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Sargam Jan 2006 Those of you who sang on
the last Annual Day of Swara Sampada in February 2005 (remember?) would also recount the hard work and effort that had gone
into staging the whole show. You will also recollect the grand manner all of you had risen to the occasion and given a rousing
performance; and also helped each other in making the programme a huge success (never mind some flaws – tell me where
there are none?). The Annual Day is near. Sunday
morning, 26th February 2006. That’s the day when you will perform on the Kalidas Stage once again. When your
friends and relatives from near and far will come to cheer you and congratulate you. You must put your best foot forward.
This one-year, 2005 to 2006, has seen a number of you mature and take important strides ahead in your musical odyssey. I have
enjoyed being with you and seeing you blossom in your singing. It has all been worth the effort. The big occasion calls for
big efforts. Please note the following points: All the very best. And God
Bless. I am waiting to congratulate you after the show. Ajai Singh 28 Jan 2006 Well, one can go on and on
about how music is divine, a means to tune in to the consciousness within or to establish communion with one’s inner
being, to listen to the harmony of the spheres, to experience calm and bliss, to enjoy with like minded friends, to converse
with the great masters of yore, to establish a rhythm of life, to express one’s creativity and give vent to one’s
artistic urges. And one would not be far from some profound truths if one does. My concerns are somewhat
more mundane here. For me, music arouses a myriad
of memories. Some of the most tender, and most fulfilling. Besides being important landmarks in whatever little variety that
adorns my musical life. I shall list here two formative, defining, influences. One is of my father, the second of my guru.
To tune in to them, to actualize the nuances of their performance and reaffirm their ideas about music is the greatest activity
that I can possibly perform. And the most fulfilling. That, in essence, is what music means to me. Here, I shall talk of the
first influence. The First
Influence, Father My earliest memories of music
are of my father’s singing. A maverick of sorts, a man of modest means, who would go out of his way to help others,
who enjoyed the good life but had a peculiar contempt for the obsession with money and wealth he found around him. He would
get into a mood and sing in his rich baritone voice for hours on end, to no one in particular. He was a great fan of the legendary
K.L. Sehgal, and contemporaries Pankaj Mullick and K.C. Dey, and a great appreciator of Talat Mehmood, and later on of M.
Rafi too. He was one who voiced his opinion in the 60s that he preferred Asha Bhonsale’s voice to Lataji’s because
he found her more versatile. This, at a time when Lataji ruled the musical world, and the only person who ever gave a chance
to Ashaji to sing was the great O.P.Nayyar. He enjoyed singing new numbers of Ashaji in his rich baritone, almost like Sehgal
singing Ashaji’s songs. And while we smiled and felt embarrassed, he carried on regardless. The voice still rings in
my ear, the song of a man who sang from the heart, whose voice emoted every word that escaped his lips. He also had a great sense
of poetry. He went to great lengths to explain the subtleties and nuances of the lyrics of a song, and got into the skin of
the poet to understand what the poetry conveyed. The first poetry he taught me was a lovely poem by the great English poet
Henry Longfellow, which I have by heart: Lives of great men all remind
us And departing,
leave behind us Footprints
on the sands of time. Footprints
that perhaps another Sailing o’er
life’s solemn main A forlorn,
or ship wrecked brother Seeing, shall
take heart again. What applied to English poetry
was equally applicable to his music. He could never sing a song just for the music, or for cheap thrills. The meaning had
to be heart touching. Then the music had to be soul stirring too. And, finally, the rendition by the singer had to convey
the sense of the poetry and the mood of the music. Any disparity, and it would jar him, which he was quick to realize, and
point out. For me, the greatest moment
in my life was the first Hindi song he taught me, which I, like so many youngsters, was so very reluctant to learn. When a
tiny tot. He sat me one day and said, ‘I will teach you a song of childhood’. And proceeded to teach me: ‘O,
bachpan ke din bhula na dena…’ Just remembering him sing in his baritone gets the eyes to cloud over even today. In grateful thanks for
the great childhood he gave me, and the immortal gift of aesthetics and music appreciation that has been an enduring aspect
of my personality. I had never seen him refer
to any book for the words of a song. We did not even have a radio at home. I just wondered how he mastered the words so well.
