Article

Leadership Insights from Jaina text Saman Suttam 157

Re-embodying the “Classical”: BioScope

2(2) 157–179
The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s © 2011 Screen South Asia Trust
SAGE Publications
Los Angeles, London,
New Delhi, Singapore,
Washington DC
DOI: 10.1177/097492761100200204
Shikha Jhingan http://bioscope.sagepub.com

University of Delhi

Abstract
The 1950s is considered to be a golden era for Hindi film music. Interestingly, it was this period in which
film music came under severe attack from the state in the guise of the then Minister of Information and
Broadcasting, B.V. Keskar. Film music was banished from All India Radio (AIR) for a few years, forcing
music lovers to tune in to Radio Ceylon to catch their favorite film songs. This article interrogates the
debate around film music in the wake of Keskar’s policies, focusing on the response of the film industry.
Through the circulation of interviews, editorials, and articles in film journals, the film industry fought
back against the “highbrow” attitude of the state, foregrounding its role in giving music to the common
man, as a self-conscious cultural project. These contestations brought under its rubric, the cleavages
between the constructed notions of “classical” and the “popular.” Films like Baiju Bawra, Basant Bahar,
and Shabab, based on the lives of classical musicians were central in shaping this debate, articulating an
aesthetic that privileged the “affective” registers of the film song over the technical virtuosity of the
classical/court musician.

Keywords
Classical, radio, film songs, soundtrack, listener, playback voice, aural fields

Since the late nineteenth century, several musicologists, scholars, and modern princely rulers became
involved in the revival and resurgence of classical music in India. This involved the formation of music
appreciation societies, the institution of colleges and universities for music education, and the organiza-
tion of music sabhas for the creation of “new publics.” Historians like Janaki Bakhle and Lakshmi
Subramanian have shown that the late nineteenth and early twentieth century was marked by a process
of modernizing classical music in India. One of the important figures in this resurgence was Vishnu
Narayan Bhatkhande who delved into the history of music in India in order to “canonize” Indian classical
music. Bakhle argues that Bhatkhande set out to write a modern genealogy that “would make Indian
music classical, because it had a system, a method of adjudication, order and stability. In other words,
the condition for music to be classical was that it was modern” (Bakhle, 2005, p. 117). According to
Subramanian, “the process of classicism involved the rewriting of the content and style of music as well
as reconstituting the social context of patrons and performers” (Subramanian, 2008, p. 2). A project to
make a classical music tradition in modern India in line with the agenda of cultural nationalism was

Shikha Jhingan is Assistant Professor at Lady Shri Ram College, University of Delhi, India. E-mail: shikha.jhingan@
gmail.com
158 Shikha Jhingan

manifest in printed materials such as journals, primers, and textbooks. Classification of raga systems
were now clearly marked by Western notations and made easily available in the public sphere.1 Perhaps
what became sidelined in this process was the widespread presence of oral texts, legendary stories,
myths, and anecdotes that brought to life the pleasure associated with classical music. How did a patron
get spellbound by a particular artist? What effect did the singing of an artist have on the audience? Who
moved the audience to tears? How did a singer lull an insomniac king to sleep? The world of the music
practitioners and connoisseurs was intrinsically bound to this rich anecdotal history.
As I will suggest, the cinema was another crucial terrain on which discourses about classicism
emerged. In this article, I revisit the debates around the “classical” and the “popular” in the 1950s when
Dr B.V. Keskar, as Minister of Information and Broadcasting, became a “major formulator of the musical
ideologies and policies of All-India Radio” (Lelyveld, 1994, p. 116). Keskar assumed the role of a
“crusader” of classical music, envisioning the state-owned radio as its major patron. What followed was
a ban on film music on All India Radio (AIR), setting into motion a heated debate in the public sphere.
I will suggest that filmmakers and music composers took Keskar’s attack on film music as an exhortation,
inspiring them to defend their musical culture by intervening in discussions of what constituted the
“classical” and the “popular.” In this process, the film industry created new interpretative modes and
“cultural value” by arguing that music needed to be connected to a variety of practices and forms for its
creative renewal. I examine the cinematic representations of the classical musicians in some films of this
period such as Baiju Bawra (Vijay Bhatt, 1952), Shabab (M. Sadiq, 1954), and Basant Bahar (Raja
Nawathe, 1956). I suggest that these films need to be seen as archives of classical music’s encounter with
modernity, narrating the vicissitudes faced by the classical musician in a period marked by the challenges
posed by new forms of music consumption.2 The films under discussion reveal a deep engagement with
the world of the singer/protagonist, foregrounding the voice as a crucial site for excavating the singer’s
subjectivity. Music composers made subtle distinctions between different musical practices in order to
construct the film song as a key device to articulate the affective registers of music, commensurate with
the demands of the new listening public.
The 1950s is considered to be a golden era for Bombay film music. Film songs circulated through
gramophone records and radio even before the release of the films and acquired their own unique status,
quite independent of the films, even as they became the object of official censure. Under the new
dispensation laid out by Keskar in 1952, the broadcast of film music, with its excessive use of Western
instruments, generic hybridity, and Urdu lyrics, had to be curtailed on national airwaves as it “challenged
the aims of the national cultural policy” (Lelyveld, 1994, p. 120). Keskar’s mission was to use AIR to
revive what he saw as India’s cultural heritage. In an article written in The Hindu, Keskar argued that,
“classical music has fallen on bad ways and is on the point of extinction in North India. …The main
problem before musicians and AIR is to revive public contact with classical music. We must make them
familiar with our traditional music, and make them intimate with it” (The Hindu, July 19, 1953).
In 1952, broadcasting developed under the aegis of the new Five-Year Plans that were premised on
the centralization of industries. All-India Radio’s role as a cultural industry was to play a leading role in
integrating the idea of “Indian culture” (Lelyveld, 1994, p. 119). In 1952, Keskar announced a new
policy and formed AIR’s Central Music Audition Board. A jury committee under the leadership of
Shri Krishna Ratanjankar was appointed to oversee the broadcast of classical music.3 Under the new
rules, classical musicians had to go through rigorous auditions before they could perform for radio. On
the basis of this rigorous process, artists were graded in different categories of A, B, or C grade artists.

