 "Sur naa saje")
A homesick Pathan in a Calcutta jail hums a slow, mournful chant pining for his faraway country, Ae mere pyaare watan, in the 1961 film, Kabuliwalla. He imagines it as a loving embrace of a mother at times, and at times as a haunting memory of a little daughter, evoking the pervasive yet ever-changing draw of his land. Those very traits of a moveable feast defined the versatile voice and the craft of the singer, Prabodh Chandra Dey, whom we all came to love as Mannada.
A whole new idiom and grammar of Hindi film music, synthesising the best in Indian classical traditions with western instruments, orchestration and trends emerged in the quarter century from 1945 to 1970. It enthralled connoisseurs and tone-deaf commoners alike. Innovative music directors, their poetic lyricists and indulgent producer-directors of those halcyon days are all gone now. In Manna Dey’s passing on Thursday, we have lost the last male singer from that era. The Mangeshkar sisters are now the sole precious link to that golden age.
Mannada did not possess a trademark like his contemporaries. Mukesh had a plaintive nasal tinge, Talat Mehmood the tremolo, Mohammed Rafi the vibrant tenor, Kishore Kumar the rambunctious playfulness, and Hemant Kumar the deep baritone. Music directors then were known for strong personal preferences. For example, Naushad could simply not abide by Kishore, while Anil Biswas considered Rafi’s voice to be that of an uncouth peasant. No such reservations applied to Manna, whose silky smooth voice could easily traverse three octaves and occasionally four as well, without even a hint of strain. That is why he was readily accepted by all composers.
Manna aspired to be a wrestler as a schoolboy, but when he saw his uncle, the blind singer K C Dey, move his audiences to tears with his songs, he chose music as his career. When the senior Dey was offered music assignments in Bombay in 1942, the youngster accompanied him as his second assistant. His career thus began earlier than his competitors and he continued to sing into the 1990s, long after they had departed the scene.
Manna was the first playback singer to be extensively trained in Hindustani music under the tutelage of Ustad Aman Ali Khan and Ustad Abdul Rahman Khan. That made him the first choice for songs that needed classical gayaki or otherwise considered tricky to perform. He excelled in these. His classical œuvre from Ooper gagan vishaal (Mashaal, 1950) to Tumhare dar tak (Love and God, 1986) is unmatched.
That includes many a gem: the comedic Lapak jhapak (Boot Polish, 1952), the hymn-like Tu pyaar ka saagar hai (Seema, 1955), the taraana based on the Kabir song Laaga chunri mein daag (Dil Hi to Hai, 1963), the plaintive Poochho no kaise maine rein bitayi (Meri Soorat Teri Aankhen, 1963), Jhanak jhank baaje payaliya (Mere Huzoor, 1968) and Aayo kahanse Ghanashyaam (Buddha Mil Gaya, 1971) are but a few such masterpieces.
But Manna’s range was not confined to these. He warbled Aao twist karein (Bhoot Bangla, 1965) for Mehmood. Chubby Checker he was not, but it was zestful. His qawwalis, Na to karwan ki talaash hai (Barsaat ki Raat, 1960) and Ae meri Zohra Jabeen (Waqt, 1965), show his command over that format as well.
Manna’s handicap was that he was not ‘owned’ by a composer or a star of his era. He was often the second or third choice. His list of songs shows a much larger proportion of numbers from B or C grade films and lesser composers as compared to that of his contemporaries. The closest he came to be identified with was Raj Kapoor, who first used him in Awara (1951) in the dream sequence. Shree 420 (1955) was a major break for Manna, with the up-tempo waltz Mud mud ke na dekh and the memorable duet, Pyaar hua ikraar hua. Chori Chori with Raj Kapoor and Nargis (1956) followed soon after. Manna sang all Raj Kapoor songs, including the mellifluous duet supreme, Yeh raat bheegi bheegi, where he hit the high notes even better than Lata did. The pièce de résistance, of course, was Ae bhai zara dekh ke chalo (Mera Naam Joker, 1968).
But Manna never complained about his status. He humbly acknowledged that he lacked the talent of his contemporaries, especially Kishore Kumar, and wistfully said that had he possessed that, he would have been above all. This is a bit like Somerset Maugham’s claim to a seat in the “very first row of the second-raters.” That self-effacing quality of Manna’s is to be admired, but not to be taken as a true assessment of his place. It would be among the all-time great singers.