And then I knew. The true appreciator of poetry that he was, the words left an indelible impression on his heart. For it to
flow from there to his tongue was, therefore, effortless. I heard him sing for hours,
into the wee hours of the morning at times, without any accompaniment, to no one, for no applause, simply because music welled
up in him. He often urged me to sing with him but I was like any typical shy son, imbibing the music, but not adding my voice
to his. There was a traditional farewell
function as we were to leave school. College beckoned, and all the excitement of being a young man, and being no longer treated
as a mere kid. That was the time he suggested a song. He did not force it on me but said, see if you would like to sing this
song. This was the second song he taught the shy reluctant teenager. It was a long forgotten melody even in his time, ‘Ruk
na sako to jao, tum jao...’ It goes like this: Ruk na sako to jaao, tum
jaao (Repeat) Kabhi hamari
bhi kar lena yaad (Repeat both lines) Hum to tumhe na bhool sakenge
(Repeat) Ruk na sako
to jao, tum jao…. Jane kab phir
mile purana saathi Jane kab phir
mile prem ki paati (Repeat both lines) Aj bichadne
se pahele tum (Repeat) Ek bar muskao,
tum jao… Ruk na sako
to jao, tum jao… He explained that ‘paati’
meant a letter; it was a poetic license for ‘patra’, and what poetic license meant. He also explained that
the original singer said, ‘bichudne’ rather than ‘bichadne’. But the latter sounds better,
so it should be pronounced that way, rather than like the original. Even when he sang the Sehgal numbers, he never copied
his style and his intense nasal twang. His pronounciation of words was always impeccable. This was an important lesson to
learn, for often later singers ape even the mistakes of the original singer, something he strongly disapproved of. I remember the still silence
in my class room in the 11th Standard when I sang this song during the farewell function. The class mates were
stunned. After I finished, there was silence for a while, and then the applause of friends. I came to know later that our
School Principal had tears in her eyes as I sang. This was a number by K.C.Dey,
the illustrious uncle of the great Manna Dey. It was not a very popular song, ever. But that was not important for him. His
likes were never dictated by what was popular. It was solely by what appealed to his heart. And he justified singing as an
art where, if the song does not tug at your heart, you have no business singing it. He had a great fascination
for melodious sad songs. He sang the beautiful Talat song to explain why he liked them: Hain sabse
madhur woh geet jinhe Hum dard ke sur mein gaate
hain (Repeat) Aansoo bhi
chalak ke aate hain (Repeat) And the Shelley poetry on
the Skylark, which said something similar: Our sweetest
songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts. For the young me that was
an important lesson to learn. It helped shape my likes and dislikes at that impressionable age. At a time when the young were
busy thinking of cheap thrills and seeking joy through singing only foot tapping numbers, I learnt that pain, separation,
and unhappiness could be equally soothing if expressed in music and song. A conviction, which remains with me till date. Not
that I abhor the joyous and mirthful, but the depth and intensity that pathos can convey cannot be ever matched by any mirth,
howsoever lilting. The correct pronunciation
of Urdu words, in which most filmi ghazals and other good songs of yester years were written, was a sine qua non
of Hindi film singing for him. So that I could know the language, he requested a polished Muslim gentleman who used to visit
our house almost every Sunday to teach me the language. This young man had been helped by my daddy to complete his education.
He came from a very poor family but wanted to study further. Somehow my daddy came to know of him, and helped him all through
so he settled down to a reasonable job. His logic was, well, we Hindus complain that Muslims are in general a violent lot;
many are uneducated, and live in dirt and filth. But what do we do to uplift them? So he did his bit for this boy, who was
ever grateful to him. The young man, after his marriage, came home one day and sought his blessings. He spoke impeccable Urdu.
The Dilip Kumar and Naushad style of Urdu. My daddy welcomed him and invited him to come over whenever he desired. Sundays
were the days this young man came, and we all ate special mutton dishes cooked exclusively by my daddy. One day, the young man said,
‘ You have done so much for me. What can I do in return?’ My daddy was nonplussed. He was not used to taking any
return of favours from anyone. He only knew how to give, not to take. He said something like that’s ok, I am so happy
you thought of doing something, etc. But the young man was adamant. So he thought for some time and then said, ‘Ok,
if you are so insistent, do this. My son is bright in studies. But I want him to sing too. And unless one knows good Urdu,
one cannot sing. Will you teach him Urdu?’ He was more than willing.
Books were bought and my first lessons in Urdu were started. The correct pronunciations of guttural words, which are a characteristic
of the beautiful language, I learnt from this patient gentleman. How ‘saghar’ is not ‘sagar’,
how ‘qayamat’ is not ‘kayamat’, how ‘gham’ is not ‘gum’,
how ‘phool’ is not ‘fool’, when it is ‘afsana’ and when is it ‘phir’
and not ‘fir’, how it is ‘mujhe’ and never ‘muzhe’, how it is ‘nazaaqat’
and not ‘hajaakat’ – all these subtleties of the language I was fortunate to learn at an early age.