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 159

Ratanjankar introduced questions on the “theory” of Indian classical music as part of the selection
process. The introduction of these policies were severely criticized by several classical musicians and
there are reports of musicians picketing AIR stations (Nadkarni, 1999, p. 166). In a parallel move, the
Information and Broadcasting (I&B) Ministry formed another controversial committee to look into the
broadcast of film songs on AIR. The committee decided to reduce the time for film songs to 10 percent
of broadcast time and also empowered itself to screen the songs to include only those that were felt
suitable. The film industry reacted sharply seeing this as an attack on itself. The producers of several
films decided not to renew their contracts with AIR.4 The editorial of Filmfare of August 1952 viewed
the decision as “a calculated blow at the reputation of the Indian film industry as much as one aimed at
ousting film music from the market” (Filmfare, August 1952).
The new diktats received a great deal of attention in the public domain with several articles appearing
in film journals asking the government to revise its stand. Many criticized the quality of the classical and
light music recordings being done at the studios of AIR. The debate continued across several film journals
with Baburao Patel, the editor of Filmindia attacking Keskar’s authoritarian style of functioning. Patel
asked, “Are we expected to see only these power crazy ministers on the screen performing pujas and
mahurats etc. and hear their speeches on the Radio? I for one would prefer Cuckoo to Keskar on the
screen and Lata’s songs to the droning voices of ministers on Radio.”5 Letters to the editor provided
readers space to vent their ire against Keskar for forcing listeners to switch to foreign networks like
Radio Ceylon. This offered a staple fare of popular film songs across the South Asian region through its
weekly Geetmala program.
The negotiations between the film industry and I&B Ministry ultimately failed and for a short while
in 1954, film songs were completely banned on AIR.6 The same year The Illustrated Weekly started a
reader’s forum on “Broadcasting in India.” The forum invited readers to write on the role of AIR as a
national broadcaster across a range of issues; however, several writers took this as an opportunity to cri-
ticize Keskar’s high-brow attitude toward popular film music. As one of the readers wrote,

There is something fundamentally wrong with the broadcasting policy of the state controlled AIR. The quality
of programmes especially of music has been steadily deteriorating for the past few years. In the name of science
and progress popular music is being replaced by an increased quota of scientific music. This is being forced on
the public without rhyme or reason. The object according to Dr Keskar is to popularise classical music. Scientific
music will be regarded by the common man as an exhibition of vocal gymnastics pleasing to a limited few and
wearisome to the great majority.7

For the next five years, the debate found its way into many public forums, with representatives from
the Bombay film industry openly defending film music as “people’s music.” Between 1953 and 1959,
articles written by music composers from the Bombay industry were given prominence in Filmfare. One
of the key figures was Naushad, who became an important spokesperson for the industry after the re-
lease of Baiju Bawra (1952). Baiju Bawra’s release and huge success at the box office coincided with
the peak of Keskar’s attack on film music. Baiju Bawra chronicles the historical narrative of Baijnath, a
legendary singer who lived during the time of Tansen, one of the well-known courtiers in the Mughal
durbar of Akbar, who “reigned supreme” in the field of music (Image 1). Young Baiju holds Tansen re-
sponsible for his father’s death and resolves to seek revenge. But several years later, a passion for music
brings the two singers together to face each other in a fierce contest in which Baiju (Bharat Bhushan)
defeats Tansen (Surendra). Much credit for the success of Baiju Bawra went to the film’s music director,

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160 Shikha Jhingan

Naushad, who provided the original idea for the

film and also worked very closely on the script and
song situations. I would like to discuss a key
sequence at the beginning of the film that seems to
encapsulate some of the major arguments put
forward by the industry in response to Keskar’s
policies.
Baiju Bawra opens with Tansen perched high
on a parapet of a fort, practicing his music, while
the credits roll. Ustad Amir Khan, a well-known
vocalist of the Indore gharana, was the playback
voice for Tansen.8 As Tansen completes his sing-
ing, we see the crowd gathered below his mansion
cheering, hailing him as the “King of music.”
Tansen comes out to the window and waves at the
crowd, acknowledging their applause. His high
angle point of view shot shows the security guards
dispersing the crowds, setting the tone for the
events to follow. We dissolve to the next scene in-
side the mansion. Tansen asks his men to ensure
peace and quiet in and around the haveli, since he
plans to compose new ragas.9 In the next shot
Tansen is tuning his musical instrument in a
Image 1. Poster of Baiju Bawra. meditative mood when he is disturbed by a sharp
Source: NFAI Pune. voice penetrating the haveli. The camera cuts to

