songs on loudspeakers, thus ensuring that they were
heard not only by the audience but also by those outside. I remember,
I was appearing for my Matric preliminary examination. It was quiet
in the classroom, as well as outside. Suddenly, at around four or
four-thirty p.m., the notes of a western musical instrument soared
higher and higher, and then descended. I stopped writing. Mukesh's
flighty voice followed those notes like a babbling brook:
“Patali
qamar hai, tirchhi nazar hai
khile
phool si teri jawani,
koi
bataye kahaan kasar hai!”
Mukesh, who
normally sang in melancholy tones, was, today, heady, intoxicating.
After a brief pause, I was about to start writing again, when Lata's
heart-rending cry soared to the heavens...
“Aaऽऽऽ,
aaja mere manchahe balam
aaja tera aankhon mein ghar haiऽऽ”
I gave up all
thoughts of writing. On the one hand a man enamoured of a free,
unfettered life, and, on the other, a grieving, heartbroken woman's
lamentations:
M: main chanchal madmast pawan hoon
jhoom, jhoom har kali ko choomoon
F: bichhad gayi main ghayal hirni
tumko dhoondhoon, ban ban ghoomoon
M: meri zindagi mast safar hai
patli qamar hai, tirchhi nazar hai
F: tum bin nainon ki barsaatein
rok na paoon, lakh manaoon
M: main behte dariya ka paani
khel kinaron se badh jaoon, bandh na paoon
naya nagar, nit nayi dagar hai,
patli qamar hai, tirchi nazar hai
This was the first
song of Shailendra's which I heard, our first indirect introduction.
It's enchantment never faded. (Due to the easy flow of the lyrics I
was firmly convinced that the poet had written the song first, and
the music director had then set it to music. It was fourteen or
fifteen years later that I learnt from Shailendra that it was the
other way round!) “Barsat mein hum se mile tum” and “Patali
qamar hai” were the first two songs Shailendra wrote after joining
the film industry.
I
first saw Shailendra in Ahmedabad, sometime in 1957 or 1958. A joint
programme of Talat Mahmood and Shailendra had been arranged at the
Town Hall. Talat entranced us with his sweet singing, of course, but
Shailendra, too, contributed to the success of an unusual programme.
He'd first explain the 'situation' of a song in the film. Then he
would recite the song in his own way, and, finally, would play a
tape-recording of the song as sung by the singer. These were songs as
yet unreleased, unheard. He brought the programme alive. His reading
of “Sab kuchh seekha humne, na seekhi hoshiyari” from 'Anari',
and “Ab kisi ko kisi par bharosa nahin” from 'Ujala' was charged
with emotion. To my surprise, he looked exactly like the mental image
I'd formed of him from his songs. This rarely happens. A slim, dark,
bright-eyed young man with a charming laugh. Whenever I saw him
laugh, Renu's
observation came to mind: “When Shailendra smiles, the refrain of
some romantic song echoes.”
My first meeting
with Shailendra was in January 1964 at his bungalow 'Rimjhim' in
Khar. [Translator's note: a suburb of Mumbai] (He'd named the
bungalow Rimjhim because the film 'Barsat' had brought him great
success. His film production company was named 'Image Makers'.) I'd
gone there to invite him to chair a Hindi poets' gathering at Ismail
Yusuf College. I was a newcomer to Mumbai then, and he was kind
enough to explain what was necessary to make a poets' conference
successful. When he turned up at the venue in his car right on the
dot, a weight was lifted off my mind. He was dressed in a white
shirt, white trousers, and a sweater, wore chappals, and carried a
tin of '555' cigarettes. (Many of his hit songs had been initially
written on cigarette tins when inspiration struck him!) To hear “Dost
dost na raha, pyar pyar na raha” from his lips was a moving
experience for the students. 'Sangam' had yet to be released then. I
have another recollection of those times. Professor Shankar Vaidya
[Translator's note: A noted Marathi poet and literary critic]
had reviewed a collection of poems in 'Aalochana' magazine. Therein,
he had criticised poets who wrote special crowd-pleasing poems
specifically to garner applause at recitals. I mentioned this to
Shailendra when I introduced the two of them. His reaction was, “We
lyricists, who write songs to tune, are better than such 'singing'
poets. Listening to our songs is always a pleasure. While we may
applaud those poets at recitals, later, on reflection, we realise
what fools we were.”