And I owe a deep debt of gratitude to both these souls, my daddy for teaching me the nuances of singing, and his protégé for
introducing me to the delicacies of the beautiful language that Urdu is. (To be concluded) Sargam
June 2006 The
President Speaks His Mind This
month, as you are aware, all Swara Sampadites will be singing songs originally rendered by any one from the Mangeshkar family. Talent is an understatement
when we look at the music that has flown from this family. Whether it be the phenomenon called Lata, or the versatility of
Asha, or even the occasional crooning of Usha and their brother Hridaynath, the space in the world of music that this family
occupies is truly phenomenal. And justifiably so. Their father, the late Dinanath Mangeshkar, was a great
singer in his own right whom the world of music was unfortunate to lose rather early. His singing on the Marathi stage, as
well as the few recordings still present, attest to the robust control he had over his voice, which has passed to his children,
most notably Ashaji. Some observations I would like to share about the two sisters here. Lataji was blessed with a very fresh and tender voice. It enchanted the connoisseurs straight away. With the passage
of time, the voice mellowed, became shriller later, and now it is slowly but surely losing it charm. I only hope she realizes
it and stops professional singing before people stop listening to her new songs. Ashaji, on the other hand, was blessed with a rather shrill voice, which mellowed and flowered dramatically with
time and the influence of music directors like O.P. Nayyar and R.D.Burman. The great hold over sur that she exercises
is a treat to listen to even today. It is not without reason that the great Ghulam Ali chose to sing with her rather than
Lataji in Meraj-e-Ghazal. And she has matched his virtuosity at all levels. The same cannot be said about Lataji’s
singing with Jagjit Singh in Sajda. I have no doubt that if and when a cassette of Jagjitji with Ashaji materializes,
she will match him too. In fact she may even overshadow some of the greats. Lataji was lucky right from the start. The best songs from the best music directors came her way. Ashaji, on the
contrary, had a stormy personal life, and was typed as a sensuous singer, fit for kothewali type songs, or cabaret
numbers, or the O.P.Nayyar type tunes. She struggled on gamely, and is today truly an icon of versatility and virtuosity. Hridaynath, their brother, is extremely talented as a music composer, and also has a voice to reckon with. As Swara Sampadites sing their numbers, let them also thank them for the great treasure of music they have gifted
mankind, and pray to God to give them a long and peaceful life. Ajai Singh 16 June 2006 …………………………….. Sargam Aug 2006 The President Speaks His Mind What Music Means To Me- III (Guruji's Influence) Readers may remember I wrote some time back that for me music means to articulate and present the essence of
music and its nuances as I got it, and learnt it, from two important influences in my life. One, my father, who taught me,
by example and precept, what emotive singing was. The second, my most revered Guruji, Shri Vinayak Kunte, at whose feet I
imbibed whatever little I know of Hindustani classical singing. Guruji from the quintessential teacher. Simple tastes, uncomplicated life style, no craving for fame or fortune.
His greatest love was his tanpura. I remember the love with which he cradled the fortunate instrument to his heart
as he tuned her, and then sang holding her so close to his self. And how the instrument responded to his gentle strumming.
The sweet, melodious, well trained voice, and the well tuned tanpura. Just the two sounds in his simple abode filled
my mind with the divinity which music can arouse in the earnest seeker. I remember one early morning when Guruji was teaching me raga Lalit. It’s an early morning
raga, just before sunrise, and the feeling is, it is meant to usher in the day, and the sunrise, whilst remembering
how shallow are the mundane preoccupations that bog down the ordinary mortals that we are. The tanpura held to his heart, he was teaching me the raga. I followed the intricacies of the
swaras in the raga, the way the two madhyams were to be combined, and the way the komal rishab was to
be touched while descending to the sa. Both of us were absolutely immersed in the intricacies of the raga as
it unfolded around us, and engulfed us. The room was full of the divine sound that emanated from two mortals, divine not because
of us, but because the raga was being rendered in its purest form by a guru, and a disciple who was trying his level
best to just follow what his guruji taught. And as the two of us were immersed in the sublime sounds, I gently opened my eyes.
I distinctly remember, the shining first rays of sunlight entered Guruji’s room and fell close to his feet. The rays
were blessed to be welcomed in the house of such a noble soul, whose whole existence, whose very persona represented the purest
from of music, classical music. Whose very raison de etre (purpose of existence), was to experience, and expound for
the welfare of his students, the purest of music in its most sublime form. Caring for Students I started learning classical music from him during my medical internship. It was possible for me to visit his
house then. Invariably, he was seated waiting for me, with the tanpura ready, before I arrived. In case I was delayed,
I could hear guruji already expounding the raga, with eyes closed, the tanpura tugged close to his heart. It
gets the eyes misty to just remember the pure soul singing. I would often just sit, listening in raptures, to the smooth and
gentle expounding that he did. His languorous alapi flowed effortlessly, and the cascading taans later shook
his nimble frame, but never a whisker of being out of tune. Ever. Then came House Physician’s posts. I had to stay in the RMO quarters. At KEM Hospital . How was music
to continue now? I told sir about the difficulty. He did not think even for a moment. My days were Tuesdays and Thursdays,
3.30 to 4.30 in the afternoons. He said, ‘Me yenar tumhala shikwaila.’ (I will come there to teach you.)