Ghaseet Khan singing light classical forms of Thumri and Tarana with boisterous movements.10 The
audience loves his vocal gymnastics and eggs him on until Tansen’s security guards interrupt him.
Ghaseet Khan accuses Tansen of curbing artistic freedom through authoritarian means. Their argument
is interrupted by another off-screen sound. This time it is a group of itinerant devotees, including Baiju’s
father, who are singing a bhajan as they walk through the street. The crowd, enchanted by the singing,
now shift their attention to this new focal point. The security guards ask the group to stop. In the argument
that follows, the leader of the devotees questions the restrictions imposed on singing, asserting that
“music belongs to the people.” In the heat of the moment the security guards attack the group of devotees,
and Baiju’s father is accidentally killed. The mise-en-scène is important here as the camera draws
attention to social hierarchies in music through the spatial mapping of the street’s sound-scape. Tansen
is perched high in his mansion; Ghaseet Khan is singing in a parlour located on the street, while the
humble bhajan singers are shown walking through the street. What is also noteworthy is the foregrounding
of the listening public throughout the sequence, a choreographed movement of bodies effortlessly
moving between diverse sites of musicality.
Music plays itself out through bodies that are embedded in a world of sound, not only as listeners but
as active participants in the creation of sonic fields. Bodies consume as well as produce musical sound.
This world of aurality intersects creatively with that of sight in Indian cinema. In Baiju Bawra the inter-
play between sight and sound is registered through choreographed bodies, as the point of view shots of

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 161

the listeners/consumers draw attention to aural fields. The off-screen voice directs the listener/spectator
to search for the source of sound that has caused a disruption in the musical order. Tansen is startled
by the piercing voice of Ghaseet Khan, which is in sharp contrast to his own deep and controlled voice.
As Ghaseet Khan argues with the guards, the soulful singing of the chorus fills the soundtrack, captivating
the listeners (including Ghaseet Khan) who turn their bodies toward the source of the music. In this sonic
field, the transaction between order and disorder, noise and music is punctuated by silence.11 It is silence
that becomes a marker of the “affect” of the musical sound.
Baiju Bawra plays out a strong critique of the state for imposing restrictions on music and privileging
classical music. According to Ashraf Aziz, “Baiju Bawra offers its poetry and songs as instruments for
resisting injustice and repression” (Aziz, 2003, p. 84). The film mounts a critique of the elite nature of
classical music when it shows Tansen immersed in creating new ragas completely isolated from the
public. Tansen’s inflexibility is contrasted with a diverse aural sound-scape of the street which becomes
a site for a fluid movement between popular forms of “light classical” music and folk-based devotional
songs. There is a subtle assertion here that music in Bombay cinema never broke its ties with either folk
or classical music. As Naushad wrote in Filmfare, “the main reason why those who favour classical
music detest film music is that its makers smashed the age old taboo. Film music brought a great art out
of the musty halls of the Nawabs, out of the possession of the few to the millions who were denied the
privilege of enjoying it for centuries” (Naushad, 1955, p. 19). It is suggestive that the release of the film
almost coincided with the introduction of Keskar’s harsh restrictions, making Naushad a prescient figure
in the debate that was to develop over the next five years.
In his Noise: The Political Economy of Music, Jacques Attali argues that music is prophecy.

Its styles and economic organization are ahead of the rest of society because it explores, much faster than material
reality can, the entire range of possibilities in a given code. It makes audible the new world that will gradually
become visible, that will impose itself and regulate the order of things. For this reason musicians, even when
officially recognised are dangerous, disturbing, and subversive; for this reason it is impossible to separate their
history from that of repression and surveillance. (Attali, 1985, p. 11)

The production of Baiju Bawra itself was marked by several tumultuous events and controversies.
The film was meant to be a last ditch attempt to save Vijay Bhatt’s Prakash Pictures from closing down
as it became mired in heavy financial losses. Naushad’s writings indicate that he was keen to use
Hindustani classical music in his films and Baiju Bawra gave him that perfect opportunity. He broke new
ground in Baiju Bawra and this can be gauged from his reminiscences.

The real drama in the screenplay was Baijnath, the musician, who was having a contest with the legendary Tansen
and whoever was defeated in the contest had to loose his life. Since both characters were very important I wanted
to establish them musically. Tansen’s character was being played by Surendra, who being a singer of note, had a
proper bearing of character. However his singing was not suitable to the type of singing I intended to present in
the film. I wanted to introduce Northern style of Indian classical singing which was a novel thing of that time.
This style was beyond the reach of Surendra. So I convinced him and he agreed to take playback. However when
the news of giving playback to Surendra started spreading, his fans and other music lovers became nervous
and a number of fan letters flashed out against me. When people’s reaction became bitter, Vijay Bhatt came to
me and started expressing his concern. I calmed him down and said that these very people would stand by our
side and appreciate our work. This was how Baiju Bawra started getting publicity at an early stage which was an

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162 Shikha Jhingan

advantageous situation to the producers. I started searching for a singer who could lend his voice for Surendra.
I wanted a sharp voice which would impress the audience by its heavenly art of singing. I approached Ustad
Amir Khan of Indore Gharana for this purpose and he agreed. (Naushad, n.d.)