We met many times
in the next three years. We conversed freely. His speech, while sweet
and modest, was self-assured and straightforward. Whenever I tried
(deliberately!) to needle him or criticised him, he heard me out
quietly and attentively, and then rebutted my arguments confidently
and cogently. He never evaded the questions or gave airy-fairy
answers. He knew he was talented, and was justly proud of the fact,
without being in the slightest degree conceited. This was in marked
contrast to most in the film industry, who believe only themselves to
be intelligent , and the rest of the world to be fools. As I wished
to write about Shailendra, I requested him many a time to collect all
his songs and give them to me. The song pamphlets available on the
market are full of mistakes, making it very difficult to use them for
reference. However, he kept putting it off, and right till the end,
never did give me the collection. On pestering him, he'd say, “Forget
it, yaar, there are many famous poets for you professors to write
about.” He'd easily slipped from “aap” to “yaar”. Once, he
told me the reason he got on so well with me. While chatting over the
telephone, I'd said that I could never forget the following lines
from the song 'Ramaiyya vastavaiyya'
“yaad aati rahi, dil
dukhati rahi
apne man ko manana na
aaya humein
tu na aaye to kya,
bhool jaaye to kya
pyar karke bhulana na
aaya humein...”
He mentioned this
and said, “As soon as I heard you say that, I knew we'd get on, for
I, too, love those lines.”
Shailendra's
memories of the time when his mind awoke to song and music were
poetic. He was born in Rawalpindi on 30th August, 1923.
His father was in military service. Shailendra could vividly
recollect the nights in Kohmurree (now in Pakistan). Strange noises
could be heard at night, it being impossible to say whether they were
caused by animals or by ghosts. Fear would keep sleep at bay, and
he'd never realise when he finally dropped off. By morning, snow
would be piled high outside, making it difficult to open the door.
His father would shovel away the snow, while he'd sit on a cot with a
rug wrapped around him to keep out the cold. His father, who had to
go for parade, would sing devotional songs while taking his bath:
“ab kahaan jaayego re leenhon haath pakad ke...”
This image of the
child Krishna, imprinted on his mind in childhood, never faded. His
mother would sing while grinding:
“hans poochhe Janakpur ki naarnaath
kaise gaj ke phand chhudaaye...”
This was
Shailendra's first introduction to songs, music, and poetry. He could
also remember the first time he'd actually participated in singing
and music. On the night of Vasant Panchami, devotees of the
Shivnarayan sect were singing:
“deen dayaal krupaal mahaprabhodeen dayaal krupal mahaprabho...”
He
was enthusiastically singing along, and playing a tambourine.
Shailendra was of the opinion that a feel for rhythm was, at least to
some extent, something one had to be born with; for he'd seen many
who could not develop an ear for it despite a lifetime of training.
For
domestic reasons, he'd had to quit college and train as a mechanic
instead, something which hurt this young man with a yen for
literature a great deal. As if that wasn't enough, his Hindi
professor rubbed salt into his wounds by asking derisively, “So,
will you be writing poems on the subject of machines now?”
He'd
no idea then that machines can 'sing' too. It was only later that he
realised that one could sing along with machines. Notes could be
played on them as on a 'tanpura'. Provided one strikes the right
note, one can sing of moonbeams beneath a blazing sun, he'd say.
The
next 7-8 years passed singing with machines in Mumbai while working
for the Railways. In those days, he used to stay in the Railway
Quarters at Parel. Life in the railway workshop was an eye-opener for
Shailendra. He saw people who'd come from all corners of the country.
He saw both, the essential unity of Bharat, as well as its social
disparities. Shailendra was also involved in trade union activities.
The grinding poverty and social inequality he saw during that period
affected him profoundly. On pay-day, there would be a veritable
baazaar of sweetmeat and clothing stalls outside the factories and
workshops. Sadly, there would also be moneylenders and Pathans
waiting to pounce on the workers to extract their pound of flesh. As
soon as a man stepped out of the gate, they'd grab hold of him.
Shailendra was distressed by the fact that poverty was stuck to the
country like a leech, that crores of people survived only on loans,
or by begging. In Mumbai, he saw hundreds of homeless folk who,
perforce, slept on the streets, wandered aimlessly night and day,
doing whatever work they could manage to get, going hungry if they
couldn't, or even stealing. He also saw the extremely wealthy in
their skyscrapers. His mind rebelled. He sang the songs he wrote
during that period in processions, and at public gatherings of around
fifty thousand people. These songs were later published in 'Naya
Sahitya' and 'Hans'. Those songs were vehement, even loud. But
Shailendra always maintained that the opportunity he got to observe
people's lives, their tastes at close quarters, to be a part of their
lives, stood him in good stead in his work as a lyricist later.
