Chhaayaageet #279 - "Do you have any idea of sur and taal?"
Do you have any idea of melody and rhythm?
“Jaao yaar tum ghar jaao. Mujhe tumhare saath kaam nahin karna.” Go away, go home. I don’t want to work with you.
The composer is frustrated with the lyricist.
The lyricist stays silent, just choosing to receive the outburst of temperament from the composer, letting the storm pass by. But the composer is in no mood to let up.
“Kya likh ke laate ho yaar tum? Ye kya language hai? Mujhe kuch samajh mein nahin aata hai. Na iska language na iska meter.” What kind of things do you write? What is this language? I don’t understand anything. Not its language, nor its meter.
The composer is delivering a fine rant from his soapbox.
They have started work on a film. The lyricist has also written the story and will be directing it himself. For two nights in a row, the lyricist has stayed up all night and written the three songs.
To say that the composer is a bit shorthanded in understanding the finery of poetry, not to mention Urdu, would be an understatement. Usually it is his job to come up with a tune, puts some dummy words to it, and then the lyricists write the song to the meter of the tune.
But here, the lyricist has taken first-mover advantage. The composer has looked over the pieces of paper with the words and thrown up his hands in exasperation. What does this man write? Why such heavy words? Some of his words sound like they might be names of places. What do they even mean?
“Dekho bhai, hum kaam nahin kar saktey is tareeke se,” more escalation follows from the composer. See brother, I can’t work like this.
Good friends can say these things to each other. Good friends also listen to these things from each other.
The lyricist is letting his friend vent. After that last ultimatum, the lyricist feels the storm is about to pass by.
“Tu thoda try kar yaar. Kuch karenge. Ho jayega,” the composer breaks in. Just try a little friend. We will do something. It will come together.
After the composer has cooled off a bit, they sit down and the lyricist explains the situation and the words to the composer. They work on two of the songs going back and forth.
The lyricist’s words don’t fit any particular meter. They are very different. This is what vexes the composer.
The composer starts humming something and a tune starts to form for the mukhda for one of the songs. It feels like some progress is being made. The lyricist likes the tune of the mukhda. But the antara is another challenge. No matter what the composer tries, he just cannot get a tune to fit the words of the antara. Finally the composer just comes up with a completely different tune for the antara.
“Ab bahot ho gaya. Mukhda ho gaya. Ab tum antara is meter mein likh ke lao,” the composer says to the lyricist. Now the mukhda is done. Now you write the antara in this meter.
Now the shoe is on the other foot. The composer has thrown the challenge back to the lyricist. Let him write according to my tune now, the composer thinks in his mind.
They end the sitting for the day. The lyricist goes home scratching his head. He has already spent two nights writing these songs. Now he needs to write new antaras based on the composer’s tunes. Already sleep-deprived, the lyricist is now even more sleepless. He phones the composer.
“Kya yaar, jo likha hai usiko tune banao na.” My friend, why don’t you compose a tune for what I have already written.
The composer is in no mood to accommodate.
“Bilkul nahin. Tum kya likhke lata hai samajh mein nahin aata hai. Abhi tumko correct meter mein kuch naya likhna padega,” the composer declares with a sense of moral victory. No chance. I cannot understand what you write. Now you will have to write something new in the correct meter.
It is a tug of war. But, this is what gives rise to a masterpiece. It rarely emerges from creative freedom. Freedom lets you wander. Constraints narrow the field of choices.
Both men trying to preserve their creative freedom, the lyricist wanting every word he has painstakingly written, the composer wanting every musical instinct at his disposal. Neither willing to compromise. Each man unknowingly becoming the other’s constraint.
Once they both accept those constraints, the lyricist is no longer looking to write the “most beautiful poem”, but trying to express the same emotions within the composer’s musical guardrails. The composer no longer looking to compose the “most beautiful tune”, but discovering the tune hidden within the lyricist’s words.
Then something remarkable happens. Neither man gets what he wants. Each yields to the other, and music wins.
Over the next few days, they go back and forth and compose two out of the three songs. Now the third song remains.
The composer has told the lyricist he is going to be unavailable for a few days. It is the time of Durga Puja, or Pujo in Bengali, the grand festival celebrating the triumph of good over evil. Eminent composers and lyricists from Bengal dedicate themselves during this time of the year to compose songs for the festival.
The composer has committed himself to this effort putting all his film commitments on hold. One such day, the lyricist visits the composer’s house to see what he is working on for the festival.
He sits dutifully observing the composer, and an eminent Bengali lyricist, Gouri Prasanna Majumdar, heads down at work composing a Pujo song. The sentiment in those words sounds strangely familiar to the lyricist. It mirrors the emotions of the third song.
After the sitting, the lyricist approaches the composer.
“Hum ye tune use kar sakte hain apne gaane ke liye.” We can use this tune for our song.
The composer is elated to hear this.
“Kar sakte hain? Matlab two birds with one stone!” Can we use it? That means two birds with one stone!
The composer is relieved. No back and forth mental gymnastics would be necessary for this third song. What a coincidence the lyricist thinks the Pujo tune will readily apply!