Naushad’s decision to choose Surendra to play Tansen’s role was a well thought out strategy as he felt
Surendra’s singing abilities would enhance his performance as an actor. But Naushad was equally clear
that Surendra could not be the voice for Tansen. Tom Gunning has remarked that “every change in film
history implies a change in its address to the spectator, and each period constructs its spectator in a new
way” (Gunning, 1986). In this case, it appears that the film industry sought to alter the film public’s
relationship to the act of singing as it was distributed between on- and off-screen locations and bodies
through the technology of playback. While a section of fans/music lovers wanted to see and hear their
favorite star sing on screen, Naushad shifted expectations by using playback to give the spectators the
novel experience of seeing a singing star play the role of Tansen but with the voice of a classical musi-
cian. The disjunction between the voice and the body could not have been more transparent. Ultimately,
Naushad’s ambition was to produce an entirely novel voice. His aim was not to replace Surendra by
Ustad Amir Khan, but to establish the supremacy of Mohammad Rafi as a playback singer who could
best transmit the musical values of a film song.12 In “Man Tarpat Hari Darshan ko Aaj” (Today, I am
desperate to have a vision of Hari), Mohammed Rafi’s melodious rendering was given a “classical” turn
through the use of alap and quick tans.13 The song infuses a seriously ailing Swami Haridas with renewed
strength to walk and worship the deity of Lord Krishna.14 Rafi’s “Tu Ganga Ki Mauj Mein” (You are like
the waves in the Ganges) topped the charts on Binaca Geet Mala and earned for Baiju Bawra the first
Filmfare (Claire) award in the category of “best music.”15 The mise-en-scène of “Tu Ganga Ki Mauj
Mein,” based on a folk melody, depicts the villagers being drawn toward the river bank as Baiju declares
his love for Gauri (Images 2a, 2b, and 2c). By the end of the song the entire village is humming the
mukhda in chorus, prophesying, as it were, its off-screen popularity.
By the early 1950s the film song, characterized by “moderate ranges, small leaps, reduced em-
bellishments and an emphasis on melody,” had become an intelligible popular entity (Arnold, 1991,
pp. 166–167). With its lyrical and melodic content, one mukhda and two or three distinct antaras, the
song became a privileged site for expressing musical value.16 Moreover, the playback technique had
enabled film songs to circulate for wider consumption through gramophone records and radio, much

Images 2a, 2b, and 2c. As Baiju sings “Tu Ganga Ki Mauj Mein” to declare his love for Gauri, the villagers get
drawn towards the river bank. Bharat Bhushan and Meena Kumari in Baiju Bawra (1952).
Source: Frame from DVD of Baiju Bawra.

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 163

before the release of the films.17 The release of the film gave further impetus to the sale of records and
there were requests for film songs on radio after the public saw them performed by stars on the screen.
As I have argued elsewhere, the technology of playback contributed significantly to the performance of
the song. Trained playback singers spent considerable time on rehearsals, working on the diction, ex-
pressions, breathing, and the tonal quality demanded by the song (Jhingan, 2009, p. 59). The screen stars,
on the other hand, could now work on their performance with a clear referent—the recorded song, using
the playback voice of the singer to enhance their own performance, emoting according to the tonal and
expressive registers of the pre-recorded voice. This is perhaps the reason why Naushad insisted that
Surendra would be an ideal choice for playing the role of Tansen. By selecting a well-known singing star
as the actor body for Amir Khan’s voice, Naushad proposed to tap into the dual layer of actor/star body
and playback voice to establish Tansen musically.
This dual layer becomes apparent in the sequence that depicts Baiju’s first encounter with Tansen. As
Baiju enters Tansen’s haveli to avenge his father’s death, mansion is mapped acoustically through the
maestro’s off-screen voice. With the guards immersed in their master’s soulful singing, Baiju, armed
with a naked sword, enters unnoticed. The mise-en-scène shows a series of miniature paintings come
alive as we hear Amir Khan’s deep and rich voice given visual weight by Surendra’s intense performance
(Images 3a, 3b, and 3c), singing raga Darbari Kanada.18 As the maestro continues with the elaboration
of the raga, we are introduced to the voice of a female chorus, following the rhythm of the slow camera
movements that traverse Kanu Desai’s miniature paintings.19 As the voices move toward the upper
reaches of the octave and build into a crescendo, the camera reveals Surendra in a mid close-up. His
face is turned toward the sky, and his eyes are shut as though in a trance. Now it is Baiju’s turn to become
completely immersed in this aural experience (Images 4a, 4b, and 4c). The film makes a bid to relay the
audience through a layered engagement, as the “affect” set off by Amir Khan’s “heavenly art of singing”
is given visual force in Surendra’s passionate performance, and further mimetic elaboration by the
“coming to life” of the figures in miniature paintings and Baiju’s entrancement. The spectator is privy to
a complex, layered pattern of acoustic transfers and affective mobilizations, inviting a heightened vision
of musicality and a condition of embodied listening.
The pre-publicity advertising posters of Baiju Bawra said it was “the life story of the greatest musician
of the medieval period” and “the most ambitious musical picture of our time.” Another poster highlighted

Images 3a, 3b, and 3c. In order to avenge his father’s death, Baiju enters Tansen’s haveli with a naked sword
while the maestro is practicing raga darbari kanada in slow elaboration. Bharat Bhushan and Surendra in Baiju
Bawra.
Source: Frame from DVD of Baiju Bawra.