He
felt that he should always be aware that, more than a poet, he was an
ordinary human being. An artiste is a common man too, not someone
descended from the heavens. Otherwise, how can he empathise with the
joys and sorrows of his fellow men, how can he express them? In
Shailendra's words, “This 'I', this common man inside me has often
scattered the pompous display of the poet within, and vigorously
shaken awake the songster. This 'I' has scratched, and clawed, and
permanently disfigured the visage of the poet in me. For a long time,
the poet has diligently preserved a silken 'kurta' and a fine
'dhoti', but he never gets an opportunity to don them. His delicate,
frameless pair of spectacles, too, lie unused, for 'I' still has
sharp eyesight.” In Shailendra's opinion, artistes who consider
common folk to be fools and their taste cheap or base, are either
unable to understand ordinary people or do not have the capacity to
create something good and beautiful. Shailendra wasn't a poet who
wrote for a select few. He was a poet of the people. Hundreds of his
songs were such that each man who hummed them felt that they
expressed what was in his own mind. This was the secret of
Shailendra's success.
In
those days, Shailendra was a member of a cultural organisation named
IPTA. In 1948, Raj
Kapoor used to work with his father (Prithviraj Kapoor) in Prithvi
Theatre. He'd just started work on his first film. At an IPTA
programme, he heard Shailendra sing “mori bagiya mein aag laga gayo
re gora pardesi”. The emotions tugged at his heartstrings. Once, at
Kohmurree, some white children had thrown stones, deliberately and
with malice, at Shailendra's sister. One of the stones hit her on the
forehead causing her to bleed. All his life, he could never erase the
memory of that first experience of the injustice of foreign rule. He
gave vent to his anger through his many songs of freedom. For his
forthcoming film, 'Aag', Raj Kapoor wanted a song portraying the
horrors of partition, and he was looking for a song-writer. He went
up to Shailendra and introduced himself. “I'm Prithvirak Kapoor's
son. I'm producing a film called 'Aag'. Will you write songs for my
film?”
“No”,
was Shailendra's curt reply.
Raj Kapoor, obviously, did not expect such an answer. He broached the subject of money, but Shailendra was unmoved. Later, in a small but heartfelt article about Shailendra, Raj Kapoor wrote that, in those days, films were full of cheap 'tum tuma tum tum' type of songs. Consequently, it was natural for a gifted poet like Shailendra to have no love lost for cinema. Shailendra bluntly told him, “ I do not write songs for money, and I can see no other reason to write songs for your film. Then why should I?” These were sentences that would suit the protagonist of a Hindi film down to the ground. But it happened, and it hurt Raj Kapoor somewhat. They were both young, and around the same age. “All right. If you do change your mind, come to me. You're always welcome.”, said Raj Kapoor, and left. Shailendra's refusal had enhanced the respect he felt for him.
'Aag' was made without Shailendra. Raj Kapoor started preparations for 'Barsaat'. One day, Shailendra turned up at his office without notice.
“Do
you remember you'd come to me once? You'd asked me to write songs for
your film.”
Beset
by circumstances, Shailendra's face showed a mixture of worry,
despair, and some anger.
“Yes,
I remember”, said Raj Kapoor.
“I
need money. Five hundred rupees. I'm prepared to do whatever work you
say.”, Shailendra said.
It was not in Shailendra's nature to beat about the bush, or to be obsequious. He'd express his opinions and criticisms frankly and fearlessly to Raj Kapoor. That was why Raj Kapoor considered him a true friend.
In this manner, Raj brought Shailendra into the film industry. Shailendra wrote two songs for 'Barsaat', the theme song “Barsaat mein hum se mile tum”, and “Patali qamar hai”. 'Barsaat' was a smash hit, and story-writer Ramanand Sagar, actor Premnath, actress Nimmi, music directors Shankar-Jaikishan, and lyricists Shailendra and Hasrat Jaipuri became overnight sensations. Shailendra wrote songs for all of Raj Kapoor's films from 'Barsaat' to 'Mera Naam Joker'. Raj Kapoor got Shailendra to write the theme songs for every single one of those films.
The
artiste in Raj Kapoor and the poet in Shailendra were in tune.
Shailendra could express himself freely, the way he wished, through
the medium of Raj Kapoor's films. Both wished to convey what they
felt to the common man. One was an artiste of the people, the other,
a people's poet. Their wishes, their dreams were as one. Only
Shailendra could reach deep inside Raj Kapoor's mind. Raj would
freely admit that songs like “Awaara hoon”, “Mera joota hai
Japani”, penned by Shailendra and sung by Mukesh, were a major
factor in his international reputation. His image was created by
those songs.
