Forever young, Kishore Kumar

The man who liked to talk to trees rather than human beings speaks to us everyday. It’s the perfect voice, it seems — it uplifts our spirits and evokes joy, it strikes a chord deep inside us, awakening a primal pleasure rooted in sound, in emotion.

Science tells us music stimulates the brain’s reward centres, releases dopamine, the ‘feel-good’ chemical; the soul tells us that Kishore Kumar’s voice connects us to shared human experiences, transcending words and stirring the feelings of joy and sorrow, feelings that are both personal and universal.

Thirty-seven years after he died, when he was the king of Hindi playback singing, the voice of Kishore is, probably, heard daily by more people than ever before — thanks to the smartphone in everyone’s hands, to video and audio streaming platforms such as YouTube and Spotify, and to the FM radio channels that have proliferated since his death.

He died at age 58, but Kishore’s voice is eternally the voice of the young man — Dev Anand’s in the 1950s, Rajesh Khanna’s in the 1960s and 1970s, Amitabh Bachchan’s in the 1970s, and of Anil Kapoor, Sunny Deol, Jackie Shroff and Govinda in the 1980s. Singing for actors who were vastly less talented than him, he became their voice and made them stars and superstars.

Kishore’s is the idealised voice of a young man, his singing style that of a non-trained gavaiyya — that’s the reason the youth of the 1960s related with it, and so do the youth of now.

When feelings are deep, the words are simple, the singing uncomplicated — no gimmickry, no complex ‘taans’ or ‘murkis’ or ‘harkats’. Being untrained, Kishore was free of the trained singers’ penchant for completely excusable braggery — a proud display of their classical virtuosity. Lack of training, however, freed Kishore of this need. He simply sang from the heart.

Songs such as ‘Manzilen Apni Jagah Hain’ (‘Sharabi’) or ‘Zindagi Ka Safar’(‘Safar’) or ‘Hazaar Rahen Mud Ke Dekhin’ (‘Thodi Si Bewafai’) or ‘Tum Bin Jaoon Kahan’ (‘Pyar Ka Mausam’) or ‘Beqarar Dil Tu Gaaye Ja’ (‘Door Ka Raahi’), for instance, would not gain much from the complexity of ‘taans’ or ‘murkis’ or ‘harkats’.

Then, Kishore’s deep bass expressed sadness without losing its masculinity — this tends to happen with the male tenor voice which, with high-pitched singing, turns effeminate and weepy. This is no fault, of course, and maintaining sur and mellifluousness at very high notes — like Mohammed Rafi in ‘Ae Duniya Ke Rakhwale’ (‘Baiju Bawra’) — is nothing short of miraculous.

Kishore’s style, however, resonates with the youth because his voice expresses the joie de vivre with elan, and pathos without shedding masculinity.

Pop music, appealing to the lowest denominator, will forever be more popular than the classical; Kishore or Rafi, for instance, will never match the classical genius of legends such as Pandit Jasraj or Bade Ghulam Ali Khan — and the classical singing legends will perhaps never match the popularity of Kishore or Rafi.

RD Burman, for whom Kishore sang some of his most enduring songs, would say that Kishore’s buffoonery and eccentricities and pranks and jokes obscured a singer who was deadly serious; when Kishore stepped in next to a singer of the calibre of even Lata or Asha to record a song, Burman said, he caused them to be wary, if not nervous — unfettered by training or custom, he was very likely to improvise brilliantly and steal the show.

Javed Akhtar, a friend and fan of Kishore, says that when Kishore sang a duet, his co-singer’s voice paled — a fan would, of course, say this, and such claims are subjective and debatable. Numbers don’t lie, though.

Kishore remains the most popular singer among the golden generation of the playback singers. When music was consumed through cassettes and CDs, HMV used to sell more Kishore music than that of the next bestselling legends (Lata Mangeshkar, Mohammed Rafi, Asha Bhosle) combined. On YouTube, Kishore’s songs have racked up bigger numbers than those of Lata, Rafi and Asha.

Crazy genius

Shah Rukh Khan grins the moment he starts talking about Kishore Kumar, as does Asha Bhosle, as did Lata Mangeshkar. Anupam Kher seems to revere him. Usha Uthup loves his voice, his persona. Jatin Pandit — the music director who is brother to Sulakshana and Vijayta Pandit — is grateful that he could meet and work with Kishore.

Those who never met him wish they could meet him now — even a youth icon like Virat Kohli, the former Indian captain. “There is this one person whom I wanted to meet but never could, and that is Kishore Kumar,” said Kohli last year. “I wished to meet him a long time back, but I couldn’t.” Of course he couldn’t — Kohli was born a full year after Kishore died. Kohli’s fellow legends Sachin Tendulkar — “a constant companion of mine” — and MS Dhoni love Kishore. Virender Sehwag would sing Kishore songs while batting.