After Pujo, the composer and lyricist have a sitting again just for the third song. The lyricist has come up with another idea. He wants to break the song and interject some dialogues between the characters.
It is a romantic song, but it is not a song about romance. It is not about love. It is not about separation. It lives somewhere in between, that mysterious space in between where perhaps love has remained, but life has moved on.
Just two people who know that what they shared was real, but know with certainty that it cannot be lived again. They are grateful for what was, accepting of what is, and wondering what might have been. There is pain, but it is gentle, dignified. The song plays in the background as the characters move amongst the ruins, a quiet metaphor for the crossroad where they stand.
The lyricist hands over a paper to the composer. It has the dialogue that he wants inserted in the middle of the song.
The hero says to heroine, “You see these vines with flowers. They are not flowers. They are instructions written in Arabic. You should see them during the day. They can be seen very clearly. During the day all this is filled with water. During the day, when these sprinklers…”
She interrupts, “How can I come during the day?”
He understands. He feels something, as if the moment is slipping away, but tries to lighten it. “You know this moon, you must see it at night. It doesn’t come out during the day.”
She plays along, “It must come out every night.”
He doesn’t know where to take it, “Yes…but every now and then the new moon comes around. As such the dark fortnight lasts for fifteen days, but this time it was very long.”
They stop walking. She looks up at him. Her eyes are glistening but cannot shed a tear. She says, “It was nine years long, wasn’t it?” He also looks at her. The past, the present and the future are all collapsing in this moment. Only this one moment is what remains now for them to try and live their whole life in it.
It’s that space where love remains, but life is moving on, cruelly. If only this night could be stopped. If only you say so, then the moon won’t set tonight. Make this night last forever. If only you would.
The composer finishes reading. He starts shaking his head. This is not done. Not in the middle of a song. You have the whole movie to say whatever you want these characters to say. Not in the middle of a freaking song. Please. What is this guy doing?
“Do you have any idea of sur (melody) and taal (rhythm)? You cut in with your dialogue anywhere you want. It’s not done. Not done. Jaao yaar tum ghar jaao,” the composer vents his frustration. Go away, go home.
Then something remarkable happens. Neither man gets what he wants. Each yields to the other, and music wins.
Gulzar wrote the lyrics, story, screenplay of Aandhi (1975) and directed it himself. RD Burman composed the music. All the romantic songs, Is Mod Se Jaate Hain, Tum Aa Gaye Ho, and Tere Bina Zindagi Se Koi, are sung by Lata Mangeshkar and Kishore Kumar, with Suchitra Sen and Sanjeev Kumar in lead roles.
All the duets are filmed in the premises of Srinagar’s Pari Mahal. The song Tere Bina Zindagi is filmed in the ruins of the 7th or 8th century Martand Sun Temple in Pahalgam.
During the shoot of this song, Suchitra Sen asked the music to be stopped and she said to Gulzar, “Bheegi aankhein hain par aansoo bah nahin rahe hain.” The eyes are wet but tears are not flowing.
She asked the last stanza to be played again.
“Tum jo keh do to aaj ki raat chaand dubega nahin, Raat ko rok lo”. If you say it, the moon won’t set tonight. You can stop the night if you want.
She listened to it with closed eyes. Then with a flick of her hand she indicated that the music be stopped.
Sanjeev Kumar gestured for the two-in-one music player be taken away. He pressed his finger against the corner of his eyes. They both indicated they were ready for the take. They looked at each other as if to live their whole life’s longing in the one line,
“Raat ki baat hai, aur zindagi baki to nahin.” It is only this one night, not much of life may remain.
The three duets of Aandhi rank highest among the duets of Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar.
1975 is a landmark year in the annals of Hindi cinema, with films like Sholay, Deewar, Aandhi, Julie, Chupke Chupke.
For the divine music and songs that RD created for Aandhi, he did not even receive a nomination for the Filmfare Award of Best Music Director. He was nominated for Sholay and Khel Khel Mein. A 19-year old Rajesh Roshan won the award for Julie.
Aandhi was nominated in the following categories:
- Best Actor (Sanjeev Kumar, won),
- Best Film - Critics (Gulzar, won),
- Best Film (J Om Prakash, won by Gulshan Rai for Deewar),
- Best Director (Gulzar, won by Yash Chopra for Deewar),
- Best Actress (Suchitra Sen, won by Lakshmi for Julie),
- Best Lyricist (Gulzar for Tere Bina Zindagi Se, won by Indeevar for Dil Aisa Kisi Ne Mera Toda from Amaanat),
- Best Story (Kamleshwar, won by Salim-Javed for Deewar) [although Gulzar maintains that Kamleshwar’s book was written independently of Gulzar’s story for Aandhi].
Listen below for RD’s rendition of the Pujo song, Jete Jete Pathe Holo Deri.
Lyrics: Gulzar
Music: RD Burman
Singers: Lata Mangeshkar, Kishore Kumar
*ing: Suchitra Sen, Sanjeev Kumar
Director: Gulzar
Film: Aandhi (1975)