Whatever Shailendra wrote, he wrote from the bottom of his heart. He'd keep revising it again and again till he was satisfied. Once he was, it was well nigh impossible to get him to make any changes. Even Raj Kapoor himself could never manage it. Music director Shankar wanted the words “dason dishaon” in the line “raatein dason dishaon se kahengi apni kahaniyan” from the song “Pyar hua, iqraar hua” changed. He felt that people wouldn't understand them. He and Shailendra quarrelled bitterly over it. Shailendra told him, “Your job is to compose tunes, mine is to write songs. I'm well aware of how to go about my job!” Eventually, Raj Kapoor accepted Shailendra's point of view. “Raja ki aayegi baaraat” from 'Aah', sung beautifully by Lata, has the following lines:
“main
bhi apne man ki asha puri karoongi zaroor,
mehndi
se peeley honge haath
saheliyon
ke saath
magan
main naachoongi”
Raj
Kapoor asked Shailendra, “Can't you make some changes in 'mehndi se
peeley honge haath'?” “Whatever I've written is correct!”, said
Shailendra firmly, and with an air of finality. Shailendra would
never sit down to write a song until he'd thoroughly internalised the
'situation', until he felt it from within. As a result, sometimes he
put off writing a song for months. At times, this habit of his
infuriated Raj Kapoor. He often said that if Shailendra had churned
out songs for money, he could have purchased many buildings in
Mumbai. Raj Kapoor grew weary of asking Shailendra for the theme song
of 'Mera Naam Joker'. But the wait proved worth it. When Shailendra
finally gave him the refrain ( “mukhda”) of the song, Raj was
overjoyed.
“Jeena
yahaan, marna yahaan, iske siva jaana kahaan
ji
chaahe jab hum ko awaaz do, hum hain vahin hum thé jahaan
apne
yahin donon jahaan, iske siva jaana kahaan”
On
watching the film, it was apparent that Shailendra managed to convey
in just three lines what Raj Kapoor and Khwaja Ahmad Abbas couldn't
in four hours of coloured film. This was a measure of Shailendra's
greatness. But he passed away before he could complete the song,
before writing the stanzas ('antaras'). After his death, Raj Kapoor
asked many a renowned song-writer to complete the song, but none of
their efforts met with his approval. One day, Shailendra's son,
'Shaili Shailendra', asked a troubled Raj Kapoor for permission to
try his hand. “Yes, yes, go ahead”, said Raj, and surprisingly
the 'antaras' Shaili wrote found favour in his eyes. He'd managed to
convey exactly what Raj Kapoor wanted:
“ye
mera geet, jeevan sangeet, kal bhi koi dohraaega
jag
ko hasane behroopiya roop badal phir aayega
swarg
yahin, nark yahaan, iske siva jaana kahaan
kal
khel mein hum ho na ho, gardish mein taare rahenge sada
bhuloge
tum, bhoolenge wo, par hum tumhare rahenge sada
rahenge
yahin apne nishaan, isske siva jaana kahaan”
Over
a period of 16-17 years, Shailendra wrote songs for over 125 films
for music directors like Shankar-Jaikishen, S. D. Burman, Salil
Chowdhury, Anil Biswas, earning great popularity in the process. He
had a definite point of view about songs which was why he was
successful. He was the recipient of the first ever Filmfare award for
lyricists for the song “Ye mera deewanapan hai ya mohabbat ka
suroor” from 'Yahudi'.
What constitutes a Hindi film song? Many believe that it's nothing but a few catch phrases like pyar, mohabbat, baalam, sanam, dil ke tukde etc., and the usual, tired, clichéd rhymes. And, in the case of many a song, they're not far wrong. Shailendra showed that, despite the many limitations on film songs, it is possible to say something novel and moving.
As a play is meant to be performed on stage, not read, a film song is meant to be screened. It has to be simultaneously seen and heard, and is written from that viewpoint. Acting brings to life many a sentence that seems humdrum when read. In a similar vein, one is often disappointed on reading a song which sounded impressive while watching the film. Since it is important for a song to be understood, it's vital to use simple words. As it has to be set to music, the music directors do not want the hassle of compound letters. They want 'sapna', not 'swapn', 'meet' or 'mitwa', not 'mitra'. Often, singers have their own difficulties. Some playback singers refuse songs having Sanskrit words as they cannot pronounce them correctly. A song-writer has to consider them, as well. Many a time, a song has to be written to a tune already composed by the music director. To top it all, the feelings to be conveyed through the song aren't those of the lyricist himself, but of a character in the film in a particular situation. Consequently, he does not have the freedom to write whatever springs to mind. It is no easy matter to maintain one's individuality while working within all these constraints.
