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DOWN MEMORY LANE
Singing under the stars
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Expert singers can charm both hearts and minds, says R.V. SMITH, recalling the exploits of Umrao Jaan Ada, Janet Jaan, Malika Jaan and others
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When the sultry Runa Laila sings ‘Dama Dam Mast Qalandar’ or the once slim Prabha Bharti offers a hand or the shy Sultana croons a mukhra, one is transported on the crest of melody to earlier times in which other practitioners of the art of mosiqui (music) charmed both hearts and minds. Among them were Umrao Jaan Ada, Janet Jaan, Malika Jaan, Gauhar Jaan and some lesser known ones like Rukia, Tabassum, Shehnaz and Amino Bai Lachakti Qamar (the one with the springy waist).
The celebrated Umrao Jaan, besides being a high-profile courtesan, was also a poetess of note and hardly needs an introduction. Janet , not only sang ghazals but wrote them too and came to be known as Jamiat, a corruption of her name. Janet’s voice held North India and the area right up to Kolkata in thrall, so much so that even British troopers swore by her, and one of them, a major, eventually married the singing sensation.
Gauhar Jaan, if memory serves right, sang up to the infant years of the last century. Rukia, whose real name was Rukhsana, got the sobriquet because she always sang ghazals jotted on little slips of paper (rukka). Tabassum, the cruelly smiling one, Shehnaz, the voluptuous siren, and Amino were small time dancing girls who attracted people from the so-called lower strata. Amino’s waist inspired an aging baker to have a gharara made to her measurements hung inside his shop, much to the amusement of his customers and the annoyance of the boy who had to sit under it the whole day making mince patties.
A legend
The older folk will remember Jaani Babu, who became a legend in his short life. His fame disturbed the dancing girls who feared for their livelihood. Of lesser calibre was Ram Babu who was administered some concoction in his drink which made him first lose his voice and then wither away. One particularly relished the qawwalis not so much at the mazaars but at weddings by the dazzling Tara, who used to come from Firozabad.
Those who sang at the shrines were not all famous quawwals, though even the ordinary exponents knew how to instil the sama (atmosphere) conducive to an enthusiastic rendering. Among them were a family of three brothers. In the days of old, gypsy girls sang outside shrines and other places of worship. Reshma too is of the same tribe, even though she was brought up in Pakistan. But then the gypsies do not go by geographical limits. Their stage is the world and you will find them adhering to their traditions wherever they are, the Occident included.
Reshma sings the song of mankind which Wordsworth so eloquently described as the ‘still sad music of humanity’. Her voice has an earthy fragrance that charms the listener by its sincerity. She is assisted by an ensemble of harmonium, tabla and other instruments, and even when she sits on the glittering stage before a sophisticated audience, one has just to close one’s eyes to transport the occasion to a desert scene – the cool night with the moon shining on the dreary wastes and a caravan of camels on its perennial journey. Suddenly, the silence is broken by a silvery voice that offsets the tedium. The camels swing on their long legs and their riders with them, but the song goes on. In the urbane Delhi setting where Reshma sang, one was reminded of such a scene, for despite her flabby exterior, Reshma’s was still the voice of a girl singing bellow the stars.
One hopes this tradition continues and gypsy girls do not disappear in the maelstrom of modernism with its uniform pattern of mores and manners.
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