Yadon Mein Akar Tum Yuhin Gatey Rehna

YOU grow up with things and men and places and you don't know this until you lose them. The same is with me. I never knew until he died that I had grown up with, among other things, Kishore Kumar .

          You heard him when you were eight years old and you loved him and so did grandma. Like Lata , Rafi , Mukesh , and to a lesser extent Tallat Mahmood . Kishore Kumar  was everywhere. At the paanwallah's shop, at the roadside tea stall, at the railway station, on radio, and then on television. In your young son's room.

          Kishore Kumar  was not, like Lata  or Mukesh , a respected singer. He was more loved than respected. He was not a very gifted artiste, either. He just sang for you and his main concern was to make you happy. He was no Frank Sinatra but he could, like Dean Martin , make you laugh.

          But Kishore improved immeasurably as he went along. And he gladdened the hearts of millions across South Asia  for more years than you can ever remember. He began his singing career by clowning around to the tune of garish film music, which could only be produced in Bombay 's evil tinsel world.

          In the end, he had come a long way from the days of " Hum To Mohabbat Karey Ga, Joota Polish Karey Ga, Dunia Se Nahin Darey Ga. " It was a horribly illiterate, song but it launched him. And these lines, much to my amazement, used to make grandmother very happy and very sad at the same time.

          One day I asked her what was so special about the stupid song. "Oh, it reminds me of your Nana. So, you see, I loved him and I used to polish his shoes for him." I thought grandma was getting senile and vowed to myself never to have anything at all to do with Kishor Kumar and his uneducated voice.

          I might as well have promised myself the moon. I couldn't escape him. He was here. There and everywhere. He was the scarlet pimpernel of the Indian  Cinema. As I grew up, a friend of mine introduced me to high music and in our early college days, we used to listen to Pandit Onkarnath Thakur , Ustad Badey Ghulam Ali Khan, Raushan Ara Begum, and similar other people. Highbrow stuff, you know.

          I do not live in the age of classical music. I have seen the decline in public interest in serious music on both sides of the border, and the cinema has had a great deal to do with it plus now television. I have seen people switching off their radio or television sets when classical music comes on. I have seen people laugh at Ustad Chotey Ghulam Ali Khan.

          It has all been very, very systematic. From the Khayal, popular interest descended to the Dadra of outrageously alien music.

          What can you do? That's what the young people want and if you want instant music, you will get instant music like instant food and instant cricket. I ask you one thing: How can test match cricket survive in the face of one-day cricket? How can classical music survive when a chit of an expatriate girl cuts her first semi-pop or desi-pop tape and makes a cool million? There's nothing new in it, though. It is the age-old contest between the Sham-i-Mehfil  and the Chiragh-i-Khana .

          Even in this contest, there has been a qualitative change. There was a time not too long ago when the courtesan sang nothing short of Ghalib and Mir and Dagh when you were in your cups. The courtesan of grandfather's time was an institution in her own right. She was the school of manners, and it was from here that gentlemen of means learned how to conduct themselves in polite company, how to appreciate good music, how to enjoy good verse well sung.

          All that is gone today. The girls now sing " Sun Saba Sun, Piyar Ki Dhun. Menay Tujeh Chun Lia, Tu Bhi Mujen Chun. Chun Chun Chun " and young people go wild with joy.

          In my own time, when the opposing batsman played a nice shot, the first to applaud him used to be the bowler himself. And we used to be so polite about it. "Well played, Sir," we used to say. Of course, we were happy if our side won but we did not cry when the others won fair and square.

          The age of Hanif Mohammad  and Gavaskar  is gone. Now we want Srikkanth  and Sidhu and Salim Malik. We want a six, no matter how crudely hit. We hoot the batsman who plays according to the book. It's the same with music. Who has the time and the inclination for Onkarnath Thakur . Who remembers him and where is he except perhaps in the archives of All India  Radio? I doubt even that.

          But Kishore Kumar  sang for the cinema, for the matinee millions without ever being vulgar, and I loved him for that. Kishore Babu has and shall always have a very special niche in my heart.

          In 1978, I lost an uncle I loved dearly, in spite of the fact that he was a policeman, and my father had taught me to avoid the police like the plague. But Gul Mamoon, as we called him, was a man apart. Much more than an uncle, he was a friend and he talked to you at your level and when he laughed the whole world laughed with him. I haven't heard more beautiful laughter in all my born days. The fellow laughed with his soul.

          So now when he died in February 1978, and his body was still lying in state. I went to the bazaar to fetch something or the other. It was on a blistery February night that I heard Kishore sing the following song from the Panwallah's radio (I quote out of memory so I could be off balance here and there).

Zindagi Ke Safar Mein Guzar jatey Hein Jo Maqam,
Woh Phir Nnahin Aatey, Woh Phir Nahin Aatey
Phool Kiltey Hein, Log Miltay Hein
Pat Jhd Mein Jo Phool Murjha Jatey Hein
Woh Baharon Ke Aaney Se Khiltey Nahin
Kuch Log Jo Hamse Bichhar Jatey Hein
Woh Hazaron Ke Aaney Se Miltay Nahin
Umr Bhar Pukara Karey Koi In Ka Naam
Woh Phir Nahin Aatey, Wo Phir Nahin Aatey
Aankh Dhoka Heh, Kia Bharosa Heh
Admi Theek Se Dekh Paata Nahin
Aur Pardey Se Manzar Badal Jata Heh
Dosto Sukh Dosti Ka Dushman Heh
Appne Dil Mein Iisay Ghar Bananey Na Do
Gar Tarapna Pare Yaad Mein Jinki
Roak Lo Rooth Kar Inko Janey Na Do
Baad Mein Piyar Se Chaheh Bhejo Hazaron Salaam
Woh Phir Nahin Aatey. Woh Phir Nahin Aatey.

So, you see, the flowers do bloom, you do meet people, but once a flower has been claimed by autumn, it never blooms again. Once a man is gone, he is gone, never to return. So the idea is to love while you live and Kishore Kumar  did exactly that. The evil that he did will have by now been interred or cremated with him. But the good that he did shall live.

          At this moment, friend Sam came up and asked what the hell was I doing. I told him I was doing Kishore Kumar . He said what songs was I quoting. I told him. He said I was stupid.

          I asked him how. He said I was being sentimental.

I asked him how. He began to sing: Kabhi Alwida Na Kehna . . . Yadon Mein Akar Tum, Yuhin Gatey Rehna.

          I hope Kishore Bhai will remember me from the great beyond, and if that happens I will sing it back to him:

          Kabhi Alwida Na Kehna . . .Yadoan Mein Akar Tum Yoohin Gatey Rehna.

          For as long as I live, Kishore Bhi will, I think, do just that.