Shailendra believed that writing songs for films was an art in itself. Almost all our films have songs. He never forgot that those songs served as conversation. He was well aware that if they didn't, they'd appear intrusive, and interrupt the flow of the narrative. He was opposed to the view that a good song could not be written to a pre-existing tune. What was new or difficult about writing to a tune, he'd ask. After all, poets have been writing poetry set to metre, i.e. pre-existing tunes, from time immemorial. If a song-writer has an ear for music, not only can he write easily and well to a tune, he also gets new metres to write in, he'd say. At the same time, a music director also needs to have a feel for poetry. Only then can he compose apt tunes which bring out the depth of emotions in a song already written. Many of the songs which Shailendra wrote to pre-composed tunes can be rated as excellent poetry. Music director Shankar still recalls a night when he was strumming a sitar in a dimly lit room, composing a tune. Shailendra, sitting opposite, immediately wrote words filled with pain and anguish to those pathos-laden notes:
“Roun
main saagar ke kinare, saagar hansi udaye
kya
jaane ye chanchal lehren, main hoon aag chhupaye...”
Playback
singer C. H. Atma, who sang this song in his deep, solemn voice,
became famous overnight.
Shailendra's songs were well-written, natural, and simple. He was extremely particular in his selection of words and emotions. He never forgot that that his song had to be filmed. Raj Kapoor used to say that when Shailendra read out a song to him, he saw rather than heard it. Take, for example, the song “Mera naam Raju, gharana anaam” from 'Jis Des Mein Ganga Behti Hai'. Raju is rowing a boat, funeral pyres are burning on the ghats of Benares—all this is contained in the song. There is a smooth flow to his songs. He took great care to ensure that they had no breaks or contradictions. (Otherwise the 'gori' in the refrain turned 'saawali' in the subsequent stanza!) To express intense emotions in simple, straightforward language was characteristic of Shailendra. Because he drew so much of his inspiration from life itself, there was no trace of artificiality in his writing. During a quarrel with Shankar-Jaikishen, he'd exclaimed, “Chhoti si ye duniya, pehchane raaste hain, kabhi to milenge, kahin to milenge, to poochhenge haal”. This became Kishore's hit song in 'Rangoli'. Once, Shailendra and Jaikishen were walking down a road. Jaikishen kept turning his head to look at a passing girl. Shailendra said to him, “ Mud mud ke na dekh...tu akela hi nahin hai, hum bhi tere humsafar hain...”. With minor modifications, this line became the refrain of a popular song from 'Shri 420': “Mud mud ke na dekh, mud med ke, zindgani ke safar mein tu akela hi nahin hai, hum bhi tere humsafar hain...”.
Some lyricists write romantic songs well, but are found wanting when anything else is required. Not so Shailendra, who wrote all sorts of songs with consummate ease. He penned songs expressing subtle shades of heartbreak, of fulfilment of love, patriotic songs, songs on social and familial subjects, devotional songs, even children's songs. There was philosophy in his songs too, but it was expressed simply, and in such a way that it immediately touched one's heart. In his own words, “Dil ka haal sune dilwala, seedhi si baat, na mirch-masala...”.
Shailendra's romantic songs were never vulgar. He never forgot to qualify a naughty “Ruk ja o jaanewali, ruk ja” with “nazaron mein teri main bura sahi, aadmi bura nahin main dil ka”. “Mere man ki Ganga aur tere man ki Jamna ka, bol, Radha, bol, sangam hoga ke nahin”, used to tease Radha, the heroine of 'Sangam', was carefully worded to evoke memories of Radha embedded in the collective Indian subconscious:
“kitni
sadiyan beet gayi hai, haaye, tujhe samjhaane mein
mere
jaisa dheerajwala hai koi aur zamaane mein?”
