Mukesh: Geet Sunata Jaoon
By Dr Asif Javed
Williamsport, PA
Some time ago, an eminent writer of Pakistan Link asked me to write on Mukesh. Hoping to find some authentic details of his life, I tried to find a biography of Mukesh, but found none. I then tried to google Tom Jones, an almost forgotten singer from Wales and found half a dozen biographies. Disappointed, but not surprised, I went ahead and what follows is the haphazard information about Mukesh gathered from here and there.
Mukesh, unlike some of his contemporaries - Rafi, Lata, Manna Day - had no formal training in music. Motilal (who played Dalip’s fellow train traveler in Devdas) was a relative, and helped him to be introduced in the film world. Early 40s was the time of singing stars like Saigal, Surraya and Noor Jahan. Mukesh acted in a couple of movies too and sang his own songs, without being noticed.
The breakthrough came when Anil Biswas made him sing, Dil jalta hey, in Pehli Nazar, in typical Saigal style. The song was a hit and Mukesh’s career took off. To Anil Biswas, who was among the first generation of Bollywood composers (others being Pankaj Mallick, Naushad, and Khemchand Prakask) goes the credit of composing the first hit song for Mukesh as well as Talat. Saigal was every singer’s idol back then, and not surprisingly, Mukesh tried to sing in his style.
Naushad then took Mukesh under his wings and made him the voice of Dalip in Mela and Andaaz. How times change, but at that point, while, Rafi a huge talent, was struggling, Mukesh was the lead singer of Naushad’s team. As fate would have it, Dalip and Naushad later chose Rafi while Mukesh was selected by Raj Kapoor to be his voice. For the next two decades, Mukesh found himself part of Raj Kapoor’s team that included Khawaja Ahmad Abbas, Shankar Jaykishan, Hasrat Jaypuri and Shalindra.
While Mukesh sang for many composers, he was a favorite of the Kalyanji-Anandji (KJ-AJ) duo. Kalyanji is on record that Mukesh had been their ladder to success and recognition in the 60s. Just look at the following list: most of these songs were composed by KJ-AJ back in the 60’s:
Chandan sa badan; Mere toote hue dil se; Mein to ek khwab hoon; Jis dil mein basa tha pyar tera; Waqt karta jo wafa; Koi jab thumara hriday tor de.
Other than Naushad, the two musicians who used Mukesh early on were Anil Biswas and Gujranwala-born Roshan. Unfortunately, Mukesh’s best work with Biswas and Roshan from early 1950s has been forgotten because the movies tanked. Roshan, a childhood friend of Mukesh, had composed evergreen Teri dunyanmein dil lagta naheen (Banware Nain 1950); his sudden death deprived Mukesh of the support of a talented composer. In his book Bollywood Nelodies, Ganesh Anantharaman argues that while many of Mukesh’s popular songs were from Raj Kapoor movies, he grew more as a singer with his work with Kalyanji Anandji, Roshan, Salil Chaudhry and Anil Biswas.
After the golden period of Bollywood (50s and 60s), came the 70s. Anantharaman calls it the “melody-devoid” world of 70s. The reasons are many and beyond the scope of this article. Suffice it to say that in that decade, while majority of senior and respected composers like Naushad, Khayyam, Madan Mohan, C Ram Chandara, and OP Nayyer, were sidelined, the second rate musicians, the likes of Bappi Lehri, and mediocre lyricists like Anand Bakshi took over. As expected, the music output was pathetic. RD Burman did make some quality music but he had a strange aversion to Mukesh and hardly ever used him. Even Rafi, arguably the finest male singer of his generation, became a distant second to Kishore Kumar.
Mukesh did, somehow, survive the 70s Kishore Kumar juggernaut. Salil Chaudhry, who had rescued him once before, composed for him what some call one of Mukesh’s best songs: Kahin door jab din dhal jaye. This song was picturized on Rajesh Khanna, the most popular actor of the early 70s, in Anand. Also, in 1976, Kabhi Kabhi was released. It almost turned out to be the swan song of two greats: Sahir, the poet (died at 59 in 1980) and Mukesh. In Kabhi Kabhi, Khayam, who had not composed for movies between 1967-73, came out with Kabhi Kabhi mere dil mein khayal ata hey and Mein pal do pal ka shair hoon.