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164 Shikha Jhingan

Images 4a, 4b, and 4c. Kanu Desai’s miniature paintings come to life with Tansen’s singing. As the voices of
female chorus and Tansen build towards a crescendo, Baiju gets completely immersed in this aural experience.
Source: Frame from DVD of Baiju Bawra.

the film as the story of a “rebel singer who climbed the ladder of musical triumph song by song by song”
(Image 5). Interestingly, one of the posters also claimed the film to be “a brilliant portrayal of our cultural
achievements.” By the second week, the posters announced the success of the film’s music by declaring
“11 hit songs.”20 According to the review in Filmfare, Baiju Bawra was as much a film about the musical
genius of Naushad as it was about Baijnath (Filmfare, October 31, 1952, p. 22). Several letters by readers
to Filmfare referred to this as a distinct improvement in the quality of film music. As a reader wrote,
“music from recent films has been inspired by the finest specimens of our classical as well as folk
music.”21 One of the key arguments put forward by
the many representatives of the film industry and
echoed by Naushad was that the cultural project to
popularize Indian classical music could not bypass
cinema.22 For example, in 1955, at a seminar
organized by Sangeet Natak Akademi, Anil Biswas
argued that film music had made people musically
conscious. According to Biswas, “A highbrow
attitude which seeks to browbeat all forms of
popular music in the name of nurturing classical
traditions only succeeds in harming the cause of
classical music.”23 But in response to the criticism
levelled by Keskar, some music composers did
articulate their desire to bring freshness and ori-
ginality to their music as “a duty to the nation.”
According to Vasant Desai, “the ingenuity of a
music-director lies in adapting classical music in
such a way that monotony inherent in it is elim-
inated in the finished composition” (Desai, 1959,
p. 35). During this period, an interesting shift can
Image 5. Advertisement of Baiju Bawra in Hindustan be seen in film magazines with discussions on film
Times (Delhi Edition) on October 12, 1952. songs being geared toward identifying their sources
Source: Delhi Public Library. of inspiration. Composers were emphatic that both

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 165

folk and classical music had to be given equal importance as resources for film music. Another trend was
for film reviews to mention the ragas on which songs were loosely based. These discussions on the use
of classical music were kept alive by letters to the editor. In one instance a reader wrote, “Although
Indian classical music is difficult to understand, large number of cine-goers have come to appreciate and
enjoy it in film songs.”24
Apart from Baiju Bawra, several films exploring the lives of classical musicians were made in
Bombay during the 1950s. One such film, Shabab (1954), created waves through the popularity of its
music despite its failure at the box office.25 The posters of the film carried photographs of Naushad as its
music composer indicating his popularity as well as the importance the industry gave to the role of film
songs as vehicles for pre-release publicity (Image 6). Shabab tells the story of a young musician Ratan
(Bharat Bhushan) who uses the power of his songs to cure Ragini (Nutan), the princess of a small
princely state, of insomnia (Image 7). An interesting sequence dramatizes the constraints placed on
music and musicians by those in power. When Ratan introduces himself as the musician who can cure
the princess’s insomnia, the king (S. Nazir) asks him a theoretical question in order to ascertain
his musical knowledge and capability. “How many notes are there in music, seven or eight?” asks the

Image 6. A double spread poster of Shabab, in Filmindia October 1953 with Naushad’s photograph
pointing towards the music composer’s rise to stardom after Baiju Bawra.
Source: National Film Archive of India, Pune.

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166 Shikha Jhingan

king. Refusing to answer this question, Ratan asks

the king to instead allow him to sing a sweet
melody of a “delicate raga” to help the princess
fall asleep. This seems a clear reference to
Ratanjankar’s introduction of strictly guided
auditions for the selection of musicians for AIR.
Ratan sings a soft lullaby, “Chandan ka Palna
Resham ki Dori” (A cradle of sandalwood gently
rocked by a silken rope) in Hemant Kumar’s
velvety voice. The mise-en-scène depicts Ragini
behind sheer curtains (the two are not allowed
to see each other) with soft light bathing her
silhouetted body. The camera cuts between mid-
shots of Ratan, Ragini’s sensate body, and the
response of the three chambermaids to the singer’s
honeyed voice. By the second antara of the song,
while Ragini drifts off to sleep, the voice con-
tinues to exercise affective power, unlocking her
hidden desires in a dream in which Ratan emerges
from the clouds, mounted on a horse back. Ragini
and Ratan fall in love when Ratan starts giving her
music lessons. After the crafty dewan/minister
(Wasti) discovers them singing songs together (in-
cluding a raga-mala), he reminds Ratan of his
Image 7. Poster of Shabab in Filmindia April 1954. commoner status and gets him expelled from the
Source: National Film Archive of India, Pune. palace.26 A dejected Ratan lives with a group of
beggars, and teaches them his songs. Soon the beggars are roaming the streets singing Ratan’s songs as
they seek alms from the public. As the songs travel, attracting a wider public, alms collections increase.
In a refrain mainly to the music composers of the 1950s, at a climactic moment Ratan declares that
“music must please the ordinary man in the street rather than those living in palaces.”27
Baiju Bawra, Shabab, Basant Bahar, Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baje, Goonj Uthi Shehnai, and Barsaat
Ki Raat, made in the 1950s, used classical music to weave narratives around the lives of musicians,
evoking both historical and fictional characters. Classical vocalists were asked to perform for many of
these films. Ustad Amir Khan sang for Baiju Bawra, Goonj Uthi Shehnai, Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baje,
and Shabab, while Bhimsen Joshi of the Kiraana Gharana sang for Basant Bahaar. Bade Ghulam Ali
Khan sang for Mughale-Azam, Bismillah Khan was the star of the musical score for Goonj Uthi Shehnai.
Besides, several well-known classical instrumentalists such as Panna Lal Ghosh, Abdul Halim Jaffer
Khan, Ram Narayan, Samta Prasad, Vilayat Khan, Ravi Shankar, Ali Akbar Khan, Ahmed Jan Thirakwa,
and Rais Khan played for several films working with a range of music composers.28 It seems obvious that
music composers like Naushad and Vasant Desai used these films to showcase their knowledge of
classical music and their ability to compose music for great stalwarts like Amir Khan and Bade Ghulam
Ali Khan.29 Films featured the recurring use of raga-mala sequences through songs or musical phrases,
depicting the seasons spring, summer, monsoon, and winter to evoke the passage of time; these were akin