He put into words the dreamlike state
of a lovelorn mind with
“jaane
kaise sapnon mein kho gayi ankhiyaan
main
to hoon jaagi, meri so gayi ankhiyaan”,
as well as the unending torment of a
heartbroken one:
Patriotism was in Shailendra's heart,
it wasn't just a cloak he'd put on. That was why he could write:
“Mera
joota hai Japani, ye patloon Inglistani
sar
pe laal topi Roosi, phir bhi dil hai Hindustani”
“phir bhi dil hai Hindustani”
showed a proud man not in thrall to any foreign countries. In “hum
us des ke vaasi hain, jis des mein Ganga behti hai”, he compared
East and West, putting his finger unerringly on the latter's
Achilles' heel:
“kuchh
log jo jyaada jaante hain
insaan
ko kum pehchaante hain
ye
purab hai, purabwale
har
jaan ki keemat jaante hain”
In these few, simple words Shailendra
stated that in the West, scientific progress and an explosion of
knowledge was accompanied by a decline in humanity. In “ab kahaan
jaayein hum” he created powerful images of the fear and mistrust
pervading our present age:
“Ab
kahaan jaayein hum, ye bata ai zameen
is
jahaan mein to koi hamara nahin
apne
saaye se bhi log darne lage
ab
kisi ko kisi par bharosa nahin
nafrat
hai nigahon mein, vehshat hai nigahon mein
ye
kaisa zehar phaila duniya ki hawaon mein
pyar
ki bastiyaan khaak hone lagi
ab
kisi ko kisi par bharosa nahin”
Though, using an aimless vagabond as
vehicle, he proclaimed the following philosophy of life
, he was keenly aware of the fact that
man was not master of his own fate. That was why he portrayed man's
helplessness through “idhar jhoomke gaaye zindagi, udhar hai maut
khadi” from “Tu pyar ka
sagar hai”, “kathputli ka khel hai duniya, sajan hai us paar”
from “Bol ri
kathputli, dori”, and “is paar aansu, us paar aahein, hum
yahaan na vahaan” from “Andhe
jahaan ke andhe raaste, jaayein to jaayein kahaan”. In “Awara
hoon”, his 'awara' demands to know from the world the reason for
his plight—his fate, or social inequity?
“aabad
nahin, barbaad sahi,
gaata
hoon khushi ke geet magar
zakhmon
se bhara seena hai mera
hansti
hai magar ye mast nazar
duniyaऽऽ,
duniya,
main tere teer ka ya
taqdeer ka mara hoon”
I remember,
Shailendra had confided in me,”I'm hurt by social inequality, but,
basically, my muses are love, nature, and music. I'm inexorably drawn
towards them:
“mujhko ye narak na
chhahiye
mujhko phool, mujhko
geet, mujhko preet chhahiye
mujhko chhahiye
bahar...”
The various
dialects of Hindi, and their folk songs were a constant influence on
Shailendra's film songs. “Daiya
re, daiya re chhadh gayo papi bichhua”, sung by Lata and Manna
Dey in 'Madhumati' was very popular. “Chithiya
ho to har koi baache, bhaag na baache koy” sung by Mukesh in
'Teesri Kasam' was very moving, while Asha brought tears to the eyes
with her distressing rendition of a young girl's memories of her
paternal home:
“Ab ke baras bhej bhaiyya ko
babul
sawan mein leejo bulaye re
lautegi jab mere bachpan ki
sakhiyan
deejo sandesa bhijaay re
ambua tale phir se jhoole
padenge
rimjhim padengi phuhare
lautengi phir tere aangan mein
babul
sawan ki thandi baharein
chhalke nayan, mora tarse re
jiyara
bachpan ki jab yaad aaye re”
Shailendra was
extremely proud of Indian culture, and his songs are laced with
mythological references, obvious as well as subtle. It was hardly
surprising that “Pativrata
Seetamai ko tune diya banvaas” from 'Awara', which fit the
situation to a T, was effective. Less obvious but deeply evocative
was the reference to Ahilya in “O basanti pawan paagal”:
“ban
ke patthar hum pade thé
sooni sooni raah mein
jee
uthe hum jab se teri baah aayi baah mein”
How
Shailendra managed effortlessly to find apt words which fit perfectly
into tunes already composed by music directors is a mystery, but they
certainly created the desired atmosphere:
“bhooli-bisari
yaadein mere hanste-gaate bachpan ki
raat-biraat
chali aati hain neend churane nainan ki
ab
keh doongi karte karte kitne sawan beet gaye
jaane
kab in aankhon ka sharmana jaayega”
or
“laut
aayi sada meri takrake sitaron se
ujadi
hui duniya ke sunsan kinaron se”
Words
like 'bhooli-bisari', 'hanste-gaate', 'raat-biraat', 'takarake',
'ujadi hui', 'sunsan' have often made me feel that the the form and
rhythm of Shailendra's songs could be elucidated using Mardhekar's
technique of literary criticism. Truth to tell, Shailendra could
write so effectively because he'd grasped the cadence of the Hindi
language. Many are unable to find the rhythm of their mother-tongue
despite years of study. Their style remains clumsy. Apart from Hindi,
Shailendra wrote in chaste Urdu as well. He always bore in mind the
fundamental principle that the language of a song had to accord with
the situation in the film. Sahir, while praising Shailendra, once
reminded me that the typically Urdu
“dua
kar gham-e-dil, khuda se dua kar
wafaon
ka majboor daaman bichhakar
jo
bijli chamakti hai unke mahal par
wo
kar le tasalli mera ghar jalakar”
from
'Anarkali' was written by Shailendra.
