This article is written by Mr. Achal Rangaswamy

It was a sticky morning in Delhi. 1^st August 1980. 6 AM. I was packing my bag to load it on my Enfield Bullet. Time to get back to my HQ – Jaipur. I had just recovered from a bout of typhoid, that had left me with only enough energy to record over 250 songs on various audio cassettes (that’s what we used those days).Most reluctantly, as all of us do after a long stay at home, I picked up my bag. My father tuned into All India Radio to listen to the Morning English News.

The first few news items were mundane. The fourth news item stunned all of us. The first to react was my father, probably because he sat closest to the dining table where the compact radio was kept. “Noted playback singer Mohd Rafi passed away last night….”, said the pained voice of the news reader. Television existed those days, but the transmission ended early into the night, well before the great man breathed his last.

I couldn’t wait to hear more. I went down the stairs, tied the bag to the luggage carrier on my bike. Within a few minutes I was on my way. I didn’t even want my parents, who would always come down the stairs to see me off as I kicked my bike on the 260km journey back, to see my face which had already dissolved into tears.

Never before had a bike journey looked or felt so forlorn. Never before had I wept almost all the way back. Of course one never looks forward to going back to your station after leaving your parents’ home. But this was the worst day I could think of. At least four times on the journey of over four hours did my helmet’s visor cloud. I had to stop the bike, clear the cloud on the visor and start again.

No, the cloud on my visor was not from the dust. It was not the rain either. It had rained a day earlier in Delhi. And I had learnt by then through the radio news from the roadside dhaabhas on NH 8 that it had poured in Mumbai, then called Bombay. The gods must have cried too, I was sure. Who wouldn’t have cried?

“jaane waley kabhi nahi aatey, jaane walon ki yaad aati hai”, Rafi had soulfully started this title song from Dil Ek Mandir. How true,I thought to myself. Who would now sing “Meri Awaaz Suno, Pyar ka Raaz suno” the way he did? No wonder we would always think that he was so right when he said “thaa juda sabse mere ishq ka andaaz, suno”.

All the way from Delhi to Jaipur all I could do was compile my own list of all those soul-stirring and awe-inspiring songs that my idol had put his heart and soul into.

The first thought, the first song, and how most unusual!!! Of all the places,Madras. Of all the people I accompanied to the movie, my mother and my grandmother (a person who knew not a single word of Hindi, leave alone Urdu), a rainy evening. And walking out of this cinema hall in Madras humming the first song to enchant me, as it did all my life. Dev Anand, a  black and white movie. And Mohd Rafi’s caressingly sweet voice calling out “khoya khoya chaand, khula aasmaan”.

I have never ever forgotten the fact that Dev Anand, Jeetendra, Shammi Kapoor and Joy Mukherjee could never have romanced all those leading ladies on the screen had my idol not let the words come out from his heart through his throat and lips even as he smiled so benignly into the microphone. (just look at any pic or video of Rafi and you will know what I mean). I remember my younger sister telling me one day, long long back that Rafi smiled through his songs. Today I say, Rafi’s songs smiled into our hearts. You could hear the smile. You get me???

And how can one ever not accept the fact that the Pradeep Kumars, the Rajeevs, the Ajits, the  Rajendra Kumars and of course the Bharat Bhushans  were elevated on the silver screen and watched again and again by the money- paying public only to hear them. Not see them, no offence meant. But HE made all the difference. I am sure you will agree. Or else how could you have a Barsaat ki Raat, or a Zindagi or a Taj Mahal or a Nayi Umar ki Nayi Fasal.

When he suggested, “maine shaayad tumhe pehle bhi kahin dekha hai” or declared clearly that “jo baat tujh mein hai teri tasveer mein nahin”, the actor on the screen must have been utterly grateful to the voice that catapulted him to fame and the record books.

Kishore Kumar had him sing “man mora baanwaraa”, amply testifying to the benchmark set by Rafi. So many filmgoers and music lovers would have agreed that “aaj toh tere bina neend nahi aayegi”.

Rafi was not just a singer. He was not just a human. His voice clearly showed that God sang for us through him. Or else how could you have someone maintain the same quality the same affection, the same divinity ranging from “aaja ke intezaar mein, jaane ko hai bahaar bhi” all the way down to “ shirdi waley sai baba, aaya hai tere dar pe sawaali”, which was among the last few songs he sang. How could he put so much zest and vigour into a “ae mohabbat zindabad” and give us “ab tumhare hawaale watan saathiyon” with the same energy. How could he be so youthful in “pukarta chala hoon main” and keep it going the same way in something as late as “tera jalwa tauba hai tera jalwa” or “tum jo mil gaye ho”?

God must surely have resided in his throat. Correction, in his heart.

We haven’t heard of many controversies surrounding this great man, except for the tiff with Lata Mangeshkar over the royalty issue. And who would not side with this god-fearing simple man, who apparently accepted only a rupee as singing fee from the composer Naushad Ali, as a thanksgiving for giving him an opportunity to sing in Baiju Baawra.

Naushad was not the only one to be asked for a rupee. Composer Nisar Bazmi, not at all well-off, was made a similar request by Rafi Saab. “Just a rupee, please.”