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 167

to a temporal journey undertaken by the protagonist into a world of musical knowledge governed by the
challenges of training and competition. Baiju Bawra, Shabab, Basant Bahar, Goonj Uthi Shehnai, and
Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baje deployed rudimentary forms of raga-mala to depict the training of the musi-
cian/dancer. Another trope that was commonly used in these films was the contest or the muquabla,
where the singer protagonist was pitted against the court musician.30 Both these kind of sequences were
used strategically to construct the notion of “classical music.” In contrast to the use of raga-mala and the
muquabla, the film song was deployed as a key device to articulate the notion of musicality through
the voice. The songs were cleverly constructed, deploying the use of alap and simple tans to establish
the protagonists’ knowledge of classical music.31 I want to draw attention to how the film song and the
singer/protagonist’s voice, as opposed to the classical music performance, became a key device to express
his inner world and to engage the spectator in his troubled encounter with modernity.
Basant Bahar (1956) was based on Hamsa Geethe, a Kannada novel by T.R. Subba Rao (1952). The
novel tells the story of a classical singer, set in the period of Tipu Sultan during his control over
the Nayaka rulers. The novel was adapted for a Kannada film in 1975 with the same title and the music
score was provided by Bala Murli Krishna. It is interesting that Basant Bahar, based on this novel was
made in the mid 1950s. One could ask if the making of this film had anything to do with the debate on
classical and popular film music of that time.32 The film frames this debate through visual and narrative
strategies that are deployed to construct the image of the classical singer. Several incidents in the film
fall within the idiom of the “anecdote” which has been an important trope in the narrativization of the
history of classical music. Gopal (Bharat Bhushan), the son of a royal astrologer in Chitradurga, is drawn
toward music, while his father hopes that he will change his wayward ways and become an astrologer.
In a series of episodic events, Gopal’s voice is destroyed by a rival singer and he is humiliated by the
ruler of Chitradurga. Gopal falls in love with Gopi (Nimmi), a Devdasi, and further incurs the wrath of
the Nayaka ruler. Troubled by these catastrophic events, Gopal decides to leave Chitradurga with Gopi.
A turn of events leads to Gopal’s encounter with Lehri Baba (Manmohan Krishan), an itinerant singer.
Gopal is so mesmerized by Lehri Baba’s voice that he abandons Gopi and starts following Lehri Baba,
convinced that his search for a guru will end here. Crazed and infuriated, Lehri Baba shuns him and
refuses to part with his knowledge, declaring that all that he knows about music will go with him to his
grave.
The film’s narrative echoes the film industry’s critique of classical music in the way the ustad or the
guru is represented as being secretive about his craft. In an article in Filmfare, Naushad criticized classical
music for its codes of secrecy and for becoming a monopoly of “ustads” (musicians of the courts of kings
and emperors). Naushad wrote:

Music belonged not to the people but to the Maharajas, the nawabs, the potentates and the zamindars. It was
unthinkable for a great musician or singer to reveal his professional secrets to his chelas, even if they were his life
long disciples. He handed his legacy to his son and son-in-law who kept them in parochial secrecy until they died
out with a gharana, thus depriving the country of what could have been a valuable addition to the rich traditions
of our music. [The] Music of Beethovan, Bach and Chopin and other great masters of the West is preserved intact
and not lost… Walk into any music store and you can buy a printed sheet of the compositions of the masters.
(Naushad, 1955, p. 19)

By arguing for the need to bring classical music within the fold of textuality, Naushad was drawing
attention to the modernizing and democratic impulse of film music. The film industry made an assertion

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168 Shikha Jhingan

that film music had brought music to the common man, contributing to a “new system of notation and
orchestration, investing Indian music with new techniques.”33
In Basant Bahar, Gopal surreptitiously follows and listens to Lehri Baba’s practicing of a raga. This
idea of suni shagird (disciple by listening) as opposed to direct discipleship has been a common trope in
the anecdotal reservoir of stories built around legendary singers. The difficulties Gopal faces in his
search for a suitable mentor derives from the unpredictable circumstances of a period when networks
based on patronage and lineage were undergoing major transformations.34 The singer’s yearning to excel
in his art is intimately linked to anxieties and uncertainties which suggest the emergence of a modern
formation of self. The musician strives to establish his legitimacy by projecting himself as a worthy
successor of an “authentic” master but, ultimately, has to forge his own singular identity. The classicisa-
tion of music is, thus, constructed both around notions of exclusivity, as well as a troubled passage into
musical individuation.
Gopal follows Lehri Baba unremittingly, and even ties his feet with a rope at night. However, Lehri
Baba sets himself free when Gopal is asleep. When Gopal wakes to find his guru gone, the camera
frames his face in a mid close-up , while music fades into the track. This is followed by a mid-long shot
of Lehri Baba walking toward the camera, the shot focused below his waist, as Gopal’s off-screen voice
fills the soundtrack. As Manna Dey’s slow alap rises, Lehri Baba’s feet falter (Images 8a, 8b, and 8c).
The camera now slowly tilts up to reveal Lehri Baba’s face, showing that he is drawn to Gopal’s voice.
He turns his head toward the direction of the voice and then walks away, exiting the frame. A mid-shot
of Gopal follows, as he sings the mukhda of the song, “Sur Na Saje Kya Gayun Main” (How do I sing,
my melody lacks color). Once again we cut to Lehri Baba’s feet faltering. Low-angle shots of Gopal’s
face add to the “affect” of the voice, as they are inter-cut with long shots of Lehri Baba, struggling to
walk away. Like Lehri Baba, the spectator/listener is invited to respond to the sensuous qualities of the
song and savour its “affect,” with the voice of the well-known playback singer being crucial to these
negotiations. The song works at three levels: Gopal singing in the forest; Lehri Baba responding to
Gopal’s voice, and Gopi waiting for Gopal in Chitradurga. The relationship between Gopal, Gopi, and
Lehri Baba developed through inter-cutting is supplemented through the song lyrics. The lines of the
antara, “Dono jahan mujhse roothe, tere bine yeh geet bhi jhoothe” (Both the worlds have forsaken me,

