It has been four decades since she last sang. Yet in June 2009, when a fan club felicitated Shamshad Begum at Jubilee Hall in Hyderabad, more than 1,500 ardent fans turned up. Rajashree Balaram meets the 90 year-old singer whose earthy voice with its nasal twang reigned over Hindi cinema in the 1940s and ’50s

Among the many trophies in Shamshad Begum’s living room, there’s one with her picture imprinted on it — wholesome features, short coiffed hair, shy smile. The black-and-white image belongs to Begum’s glorious days when producers and music composers fell over each other to bag a playback contract with her; when her songs
monopolised the popularity charts on All India Radio; when she was both admired and envied for her versatility.

Famed music composer O P Nayyar compared Begum’s voice to that of a temple bell. Director and actor Guru Dutt often said that if it weren’t for his wife, the gifted singer Geeta Dutt, he would have used Begum as the female playback in all his films. Music director Naushad relied on her voice to create many of his greatest hits. And when C Ramachandra composed Bollywood’s first westernised song, Meri jaan, meri jaan, aana Sunday ke Sunday, he could only think of Shamshad Begum to render it with the required joie de vivre. Undeniably, she was nothing less than a playback empress in the post-Independence era.

The Begum we meet today, though, is anything but a diva. Clad in a white cotton salwar kameez, her thinning white hair pulled back in a knot, she leans heavily on her walking stick as she shuffles her way into the room. “Could you please switch off the dictaphone and write down what I am saying? I am allergic to that thing,” she says with a wry smile, as she settles into a chair. The famously robust voice is a tad gravelly at the edges. It’s hard to reconcile this frail, diminutive silver with the seductive voice that once held an entire nation in thrall with Leke pehla pehla pyaar; Kabhi aar kabhi paar; Boojh mera kya naam re; Kahin pein nigahein kahin pe nishana; Mere piya gaye Rangoon; Teere nazar; or Milte hi aankhein dil hua deewana. For all the unbridled vivacity that defined her voice, Begum was essentially a low-profile person. Even at the peak of her career, her pictures rarely appeared in the glossies. “I don’t remember mother ever taking me to the studio,” says her only daughter Usha Ratra, 73, with whom she lives in her elegant apartment in the plush Hiranandani Gardens in Powai in suburban Mumbai. Married to Ganpat Lal Batto, a lawyer, Begum stopped singing briefly after his death in the mid-1950s. She returned in the late 1960s to even bigger and brighter glory with hits like Kajra mohabbat wala, a duet with Asha Bhosle for the movie Kismat.

Winner of the Padma Bhushan (2009), Shamshad Begum chose to leave the industry at a time when audiences could not get enough of her. Her songs may no longer play on air; her voice, however, continues to linger in a million memories.

EXCERPTS FROM AN INTERVIEW

I cannot say music runs in my blood. I was born in Lahore in a conservative Muslim family that had scant regard for women who took up singing. I don’t remember either of my parents even humming a tune. I used to sing naat [Islamic devotional songs] and folksongs during family weddings. Very often, a relative would give me an anna for my prowess. My uncle, a connoisseur of music, was the first to notice the promise in my voice. I was just 12 when he took me for an audition to Jenaphone, a Lahore-based recording company. I had no idea the audition was being conducted by the great Ghulam Haider [renowned music composer of the 1940s era]. Haider sahab asked me to stop singing after I had sung the first two lines. I was nervous, wondering if I had blundered. Imagine my amazement when he asked his assistant to draw up a 12-song contract with me right then! In the three years that followed, he honed me thoroughly in classical singing and I later joined his troupe.

Sometimes I was Uma Devi, sometimes Surinder Kaur. I always had an alias for every album depending on the nature of the song. When I sang an arati, my name on the album was mentioned as Uma Devi; when I sang a Punjabi shabd, I was introduced as Surinder Kaur. Though it sounds strange now, back then recording companies believed that people from different religious communities felt more comfortable listening to ‘one of their own’. From Jenaphone, I soon graduated to singing for Peshawar Radio, AIR Lahore and AIR Delhi. All this while, my parents reeled under my rebellion.

Fame, when it finally arrived, was heady. I got my first break in Hindi cinema with Khazanchi (1941) for which Ghulam Haider composed some phenomenal gems. The film went on to become a super hit and the songs became very popular. After Khazanchi, I was approached by some of the greatest music directors: S D Burman, Naushad, Anil Biswas, C Ramachandra. In the first year of my career itself, the movies I sang for became jubilee hits one after the other: Patanga, Humayun, Babul…. Despite the fame and fortune, I always rushed back to Lahore after the songs were recorded. Once, Panjoli Studios, a well-known production house in Lahore, offered me a chance to act as the main lead in one of their films. In those days, actors sang their own songs. Though I passed the screen test, my father threw a fit when he heard of my ‘impudence’ [laughs]. Of course, I dropped the idea later. A year after that, producer Mehboob Khan travelled to Lahore and persuaded my father to let me relocate to Mumbai. Khan sahab was a generous man. He arranged a flat for me near Central Studios in Tardeo along with a car. He even sent me food from his house everyday. I continued to go to Lahore during Muharram — the sacred month when Muslims are prohibited to sing. Today Mumbai is where my heart and home are.

I was never good with money. I was paid Rs 200 for each song in Khazanchi. I remember asking for a raise rather timidly. The producer asked me how much I expected and I asked for Rs 700. He hiked my fees immediately and told me that if I had asked for Rs 2,000 per song, he would have agreed as that was my true worth. On one hand, I was flattered; on the other, I felt like a fool. By the grace of God, with each successful film my remuneration leaped higher.