Melancholia was a significant aspect of his character; his aversion for human beings, his distrust seemed to originate from initial rejection as a singer — music directors of his time were besotted with the idea that only trained singers were ‘good’. Tragedy in his personal life — divorce with first wife Ruma, the illness and death of second wife Madhubala — made him a deeply private person in the 1950s and 1960s.

He forever wished to return to his hometown, Khandwa. “Who can live in this stupid, friendless city where everyone seeks to exploit you every moment of the day?” he said in an interview. The man who played clown on screen shed tears in private. He was obsessed with the idea of getting away, far away; three of the movies he wrote, produced and directed were about getting far from the madding crowd. These were made in the years he was suffering from personal grief; interspersed with these were crazy ones such as ‘Badhti Ka Naam Dadhi’ — a mad caper in the absurdist movie genre — and ‘Shabash Daddy’.

Kishore’s charisma extended much beyond his unparalleled, youthful singing — the anecdotes of his mad, mad behaviour; the zaniness of his movies and his amazing comic timing and dancing; his energetic live performances; and the deep-seated melancholy in his personality fascinate fans.

Before he found success, he was derided and belittled; after finding success, Kishore was chased by these very people who had turned obsequious. He was a simple man who was overwhelmed by the ways of this selfish world — he was not much fond of it and, indeed, preferred to talk with his trees, which he called by name.

He did escape, finally, in 1987 — leaving behind a wealth of songs and movies that make us smile and sad. Gone rather young, he is the voice of the young even in 2024, offering us the gift of catharsis through song.

Making melodies

Kishore Kumar first turned a music director with his own film ‘Jhumroo’ (1961) — and with such enthusiasm that he recorded no less than 11 songs! The most memorable songs from it, apart from the title track ‘Main Hoon Jhumru’, are the dreamy ‘Thandi Hawa Yeh Chandni Suhani’ and the despairing ‘Koi Hamdam Na Raha’. Forced to play the buffoon, and sing songs he disliked, he turned philosophical in his own productions, creating several gems like ‘Aa Chal Ke Tujhe Main Le Ke’ (‘Door Gagan Ki Chhaon Mein’); ‘Beqarar Dil Tu Gaye Ja’ (‘Door Ka Rahi’); ‘Phir Suhani Sham Dhali’ (‘Badhti Ka Naam Dadhi’); and ‘Teri Jeevan Gaadi’ (‘Mamta Ki Chhaon Mein’). But possibly the best song he composed was from a movie that was never completed — ‘Akela Hoon Main Is Jahan Mein’ from his own ‘Neela Aasmaan’. This composition, with minimal instrumentation, reveals his love for bare lyrics and silent pauses.

No stage fright

Kishore Kumar was terrified by the idea of performing before a live audience, and his friend Sunil Dutt tricked him into singing on stage. Dutt persuaded him to enact their famous song ‘Mere Samne Wali’ from ‘Padosan’; they started the performance, for Army jawans near Gangtok, with Dutt lip-syncing, and Kishore, hidden behind Dutt, singing. “I then moved away and the audience, seeing Kishore Kumar, started clapping!” Dutt recalled years later. “He was anxious at first, but then became confident.” The later Kishore, of course, was famous as a most amazing stage performer — a man ahead of his time who would have been king on today’s TV as well. He brought mad fun to the stage, changing it forever — before him, singers stood rooted to the ground as they sang, holding the mic. Kishore would gambol on stage, do somersaults, dance, squat and then, when it was time to sing the ‘antara’ after a musical interlude, hit the perfect note.

Never a dull moment

• Kishore Kumar is possibly the only producer/director who wanted to make a movie in order to lose money — such was his aversion to paying income tax. During his time, filmstars could be taxed up to 87 per cent in the highest tax bracket.
• There were rumours that he converted to Islam after he got married to Madhubala, but he said he felt no reason to leave his religion. “I respect all the world’s religions, for everything has something to teach. That is why you find these statuettes of Jesus all over my house,” he told an interviewer.
• When in the mood — or short of money — Kishore would try his hand at writing lyrics, too. After the great lyricist Shailendra heard Kishore Kumar sing the Kishore-written song ‘Aa Chal Ke Tujhe Main Le Ke’ on the phone, he was so impressed that he told Kishore: “If I were to write this song, I would have written it exactly like this.”
• Satyajit Ray accepted Kishore Kumar’s demand that the song ‘Ami Chini Go Chini’, for Ray’s ‘Charulata’ (1964), be recorded in Bombay, not Calcutta. Ray flew to Bombay for this song, and played the piano to accompany Kishore in the recording. Kishore, who was related to Ray, never stopped reminding the great director that his ‘Pather Panchali’ could be completed only after Kishore had loaned him Rs 5,000.