Images 8a, 8b, and 8c. Gopal starts following Lehri Baba convinced that his search for a Guru will end here
but Lehri Baba shuns him. As Gopal sings “Sur Na Saje Kya Gayun Main”, Lehri Baba gets drawn to his voice.
Bharat Bhushan and Manmohan Krishna in Basant Bahar (1956).
Source: Frame from DVD of Basant Bahar.

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 169

without you my songs sound false), on a cutaway of Gopi, underline how the singer’s personal and
musical self cannot be separated. As the songs ends, Lehri Baba rushes back to accept Gopal as his dis-
ciple, and share with him his musical knowledge (Images 9a, 9b, and 9c).

Images 9a, 9b, and 9c. The inter-cutting between Gopal, Gopi and Lehri Baba in “Sur Na Saje” shows Gopal’s
personal and musical self as deeply connected with each other. Moved by Gopal’s singing Lehri Baba accepts
Gopal as his disciple. Bharat Bhushan, Nimmi and Manmohan Krishna in Basant Bahar.
Source: Frame from DVD of Basant Bahar.

The film’s episodic structure and elliptical narrative suggests fluid notions of temporality. It is not
clear whether Gopal spends days, weeks, or even months following Lehri Baba across rivers and forests.
The episodes in the forest are inter-cut with shots of Gopi and his parents waiting for him. This is similar
to Baiju walking on foot for days in search of Swami Haridas till he finally reaches Brindavan. As
opposed to these fluid temporalities, the film song comes across as a stable temporal entity with a clear
beginning and an end. More importantly, the film song’s lyrical content becomes a key to understanding
the interiority of the singer/protagonist. The voice is crucial in the construction of the singer’s subjectivity;
the power in Gopal’s music lies in this ability to connect the music to his emotional self in “Sur Na
Saje.”
This rendering of personal turmoil into musical expression provides Gopal’s singing with an edge
over his rival, the court musician. This becomes clear in the following sequence when Gopal, after
receiving training from Lehri Baba, enters the court of Ramdurg to take part in musical contest with his
arch-rival Malaiyya. The singing voice for Malaiyya is Bhimsen Joshi, a well-known classical musician
of the time. Malaiyya renders the composition “Ketaki gulab champak ban phool” (Splendour of flowers
in a spring garden) in the classical mode, displaying his technical virtuosity through elaborate tans. The
king of Ramdurg and his courtiers seated on a pedestal listen to Malaiyya in rapt attention. Suddenly
Manna Dey’s off-screen voice in an extended alap fades into the sound track.35 As Malaiyya halts, the
camera pans to capture Gopal in the center of the frame (Image 10). The iconic framing of Bharat
Bhushan, aided by Manna Dey’s familiar voice sets the stage for a dual enunciation, amplifying the
emotional power Gopal’s voice exercises over his audience. In contrast to Bhimsen Joshi’s rendering,
Manna Dey’s voice is used for slow elaboration with a thehrav/composure in his voice.36 The voice is far
more natural, rounded, and mellifluous; the use of tans is restricted with tans in the slow tempi, to allow
easy intelligibility. The emphasis is clearly on the sweetness of the voice. Enriched by Lehri Baba’s
teaching, Gopal uses bolder voice projection combined with clearer articulation of words. The voice

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170 Shikha Jhingan

acquires an aura through its familiarity, clear

Image 10. Gopal enters the court of Ramdurg to
challenge his arch rival Malaiyya in a musical contest in
Basant Bahar.
Source: Frame from DVD of Basant Bahar.
enunciation, and the iconic framing of the singer.
While Malaiyya is shown contorting his face in
close-up shots, Bharat Bhushan’s contemplative
mode/presence projected through frontal framing
is more like the depiction of a saint singer, akin to
the iconography of the devotional genre.
In his work on the emerging practices of Khayal
singing in North Indian classical music, Amlan
Das Gupta argues that demands of modernity
pushed new notions of taste and aesthetic pro-
priety placing greater emphasis on intelligibility,
emotional power, and a search for coherent mean-
ing in the poetic texts.37 This is noted as a “shift
from a style that projects a high difficulty factor
to one that emphasizes on voice culture, sound
quality and the unity of listening experience”