Competition was fierce then. My contemporaries were all legends: Noorjehan, Suraiyya, Geeta Dutt and Amirbai Karnataki. But we thrived on the competition and welcomed it. We enjoyed observing the finer nuances in each other’s voices and that in turn spurred us to perform better. A race is no fun with two competitors, is it? The more, the merrier.

My work was always worship for me. Perhaps that’s one reason why I could never bear the thought of being late for a recording. I felt passionately about every song I sang in my entire career. I have no favourites. I loved the sheer experience of being able to express myself through music. And I never took for granted the team effort and hard work that went behind it. Once I was rushing to the studio despite a high fever. My daughter was thoroughly exasperated with my being a workaholic and scolded me for being so money-minded. I later told her that I was rushing to the studio because many of the musicians who played the instruments earned daily wages. I could never tolerate unprofessional behaviour.

I was not exactly soft-hearted. But I always rooted for the underdog. When Raj Kapoor was making Aag, his first film, he approached me and bluntly said that he couldn’t afford me, but he wanted me to sing for his film. I was touched by that passion and candour and, of course, he was the son of Prithviraj Kapoor whom I deeply admired. I told Rajji to come over to my house along with his musical troupe — Shankar-Jaikishan and Ram Ganguly — in the afternoon when I came home for lunch. We did our rehearsals in my house. The movie became a hit. Though Rajji never repeated me in any of his later films, Aag will always remain a special experience. I delivered some great hits with first-time music directors — O P Nayyar, Nashad Ali, Naushad and Madan Mohan. My family and close friends used to be very upset when some of these composers didn’t repeat me in their later films. I chose to look at it practically. I was not dependent on them for my work.

I always kept to myself. I never partied and rarely ever hung around the studio after recording. But I cherish fond memories of those years. When I was recording for a song in Filmistan, there were two young boys who were part of the chorus; one was very well-dressed and the other appeared slightly eccentric. The two boys used to hold a chair out for me after recording. The eccentric had an outstanding voice that was distinctive even in chorus. He also had a great sense of humour and would tell me how he was a loser while his brothers were established actors. I always used to tell him that one day he would race far ahead of his brothers. And I was so happy when my words came true. The eccentric young boy went on to become one of the greatest voices of all time. Tell me, can you imagine Indian film music without Kishore Kumar?

Talat Mehmood, one of the most melodious voices we have ever had, was a nervous wreck when he sang a duet with me for Babul. He was still a newcomer then, while I was an established artist. I think the equation unsettled him. We went through several retakes over three hours for the famous song Milte hi aankh dil hua deewana. Naushad sahab was about to throw his hands up in despair when I told him to simply raise his two hands in the thumbs up sign for approval for the next two three retakes. I assured him that if he did that Talat would get it right on the fourth retake. And he did. I think as artists it’s important to be competitive, but it’s even more important to be empathetic. When you run someone down you only hold up a mirror to your own weak character.

The film industry is as much about rivalry as team spirit. Though my songs continued to be mega hits, the number of offers started diminishing in the 1960s. I don’t want to name anyone as mudslinging was never my favourite game. Why dredge up memories that are best forgotten? But I later discovered how professional jealousy can make people manipulative. In 1971, I decided to quit singing and join my daughter in Ambala. A year later, some music directors even came over to Ambala with offers. But by then I had made up my mind about retirement. I wanted to leave at a time when my audience and my fraternity still loved my voice; not when they wanted me to shut up.

People often ask me how I feel when I see scantily clad girls dancing to Kabhi aar kabhi paar in remix music videos. No, it doesn’t offend me. If it weren’t for remix albums, perhaps my songs would have languished in musty oblivion. At least remixes have given old numbers a fresh lease on life. The tempo of the song may have changed but the essence still remains the same. I feel wonderful knowing that in pubs, young boys and girls sway happily to my songs. They may not know who Shamshad Begum is, but I don’t mind the anonymity as long as I can still connect to an audience. I do have one grouse with makers of remix albums — they should offer written credit to the singers and composers who worked on the original song. As for the scantily clad girls, they are just doing their job. While we happily run them down with charges of ‘obscenity’, we disregard the hard work they put in to get those steps right. Why doesn’t it ever occur to us that they could probably be the sole earning members in their families?

I don’t think it’s fair to compare today’s music with that of years gone by. The present will be past tomorrow. Even the mighty sun has to surrender its place to the moon every day. Time changes everything. While we may not change with the times, we should accept the change around us. I see some fantastic young talent on music reality shows. My personal favourite among the new generation of singers is Sonu Nigam. Poore dil se
gata hai [he sings with all his heart].

I am not in touch with anyone from the industry. I don’t call up my contemporaries and discuss the good old days. I had my share of glory. I am happier that I had the chance to work with the giants of Indian cinema. And though we have all had our bad times, I would rather remember the good.

I love watching television soaps. I tune off only when the plot turns too sad. As for films, I loved Jodha Akbar. I think it had an old-world charm to it. Another movie I thoroughly enjoyed was Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam.

I want to leave the world the way I have lived my life — with dignity. I want to stay active and able till my last breath. I spend a lot of time in prayer these days. And there’s just one wish that I repeatedly ask the Almighty: to let me make my final exit without being a burden to anyone and with my head held high.

Featured in Harmony – Celebrate Age Magazine
August 2009