And who cannot thank him for fanning the fire of national integration when he combined with Naushad the composer and Shakeel Badayuni the lyricist, to give us the heart-warming “Man tarpat Hari Darshan ko Aaj”. Of course he did this again and again when he smiled his way through “radhike tuney bansuri churaayi”, arrested everybody with his “sukh ke sab saathi, dukh mein na koi”, made us weep with his “oh duniya ke rakhwaaley”, and stopped us in our tracks with “kahaan jaa raha hai tu ae jaaney waaley, andhera hai man ka diya toh jala le”. He made us dance to “madhuban mein radhika naache re”, and sing along with him the simple yet sweet “brindaavan ka Krishna kanhaiya”. One of his greatest Ghair Filmi Bhajans was “Paaoon padoon toreh Shyam, Brij mein laut chalo..”

Of course he excelled in the quawwalis and the ghazals and even made a “purdah hai purdah” sound far far above the ordinary levels one had got used to in that period of film music. The only song where I didn’t agree with Rafi was his refrain “meri tasveer lekar kya karogey tum meri tasveer lekar”, because Rafi was so photogenic- I mean his smile touched you. And he always smiled.

Human that he was, he broke down and sobbed as he ended “babul ki duvaaen leti jaa”. His son Shahid clarified later that only a day before the recording of this song had this great man seen his daughter off at her wedding. I have seen the short clip of the Bidaai, and Rafi smiled for his daughter the way only a proud and loving father would. He had probably kept all the pathos at bay till the recording the next day.

What Rafi said many times through his songs was- the man above me has given me this song to sing. What more can one want?

Have you heard him talk? I have. He had only a few words at any time. But the words were sweet. They were respectful. And they showed us the man who many of us would do well to follow in terms of humility. No wonder he sang for Dev Anand the ice-cream seller in the film Maya, “Zindagi hai kya sun meri jaan, pyaar bhara dil, meethi zubaan”.

God –fearing, simple, soft-spoken and humble–Does this sound at all like a man connected with films and film songs?

Perhaps the only singer to lend a voice of dignity to the comedian, Rafi combined with Johnny Walker to give us some gems like “Ae dil hai mushkil jeena yahan” and “sar jo tera chakraaye”. He immortalized Mehmood as the lungi -clad Hyderabadi with his “hum kaley hain to kya hua dilwale hain”. Lyricst and comedian Gulshan Bawra must thank Rafi profusely for lending his voice to the Amitabh Bacchan trend setter -Zanjeer where he sang “Deewane hain deewane ko na dar chahiye”. He became childlike as he sang for Johnny Walker again in “hum bhi agar bachhe hotey…happy birthday to you”.

They say the ultimate test of a singer is when he has to sing the same song as another singer. And each time Rafi did it, he scored. Just listen to “Waadiyan mera daaman” where he outdid Lata, without intending to. Or the utterly romantic“Tum bin jaaoon kahan” where his protégé Kishore also sang his heart out. Rafi emerges clearly as more romantic and more hummable. “O mere shaahe khuba o meri jaane jaana na” had Rafi surpassing Lata in every line. He did it again in Beti Bete with “Aaj kal mein dhal gaya”. Asha Bhosle got a taste of it in the twin- pack song “Aaj ki raat badi shokh badi natkhat hai”.

The piece de resistance was perhaps “Zindagi to bewafa hai ek din thukraayegi” in Muqaddar ka Sikandar where Rafi just got to sing the first four lines as Amitabh Bachhan lay dying. He didn’t need to sing the entire song to tell who was the greater singer. And this song was amongst his last.

His duets with other male singers amplified this fact. Manna Dey, the trained classical singer sounds nervous singing along with Rafi in the catchy and utterly enjoyable “Ek janib sham e mehfil”, Kishore was being coached and coaxed by Rafi in “Sa Re Ga Ma” in Chupke Chupke. All the others in the memorable “Hoke Majboor mujhe usney bhulaya hoga” faded into pedestrian voices when Rafi sang “Usney ghabraa ke nazar laakh bachayi hogi”. Even the sophisticated and gentle Talat Mahmood had to contend with severe competition in “Kaisi haseen aaj bahaaron ki raat hai”, the fight being as stiff as Dilip Kumar Vs Manoj Kumar!!! One sided, no doubt.

As I rode into Jaipur via Amer I decided to call up Munna and spend the evening with him and my roommate Vijay. We sat singing into the night all the Rafi songs that we could think of. The night turned into day, and we had not finished singing. The eyes were wet, the throats were dry, but we knew that the fountain of music would never stop. The only regret was-

“chaley jaayenge hum musafir hain saarey, magar ek shikwa hai lab pe hamaare, tujhe kitni jaldi khuda ne bulaaya”

And was Rafi Saab being prophetic when he sang “waqt mere geeton ka khazaana dhoondega, mujhko mere baad zamaana dhoondega”? Yes, very true. Dil ka soona saaz taraana dhoondega. Music has never been the same after that. The 80s saw a severe drop in the quality of film music. Noise took over.

That rainy day in Bombay many eyes would have looked skywards as if to ask the Gods – Has he safely reached you there, where he always belonged?

I am told more than ten thousand people braved the rain to be there for his last journey.. The others, I am sure, were mourning silently at home. I mourned for him all the way on NH8.

I still do.

“shaam kyon phir udas hai dost ? tu kahin aas paas hai dost”

This blog was published on Sunday, August 30th, 2009 at 7:10 pm and Last modified on Monday, February 6th, 2017 at 5:59 pm and is filed under Meri Awaaz Suno. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.