No scandal or even a trace of impropriety was ever attached to Manna in his seven-decade-long career in an industry where such transgressions are more the rule than exceptions. Only two incidents of a murmur of protest from the singer come to mind.
The first occurred rather early on. The celebrated Kannada novel Hamsageethe by Tarasu (T R Subbarao) used the myth of the dying swan singing without opening its mouth to depict the life of a singer who cut off his tongue rather than submit to a tyrannical king’s wishes. It was made into a lovely Hindi film in 1956, Basant Bahar. Bharat Bhushan, fresh from his Baiju Bawra triumph, played the lead. It fared poorly at the box office, but all its nine songs were gems composed by Shankar-Jaikishan, with words by Shailendra and Hasrat Jaipuri. Manna sang four of them. One of these is a jugalbandi with Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, the only time the doyen of the Kirana gharana sang for Hindi films. Joshi lent his voice to the court singer and Manna to the young challenger, Bharat Bhushan, who wins. Manna refused to sing this, because he thought that it was sacrilege that a journeyman singer like him should prevail over a maestro like Joshi. Finally, Joshi himself had to persuade Manna that it was all right to engage in this little play acting. That number, Ketaki gulab juhi, brilliantly showcases Manna’s classical prowesses.
The other occasion was the recording of the hilarious number, Ek chatur naar, in the comedy classic Padosan (1968). Sunil Dutt, who cannot carry a note, lip-syncs Kishore Kumar to best Mehmood, the Carnatic music teacher, in an ad-libbing contest. Manna, who was to sing for Mehmood, demurred thinking the song and the situation to be a travesty of classical music. Kishore himself recalled later the efforts he and the music director, Rahul Dev Burman, had to make to persuade the reluctant Manna back to rehearsals and recording. Ever one to avoid controversies, Manna put a totally amiable spin on the incident in a 2008 interview.
My favourite Mannada song is Sur naa saje from Basant Bahar. The singer laments, Sur ke bina jivan soona (life is a void without melody). It says, music gives wings to the soul/songs sprinkle ambrosia/melody is sadhana (spiritual pursuit) of God. That is the best epitaph for this beloved sangeet sadhak.
A whole new idiom and grammar of Hindi film music, synthesising the best in Indian classical traditions with western instruments, orchestration and trends emerged in the quarter century from 1945 to 1970. It enthralled connoisseurs and tone-deaf commoners alike. Innovative music directors, their poetic lyricists and indulgent producer-directors of those halcyon days are all gone now. In Manna Dey’s passing on Thursday, we have lost the last male singer from that era. The Mangeshkar sisters are now the sole precious link to that golden age.
Mannada did not possess a trademark like his contemporaries. Mukesh had a plaintive nasal tinge, Talat Mehmood the tremolo, Mohammed Rafi the vibrant tenor, Kishore Kumar the rambunctious playfulness, and Hemant Kumar the deep baritone. Music directors then were known for strong personal preferences. For example, Naushad could simply not abide by Kishore, while Anil Biswas considered Rafi’s voice to be that of an uncouth peasant. No such reservations applied to Manna, whose silky smooth voice could easily traverse three octaves and occasionally four as well, without even a hint of strain. That is why he was readily accepted by all composers.
* * *
Manna aspired to be a wrestler as a schoolboy, but when he saw his uncle, the blind singer K C Dey, move his audiences to tears with his songs, he chose music as his career. When the senior Dey was offered music assignments in Bombay in 1942, the youngster accompanied him as his second assistant. His career thus began earlier than his competitors and he continued to sing into the 1990s, long after they had departed the scene.
Manna was the first playback singer to be extensively trained in Hindustani music under the tutelage of Ustad Aman Ali Khan and Ustad Abdul Rahman Khan. That made him the first choice for songs that needed classical gayaki or otherwise considered tricky to perform. He excelled in these. His classical œuvre from Ooper gagan vishaal (Mashaal, 1950) to Tumhare dar tak (Love and God, 1986) is unmatched.