It is as pointless to complain that Shailendra did not write much literary poetry as to lament that Lata has done nothing in the field of classical music. Just as it is absurd to compare Lata to Kumar Gandharva, Bhimsen Joshi, etc., it is meaningless to compare Shailendra to poets from the Hindi literary firmament. It is characteristic of Lata and Shailendra that they did not reserve the riches of their respective arts for a handful of 'elites', but enriched the lives of countless ordinary men and women. Lata's voice and Shailendra's words resonated not just through the length and breadth of India, but far beyond its borders. They gave boundless joy to crores of people who understood neither classical music nor highbrow poetry. When Shailendra's words and Lata's singing come together, ageless, immortal songs like
“aaja
re ऽऽ
pardesi,
main to kab se khadi is paar
ye
ankhiyan thak gai panth nihaar”
are
created.
I'd asked Shailendra once for his views on the role of song-writers in the history of literature. It had come to my attention that some modern poets used to disparage a first rate poet like G. D. Madgulkar, saying, “He's a lyricist, not a poet”, because he wrote songs for Marathi films. On mentioning this to Shailendra, he immediately answered, “I'm proud of the fact that I'm a song-writer. A songster is just as much an artist as a painter or a musician. Every lyricist doesn't shoehorn words forcibly to create a song; neither does poetry spring naturally and unbidden from the heart of every poet.” He said that he wrote songs for the sheer pleasure of writing, and that the feelings expressed in “Mera naam Raju” were his own:
“kaam
naye nit geet banana
geet
bana ke jahaan ko sunana
koi
na mile to akele mein gaana”
He
could have made a name for himself as a poet, but, because he had
devoted himself to writing film songs, he'd lost the opportunity. He
was aware of this but had neither regrets nor the inferiority complex
about this which afflicts many lyricists. He told me firmly that
whatever he could have said in poems written for himself, he'd
expressed in film songs written for others. It was not that he wrote
something alien in his songs while what he'd have liked to convey
through his poems remained unsaid. If anything, he was happier that
he'd reached a far larger audience through his songs than he could
have have through the medium of poetry. He may have commenced writing
for films for certain reasons; but having once accepted this medium
he devoted himself to it. One who writes film songs in one room and
then goes to another to write a ten page poem in free verse as an
act of atonement, succeeds in neither. Each person must thoughtfully
select his medium of expression and then try to achieve mastery over
it, without regrets and without regard to the opinions of others, he
held. There should be no bitterness that, “X gets five thousand
rupees for one song whereas I only get five for a good poem.” Take
the example of noted Urdu poets who later wrote songs for films. They
wrote hardly any poetry after entering the film industry. “Is it
possible to simultaneously and consistently write good poetry in both
films and literature?”, I'd asked Sahir. His reply was guarded:
“It's possible if one writes for one, or, at the most, two films a
year.” Shailendra, though, had come to terms with the fact that
this was not possible in the competitive world of cinema; and used
songs to articulate all that the poet in him had to say. As he put
it, “Whether my name figures in the history of literature or not, I
consider it my literary success that my songs appeal to, and are
hummed by everyone, from a professor of literature like you to the
ordinary 'awara' roaming the streets. And if, in the future, film
songs are accepted as a poetic genre and their history written, will
I not figure in it?”
Shailendra,
as a producer, brought Phanishwar Nath Renu's short story 'Teesri
Kasam urf Maare Gaye Gulfam' to the silver screen. The film won the
President's gold medal, but ruined him financially. Renu's story was
poetic in its beauty, and the song-writer in Shailendra could not
resist the urge to film such a composition. 'Teesri Kasam' was
Shailendra's dream. Preparations for the film were in full swing when
I first met him. In my mind's eye I can still picture his face
lighting up with enthusiasm as he talked about it. At his insistence,
in the last week of January 1965 I attended some of the film's
shooting at a studio in Andheri. “Don't ask Raj Kapoor any awkward
questions. He's very moody, and we've to shoot his scenes. So, please
be careful.”, he'd whispered in my ear. “Translate 'Teesri Kasam'
into Marathi. I'll help you”, he'd told me. But I never got around
to it. While watching the filming I could not help but wonder how the
film could ever succeed commercially, no matter how well the lyrical
story was brought to the screen. It didn't help that Shailendra was
hell-bent on remaining faithful to the original story. “Film
production is not your métier.
