Polite, unmistakably cultured, and endowed with creativity, my London-based friend Achala Sharma becomes uncharacteristically stern when someone refers to the great Indian singer, the late Mohammed Rafi (1924-1980), merely as Rafi. Looking intently into the eyes of the offender, Achala ji, the former chief of Hindi BBC Radio Service, raises a finger and firmly states — her voice gone from supple to steely — “Rafi Saheb, please”. The emphasis upon the suffix leaves no doubt about her reverence for the maestro nor does it permit others to be any less respectful of him.
Now, we all know Mohammed Rafi and it is only to check a few boxes of literary formality that I note that he was born in a village near Amritsar, spent a few years of his childhood in Lahore, and at the age of 14 arrived in Bombay (now Mumbai). He gave his first stage performance at age 13, recorded his first song for the Punjabi film, Gul Baloch, at age 20, and got his break in Hindi film industry at the age of 21 with a solo rendering in the 1945 movie Gaon Ki Gori. The rest, as they say, is history. The increasingly popular singer worked with all the great music directors of his time, starting from Shyam Sundar and Husn Lal-Bhagat Ram through Naushad, OP Nayyar, SD Burman, Shankar-Jaikishan, Chitragupta and C Ramchandra, to Laxmikanth-Pyarelal, Jaidev, C Arjun and Khayyam. He lent his voice as a playback singer convincingly to actors as diverse as Dilip Kumar and Shammi Kapoor, Dev Anand and Bhagwan, and Balraj Sahni and Johnny Walker. All in all, he sang about 7,000 songs in 13 Indian and seven foreign languages. He won six Filmfare Awards, one National Award, numerous international prizes and recognitions and was honoured with Padma Shri.
To be sure, such exceptional achievement deserves to be celebrated and cherished. However, far more striking than this enviable curriculum vitae is the breathtaking versatility of Mohammed Rafi’s creative praxis. He sang romantic songs, bhajans, qawwalis, comedic numbers, ghazals, semiclassical compositions, laments, “drunk hero” items, and patriotic anthems with comparable gusto and dexterity. His capacity to immerse himself in such broad range of human subjectivity was astonishing and made him stand heads and shoulders above the fellow singers not only of his era but of all times.
Bracing for accusations of incompleteness, I list eight emotional experiences that Mohammed Rafi masterfully conveyed through his voice, noting that in each of them he could titrate the expression from subtle through lucid to outspoken. The resulting 24 variations of voice, uncannily, correspond to the date of his birth (December 24,1924)!
Romance: From the sublime (Aap ke haseen rukh pe aaj naya noor hai, Bahaarein Phir Bhi Aayengi, 1966) through the impish (O mujhe dekh kar aap ka muskuraana, Ek Musafir, Ek Haseena, 1962) to the audacious (Yeh chaand sa roshan chehra, Kasmir ki Kali, 1964).
Separation: From the pleading (O door ke musafir, hum ko bhi saath le le, Uran Khatola, 1955) through the resigned (Chal urh ja re panchhi, Bhabhi, 1957) to the tearjerker (Babul ki duaayein leti ja, Neelkamal, 1968).
Heartbreak: From the anguished (Toote huye khwaabon ne hum ko yeh sikhaaya hai, Madhumati, 1958) through the regretful (Main yeh soch kar us ke dar se uthha tha, Haqeeqat, 1964) to the aching (Din dhal jaaye hai, raat na jaaye, Guide, 1965).
Humour: From the ironic (Yeh hai Bombay, meri jaan, C.I.D, 1956) through the playful (Sar jo tera chakraaye, Pyaasa, 1957) to the bawdy (Suno suno Miss Chatterjee, mere dil ka matter ji, Howrah Bridge, 1958).
Inebriation: From the defiant (Mujhe duniya waalon, sharaabi na samjho, Leader, 1964) through the sorrowful (Mehfil se uthh jaane waalo, tum logon par kya ilzaam, Chhandi ki Deewar, 1964) to the inconsolable (Koi saaghar dil ko behlaata nahin, Dil Diya Dard Liya, 1966).
Self-awakening: From the soothing (Jaag dil-e-divaana, Oonche Log, 1965) through the insightful (Aaj puraani raahon se koi mujhe awaaz na de, Dil Diya Dard Liya, 1966) to the outrageous (Yahoo! Chaahey koi mujhe junglee kahe, Junglee, 1961).
Religious: From Hindu devotion (Man tarpat hari darshan ko aaj, Baiju Bawra, 1952) through Biblio-Islamic liturgy (Parvardigaar-e-aalam, tera hi hai sahaara, Hatim Tai, 1956) to the spiritually transcendent (man re , tu kaahey na dheer dharey, Chitralekha, 1964).
Patriotism: From the celebratory (Yeh desh hai veer javaanon ka, Naya Daur, 1957) through the declarative (Apni aazaadi ko hum hargiz mita saktey nahin, Leader, 1964) to the exhortative (Awaaz do hum ek hain, Indian Film Division Documentary, 1962).
How to account for such majestic ability of one person to submerge his individuality into so many and so varied affective states that we — all of us — feel it? The only explanation that comes to my mind is that such individual must have been deeply compassionate, empathic, and thus most fundamentally human at his core. This authenticity-universality paradox was evident in his private calm and public celebrity status as well as in his being a deeply patriotic Indian and a genuine world citizen.
This last-mentioned dimension brings to my mind a song of Mohammed Rafi that I have not mentioned. Taken from the 1961 movie Mr. India, which I saw with my then 17-year-old brother Javed (Akhtar) in Bhopal’s Laxmi Talkies, the song opens with the following lines: “Mat poochh mera hai kaun vatan aur main kahaan ka hoon/ saara jahaan hai mera, main saarey jahaan ka hoon”. With the song echoing in my mind today, I want to burst out saying: “You are! Indeed, you are, Rafi Saheb”. The deference with which I will utter the word Saheb will surely please my good friend, Achala ji.
Salman Akhtar is a US-based psychoanalyst and poet in Urdu. The views expressed are personal