Mukesh had a solid fan base but, also, his detractors. Late Khalid Hasan has written of an amusing comment made by a music connoisseur, Agha Mubarak Ali, from Sialkot. Agha was a violin player and used to own a restaurant Amelia which music lovers like Khalid used to frequent. Agha once described Mukesh as the one with a cemented throat. The comment might sound harsh but had some truth to it. Mukesh’s voice did have a limited range. But despite that limitation, he has given music lovers numerous gems which have not been forgotten yet. Back in the early 2000s, this writer got the opportunity to see the once famous Amelia Hotel, where, according to Khalid, a generation of young hearts had once enjoyed the music of Mukesh and others. Amelia was being demolished, and has since vanished from the face of the earth. Amelia may be gone but the music of Mukesh lives on.
Mukesh’s career had its ups and downs. Back in the early 50s, he wasted a couple of years in acting. A picture exists of Mukesh and Surraya, his costar, from the movie Mashooqa from 1953. Naturally, his singing career took a back seat. While his singer competitors surged ahead, Mukesh eventually realized that he was getting nowhere as an actor and quit acting. He was rescued by Salil Chaudhry, who gave him a Madhumati song, Suhana safar aur yeh mausam haseen. This song was originally meant for Talat who, ever the gentleman, being aware of Mukash’s financial difficulties, asked Salil to give it to Mukesh. The song was a hit and Mukesh’s career was rescued by brilliant Salil, whom Khwaja Khurshid Anwar had once described as the musician of musicians.
Mukesh was a gentleman and, unlike his contemporary, eccentric Kishore Kumar, who married four times, Mukesh’s personal life, and professional career, remained without any major controversy. His son, Natan, followed him in music and in his father’s life time joined him on overseas concert tours.
Mukesh was a heart patient. In August 1976, he was in the US on a concert tour with Lata. A few hours before performance in Detroit, Michigan, he experienced difficulty in breathing in his hotel room; the ambulance was called. Precious time was lost going down the elevator from the 21st floor. Mukesh breathed his last in the ICU of a Detroit Hospital a few minutes after arrival, having received unsuccessful resuscitation. He was 53. Ironically, while most of the female singers of that era—Lata, Asha, Noor Jahan, Surraya, Shamshad Begum, were blessed with long lives, some of Mukesh’s male contemporaries - Rafi, Kishore - succumbed to heart attacks too at relatively young age (Rafi at 55, Kishore at 58). Talat died in the 90s but had suffered a stroke years before and lost his speech. As a side note, Natan Mukesh, who has had modest success as a class B singer, appears, physically, completely out of shape in a recent u tube interview. He had witnessed Mukesh’s struggle with heart disease first hand. One would expect that he would have taken better care of his health; he hasn’t.
At the time of his death, Mukesh was financially secure, still in some demand, had a solid following and had begun to witness the success of his son, Natan Mukesh as a singer. His sudden death came as a shock to music lovers. I recall a tearful Raj Kapoor, on Door Dershan TV, lamenting the loss of Mukesh. “Today, I have lost my voice,” he said. Just four years later, Rafi too died suddenly. With their passing, and Talat already out of music, the golden era of Bollywood music had come to an abrupt end.
What is Mukesh’s legacy? Where does he stand among his peers? Ganesh Anantharaman has summarized it best:
There hasn’t been, at least after Saigal, another voice in Hindi cinema that could articulate melancholy better…each time you hear his sonorous, masculine, yet vulnerable voice express the anguish of the failed lover, the despondency of a purposeless life, the ache of the loss assails you afresh. It can’t just be a coincidence that that the emotions he articulated—gloom, sorrow and despair—went out of fashion in Bollywood after his death. Perhaps there was a realization that in no other voice would these feelings ring as true.
(The writer is a physician in Williamsport, PA and may be reached at asifjaved@comcast.net)
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