Don't do it. You're a poet. This business is no place for a sensitive
man like you.”, his well-wishers and friends like Raj Kapoor had
advised him. When he refused to heed them and started work on the
film, Raj Kapoor told him what changes were needed in the story to
assure success at the box office. Shailendra firmly answered, “
This is my film, and it'll be made as per my ideas.”
“Sab
kuchh seekha humne, na seekhi hoshiyari
sach
hai duniyawalon ke hum hain anadi”
On
screen Raj Kapoor was the 'anadi' singing this song of Shailendra's,
but the real 'anadi' was Shailendra himself. Rejecting all advice,
he'd set off on the path to ruin.
With
dogged persistence Shailendra completed the film. But his belief in
the essential goodness and honesty of man led him to ignore the
pitfalls in the film industry. Complications inevitably ensued,
entangling him more and more. The film flopped, and he lost his
shirt. He was up to his ears in debt.
But was this the sole reason for his untimely demise? In this business, everyone drinks, everyone incurs debts. With some effort, the debt gets paid off. The emotional and sensitive Shailendra had a premonition of his impending death. On the 15th of December 1966, I was stunned to read of his death in the newspaper. Shailendra had bid adieu to this world on 14th December, Raj Kapoor's birthday.
An image of Shailendra in my room in Hotel Majestic, opposite Regal theatre, swam before my eyes. He'd heard of the death of my one and a half month old son, and had turned up out of the blue to console me. I had sent my wife, Vibhavari, to her parents; and was lying on the bed. It was dark but I'd not turned on the lights. Saying something to the effect of “Why are you sitting in the dark, my friend? Turn on the lights...”, he switched them on himself, illuminating the gloom. Within a few minutes he took me out of the hotel. On the seashore, as we sipped tea, he did his best to cheer me up. How could Shailendra, who had said that the grief of death must be faced and fought bravely, surrender to death so suddenly? His statement, “Humsafar, ek din to bichhadna hi tha” may be true, but why did he hasten so? I'd not heard that he was unwell. We'd met a while ago at a programme but the conversation had been somewhat stilted, causing me some disquiet. I was grieved by his death. It brought to mind the songs of mortality he'd written in his final days. What drove him to write so much about death? What brought about the distrust in “zindagi humein tera aitbaar na raha”? When he was aware of the approach of the Grim Reaper, why didn't he confide in anyone?
“apni
apni sabne keh di lekin hum chupchaap rahe
dard
paraya jisko pyara wo kya apni baat kahe
khamoshi
ka ye afsana reh jaayega baad mere
apnake
har kisi ko begana jaayega...”
Though
all about him poured out their hearts, he remained silent. Speaking
out was not an option for someone who'd always considered the sorrows
of others as his own. The story of his silence will endure long after
he's no more. One who'd considered everyone his own will depart a
lonely stranger...
Saying
“sajan
re jhooth mat bolo, khuda ke paas jaana hai
na
hathi hai,na ghoda hai, vahaan paidal hi jaana hai”
he
prepared to depart. He was about to say what he'd never said so far,
but it was much too late:
“kabhi
jo keh na paaye baat wo hothon pe ab ai
adalat
uth chuki ho to karega kaun sunvaai
hum
to jaate apne gaam, apni Ram Ram Ram
sabko
Ram Ram Ram...”
On
the point of departure he requested the world to forget his mistakes,
and not take the ravings of a madman to heart.
He
was aware that life was a dream, yet he was deeply in love with life.
There was happiness, there was sorrow. Everything was as it should
be. His grievances were on the tip of his tongue, but giving voice to
them was pointless. Swallowing his grief, he set off, walking without
pause, for, to stop would be to accept defeat, something he was not
prepared to do. This world was but a temporary dwelling place, his
home was on the far shore. He was fated to take leave of his fellow
travellers one day...
“Zindagi
khwab hai, tha humein bhi pata
par
humein zindagi se bahot pyar tha
sukh
bhi thé,
dukh bhi thé
dil ko ghere hue
chahe
jaisa tha, rangeen sansar tha...
aa
gayi shikayat labon tak magar
kise
kehte to kya kehna bekaar tha
chal
pade dard peekar to chalte rahe
haarkar
baith jaane se inkaar tha
chand
din tha basera hamara yahaan
hum
bhi mehmaan thé, ghar to us paar tha
humsafar,
ek din to bichhadna hi tha
alvida,
alvida, alvida, alvida...”
1 comment:
Amazing article! Thanks for the translation ..
- Amarendra
songsofshailendra.com
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