That includes many a gem: the comedic Lapak jhapak (Boot Polish, 1952), the hymn-like Tu pyaar ka saagar hai (Seema, 1955), the taraana based on the Kabir song Laaga chunri mein daag (Dil Hi to Hai, 1963), the plaintive Poochho no kaise maine rein bitayi (Meri Soorat Teri Aankhen, 1963), Jhanak jhank baaje payaliya (Mere Huzoor, 1968) and Aayo kahanse Ghanashyaam (Buddha Mil Gaya, 1971) are but a few such masterpieces.
But Manna’s range was not confined to these. He warbled Aao twist karein (Bhoot Bangla, 1965) for Mehmood. Chubby Checker he was not, but it was zestful. His qawwalis, Na to karwan ki talaash hai (Barsaat ki Raat, 1960) and Ae meri Zohra Jabeen (Waqt, 1965), show his command over that format as well.
Manna’s handicap was that he was not ‘owned’ by a composer or a star of his era. He was often the second or third choice. His list of songs shows a much larger proportion of numbers from B or C grade films and lesser composers as compared to that of his contemporaries. The closest he came to be identified with was Raj Kapoor, who first used him in Awara (1951) in the dream sequence. Shree 420 (1955) was a major break for Manna, with the up-tempo waltz Mud mud ke na dekh and the memorable duet, Pyaar hua ikraar hua. Chori Chori with Raj Kapoor and Nargis (1956) followed soon after. Manna sang all Raj Kapoor songs, including the mellifluous duet supreme, Yeh raat bheegi bheegi, where he hit the high notes even better than Lata did. The pièce de résistance, of course, was Ae bhai zara dekh ke chalo (Mera Naam Joker, 1968).
But Manna never complained about his status. He humbly acknowledged that he lacked the talent of his contemporaries, especially Kishore Kumar, and wistfully said that had he possessed that, he would have been above all. This is a bit like Somerset Maugham’s claim to a seat in the “very first row of the second-raters.” That self-effacing quality of Manna’s is to be admired, but not to be taken as a true assessment of his place. It would be among the all-time great singers.
* * *
No scandal or even a trace of impropriety was ever attached to Manna in his seven-decade-long career in an industry where such transgressions are more the rule than exceptions. Only two incidents of a murmur of protest from the singer come to mind.
The first occurred rather early on. The celebrated Kannada novel Hamsageethe by Tarasu (T R Subbarao) used the myth of the dying swan singing without opening its mouth to depict the life of a singer who cut off his tongue rather than submit to a tyrannical king’s wishes. It was made into a lovely Hindi film in 1956, Basant Bahar. Bharat Bhushan, fresh from his Baiju Bawra triumph, played the lead. It fared poorly at the box office, but all its nine songs were gems composed by Shankar-Jaikishan, with words by Shailendra and Hasrat Jaipuri. Manna sang four of them. One of these is a jugalbandi with Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, the only time the doyen of the Kirana gharana sang for Hindi films. Joshi lent his voice to the court singer and Manna to the young challenger, Bharat Bhushan, who wins. Manna refused to sing this, because he thought that it was sacrilege that a journeyman singer like him should prevail over a maestro like Joshi. Finally, Joshi himself had to persuade Manna that it was all right to engage in this little play acting. That number, Ketaki gulab juhi, brilliantly showcases Manna’s classical prowesses.
The other occasion was the recording of the hilarious number, Ek chatur naar, in the comedy classic Padosan (1968). Sunil Dutt, who cannot carry a note, lip-syncs Kishore Kumar to best Mehmood, the Carnatic music teacher, in an ad-libbing contest. Manna, who was to sing for Mehmood, demurred thinking the song and the situation to be a travesty of classical music. Kishore himself recalled later the efforts he and the music director, Rahul Dev Burman, had to make to persuade the reluctant Manna back to rehearsals and recording. Ever one to avoid controversies, Manna put a totally amiable spin on the incident in a 2008 interview.
My favourite Mannada song is Sur naa saje from Basant Bahar. The singer laments, Sur ke bina jivan soona (life is a void without melody). It says, music gives wings to the soul/songs sprinkle ambrosia/melody is sadhana (spiritual pursuit) of God. That is the best epitaph for this beloved sangeet sadhak.
The writer is terminally addicted to Hindi golden-oldies.