I was dumbfounded. The reason he gave once, ‘Doctarancha chukla nai pahije’ (Doctor should not miss his
music lessons.) What was that unique bond of music that made him do it? He could see the sincerity of the student, perhaps.
He could see that a doctor was trying to do music. There should be no obstacle of any type in his way. And for that, the great
gentle soul traveled nearly an hour by train, and walked 15 mins by foot to reach my hostel. And I do not remember him being
late even for a single day, or missing the day for any reason. I would get delayed at times, working in the Wards, or handling
an emergency. But he was always there, on time, the tanpura tuned, hugged close to his heart, and already singing.
I cannot help the misting of the eyes just thinking of what all he did for me. This was for one full year, at KEM, and it
continued for two years and one month when I was at Sion Hospital . And not once did guruji grumble, or talk of the hassle, or ever ask the fee be raised for all the efforts he
was taking. Where do we get divine souls like this any longer? But I learnt. Two important things. One, the nuances of flawless rendition. Second, and more importantly, to
go out of your way to help someone else actualize his musical quest. To never allow any obstacle to come in the way of the
flowering of music in anyone who came in contact with one. I was blessed to learn it first hand from my guruji. Flawless Rendition This is something I learnt the real painstaking way from him. There was to be no compromise on the perfect
rendition of a raga. Not one blemish was tolerable. Even the alapi and taans had to be rendered the way
he did. If an extra sur was added, and was part of the raga, he would say, ‘Tumcha chukla nahin.
Pun me gheto tasa ghya.’ (It’s not that you have erred. But do it my way and see how it feels.) It was irritating
at times, for the logical mind that I had, I thought why should he object to a variation which was true to the raga.
But after I had, in fact, got rid of my resistance, and actually rendered it the way he taught, I could really find that it
was a more melodious and better presentation. His persistence was well worth it. Secondly, and much more importantly, he could never tolerate any besur, singing out of tune. He would
spend any amount of exasperating time to get the perfect sur. He would not proceed ahead unless it was mastered. If
it took the whole session to get one to sing in tune, so be it. But in that, there was no compromise. And when the perfect
sur was attained after the entire struggle, the tanpura’s sur vibrating in harmony with the vocal chords
created a sublime atmosphere. Often, we only had sessions of alapi stretching for whole sessions. No taans,
no taal, no nothing. Just the pristine sound. To realize that human sound, rendered as music, indeed was sublime. A Final Word Such, indeed, was the Presence I was blessed to learn at the feet of. For me, music has no meaning if it does
not embody the essence of music as my guruji taught me. No compromise on hard work. No compromise on sur. Never to
allow any other considerations except the pure pursuit of music to vitiate any relationship connected with music. To hug the
sublime sounds that emanate from a gentle, simple soul, as also to hug the sublime sounds that emanate from a pure instrument
like the tanpura, close very close to the heart. To live a simple uncomplicated life, immersed in music and the love
and affection of like minded others. That’s what music has come to mean to me. That’s what will always remain, whether we mortals remain
or not. My guruji’s music lives on, within me, and through me passes on to so many around me. His mortal presence
may not be there around. But the immortal gift of music he so benevolently passed on to me, without holding back, ever, that
is one of the fondest memories I shall carry till the very end of my existence. To continue to live in, and through music, and to carry forward the selfless pursuit of music, and pass it on
to others, this is what music means to me, now and always. Dr. Ajai Singh 13 Aug 2006 ……………………………….. Sargam July 2006 This is with my good wishes to you on the Guru Poornima celebrations of Swara Sampada for which we have assembled
today. Dr Ajai R. Singh 14 July 2006 Dr. Ajai Singh M.D., ……………………………………. Sargam Sept 2006 Music As A Therapeutic Agent I was asked to deliver a guest lecture at the Annual Conference of the Indian Psychiatric
Society, Orissa State Branch, on Sunday, 10 Sept 2006, on the above-mentioned topic. Here are some excerpts from the talk. The connection between active music making and the functioning
of the brain and the body has been the subject of intense scientific investigation. Researchers have uncovered evidence that
making music helps young people develop their brains, helps students perform better in a variety of academic areas and promotes
wellness in older people. Now, research adds the prospect of disease fighting to the mix. |
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