Chhaayaageet #136 - "He must be present at every session, whether or not he is required."
In Bombay, every person is an island unto themselves, notwithstanding the fact that the city throws everyone into a blender of sorts every day with people from all walks and stations of life. Yet, for a person new to the city, a benevolent stranger magically appears and becomes a friend for life. The city weaves its magic in how it connects people with each other and humanity, by stripping away all labels of existence such as caste and religion.
The musician has just arrived in Bombay, being transferred to the AIR (All India Radio) from the AIR Cuttack station. He has a slot to play his instrument in the mornings. Not knowing anyone else in the city, a friendship forms between him and a colleague, Ahmad Darbar. Dreams are shared. The musician would like to find a way to play in films and not remain content playing a predefined slot on radio.
Darbar moonlights in the evening composing music for another friend, who directs and produces two hour long stage plays in Gujarati.
"Why don't you play with me in the evening for the music of the play?", Darbar suggests.
And thus our musician starts playing his instrument in the evenings as a side gig.
One day at the AIR, the musician hears the office help coming around asking for him.
"Aap ke liye phone hai", the help informs. There is a phone call for you.
Who could be calling him in Bombay? Or is it someone from Allahabad? Is there bad news?
Perplexed and confused, he picks up the phone.
"Mein Sonik bol raha hoon. Aap studio aa sakte hain?", the voice on the phone requests. I am Sonik. Will you be able to come to the studio?
Sonik? Master Sonik? Oh, he is the music arranger for a very famous film composer.
The voice on the phone continues. "Humari recording hai aaj. Humara ek musician nahin aaya hai. Aur recording ruki hui hai". Today is our recording. One of our musicians has not shown up. And the recording has stopped.
How did they know about him? Perhaps the sound of him playing in the morning slot on the radio has traveled far. It has to be. There is no way big filmwallahs would hear anything he plays in the evening in a Gujarati play.
He replies in the affirmative. "Lekin mein yahan naya hoon. Mujhe pata nahin aapke studio kaise aana hai". I am new here. I don't know how to reach your studio.
Sonik is in no mood to hear any reasons. "Koi baat nahin. Mein aapko lene aata hoon". No problem. I will come to get you. On the way they can talk about the song.
The musician is excited about getting a chance to step into a film recording. Perhaps he might get to see Her as well. She might be singing. Is it Her song? He had played in Her presence when he had come to Bombay with a group of Oriya artists to record an Oriya song. She had liked how he had played. He had spoken with her briefly then. He had asked her advice on how to break into the film industry. Might she remember him?
In some time, Sonik and our musician make an entry into the studio. Everybody stares at him. He doesn't understand at first. But then he looks around and realizes he is the only one dressed in a dhoti and kurta. They are all dressed in shirts and pants. He is nervous. He is asked to take the absent musician's place, and play something.
He looks around the studio. She is there too but occupied with something else, not paying attention to what's going on. Nervousness reaches its zenith. He plays something on his instrument.
She turns her head and looks at the musician. Did she recognize the sound, he wonders. It did catch her attention though.
Turns out she is not singing today. There's some other singer. He comes around. The musician remembers seeing him in Cuttack. The singer had come there to record an Oriya song and the two had met. The singer was impressed with the young musician and had suggested him to come to Bombay and find a place in film orchestras. The musician sees that the singer also shows no recollection of having met him.
"Ye baja sakenge?", his train of thought is interrupted. Can you play this? It is Master Sonik with a music sheet in his hand. This is no time to dwell on the past. He looks at the music sheet and his part in it.
His part is right at the prelude to the song, then continues playing softly almost right through, and intermittently punctuating the pathos in the singer's voice as he laments being without his beloved. In the interludes, sometimes he has to play solo before blending in with the orchestra.
The recording starts. The musician starts to play. And then as the song progresses, he plays wherever he feels the mood is right and the instrument is needed.
Master Sonik looks at him. What is this guy doing? Coloring outside the lines? The composer also takes note. But they don't stop the recording. A lesser musician would have earned his rightful share of rebuke for straying from the music sheet.
After the song is over, the composer looks at the musician as he tells Master Sonik, "Ask him to stay back. He should be present at every session, whether or not he is required".
Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia played the sweet tones of his flute for the first time in film for the ghazal, Phir wohi sham, composed by the great Madan Mohan, lyrics by Rajinder Krishan, for the film Jahanara (1964), produced by the veteran character actor Om Prakash. The song is sung by Talat Mahmood.
Hari ji used to play the flute on AIR Cuttack and Bombay. With Ahmad Darbar, he was playing for Gujarati plays directed by one Faridun Irani. Irani's daughter, Aruna, would star in those plays. She was also trying to get into films. Aruna Irani had a small role in Jahanara.
Jahanara, despite having a star cast of Prithviraj Kapoor, Bharat Bhushan, Mala Sinha, was a flop. Om Prakash insisted on having Mohammad Rafi give the male playback for all songs. However Madan Mohan insisted on having Talat Mahmood for the ghazals in the film. In the end, Madan Mohan got his way when he said he would pay Talat Mahmood out of his own pocket. Om Prakash later admitted that he made more money from the music of the film than the film itself.
Talat Mahmood's silken voice perfectly captures the melancholy strains of separation when the hero realizes that he might never be united with the love of his life.
One more song, Kabhi aankhon mein teri, was recorded for this film with all four Mangeshkar sisters, however, it was not filmed nor released on disc.
Master Sonik was Madan ji's music arranger. Later he teamed up with his nephew Omi and formed the duo Sonik-Omi and became composers. Hari ji's flute would find its place in many of their compositions.
Jahanara was a flop at the box office.
Flute: Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia
Music: Madan Mohan
Lyrics: Rajinder Krishan
Singer: Talat Mahmood
Music Arrangement: Sonik
*ing: Bharat Bhushan, Mala Sinha
Producer: Om Prakash
Film: Jahanara (1964)