(Das Gupta, 2007a, p. 253). Das Gupta insightfully suggests that the musical contest or muquabla
depicting a stereotypical image of the classical/court musician in popular cinema points toward these
emerging shifts. The contest has to “set up a competing set of cognitive markers” and the way the
sequence is organized defines the choice supported by the film’s narrative (Das Gupta, 2007b). I would
like to qualify this by suggesting that it is the song preceding the contest that sets the stage for creating
these cognitive markers; what Gopal has (and Malaiyya does not) is a song like “Sur Na Saje” which
evokes the anguished inner world of the singer. While the court musician displays excess in terms of
his technical virtuosity and musical knowledge, the outcaste singer is shown to draw strength from his
personal struggles for survival, and it is this which creates a mesmerizing effect on his audiences. This
embodied voice projected through the star persona of Bharat Bhushan also draws on the cultural memory
of songs he performed in Baiju Bawra and Shabab. The crucial distinction is that Gopal’s skills as a
singer are validated by his ability to sing a popular song that has wider circulation.
Central to Keskar’s attacks against film music was its use of “Western” instruments such as the piano,
harmonium, and clarinet, a feature which earned it the label of “hybrid music.” In all the three films
under analysis, Naushad and Shankar–Jaikishan relied on Western instruments and orchestration to add
tonal color to the songs. However, it was arguably the voice they gave centrality rather than instrumentation,
and this is notable in the use of alap and sargam rendered through mellifluous singing in slow tempi, and
depicted with visual effects such as the iconic framing of the singers. I have argued that most significant
was the way voice was depicted as a site of anxiety and crisis for the singer. In an early sequence in
Basant Bahar, Gopal listens intently to Acharya, the court musician of Chitradurga, training his son
Malaiyya. At a key moment in the lesson, Gopal enters the frame singing the composition in an improvised
mode. His rival’s guru praises him for his melodious singing and asks him to participate in the music
contest where his own son is competing. Malaiyya, concerned at this challenge to his bid to become a
court musician, mixes poison into prasad, and offers it to Gopal. Gopal’s voice cracks during the contest

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 171

and, humiliated by the ruler of Chitradurga, he is

forced to leave. Gopal’s loss of voice precipitates a
serious crisis and, though the voice returns, he
does not perform again until his formal training
with Lehri Baba is complete. In Baiju Bawra,
Baiju struggles hard to bring taasir and dard into
his voice. Mohammed Rafi’s high-pitched dramatic
singing expresses this anxiety in “O duniya ke
rakhwale” (O lord of the universe), where the deity
of Lord Shiva is moved to tears. Here, it is the
voice of the classical singer performing the film
song which is crucial to the enactment of the
miracle. Similarly, in Basant Bahar, Gopal sings
“Bhay Bhanjana vandana sun hamari” (O’ Goddess Image 11. Gopal sings “Bhay Bhanjana Vandana Sun
please listen to my prayers and allay my fears), in Hamari” imploring Goddess Parvati to appear before
front of Goddess Parvati imploring her to appear him.
before him (Image 11). Source: National Film Archive of India, Pune.

Excavating the “Experiential” in Hindustani Classical Music

It has been my argument that cinematic representations of classical musicians in the 1950s can be related
to the debate on the need for a renaissance in Indian music. In the early twentieth century, the custodians
of classical music sought to regenerate the form by developing system, order, and theory, in the pro-
cess sidestepping the “uneducated and undisciplined practitioner.”38 According to Bakhle, “Bhatkhande’s
commitment to music allowed for a random practice to be disciplined by a connected history, a stern
typology, and a documented musicology” (Bakhle, 2005, p.131). As we have observed, in the 1950s,
Keskar wanted AIR to become a governmental apparatus to bring discipline and order into the haphazard
world of music.39 Keskar favored the new generation of amateur musicians trained in the newly formed
music academies over the professional hereditary musicians.40 On the other hand, Baiju Bawra, Shabab,
and Basant Bahar gave center stage to the “random practice” of music; and drawing upon memory,
anecdotal history, and biographical writings, used elliptical narratives to explore the life histories of
classical musicians. The films had recurring narrative devices and themes. These included the disrup-
tion of the singer’s training, his inability to find a guru, his loss of voice, descent into mental instability,
despair in love, the tyrannical demands of the princely rulers, and the stigma of being seen as outcastes.
The wedge between theory and practice could not have been wider.
Where did these ideas come from? I would like to explore some of these issues as they emerge in My
Life, an autobiography by Alladiya Khan, one of the greatest North Indian classical vocalists of the
modern period (1855–1946). First, I would like to draw attention to understandings of the “experiential”
in classical music as it is articulated through the idea of a sensate body. Second, I am interested in the
way the formation of an individuated self is made elemental to the films based on the lives of classical
singers. The musical value/achievement of the protagonists’ art is related to his personal journey through
a series of crises. These are “marked by a break up of a certain kind of social organization in the case of

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172 Shikha Jhingan

music, and of the musician’s bewilderment at having to deal with unfamiliar problems” (My Life,
Introduction by Urmila Bhirdikar and Amlan Das Gupta, p. 26). Third, I would like to suggest that when
the cultural nationalists turned to Hindustani classical music in an attempt to codify and standardize the
classical in the 1950s, it was popular cinema that retrieved the experiential quality of the world of the
practitioner through the intertwining of narratives and songs.
In several episodes in My Life, Alladiya Khan describes the tenuous nature of patronage and the un-
predictable nature of events in royal courts.41 Thus, the ruler of Amletta made Khan Sahib sing for long
hours, morning and evening, causing serious deterioration in the singer’s voice. He lamented, “for two
years my voice was in a bad condition. I was very depressed. After namaz I used to pray to Allah to either
restore my voice or take me away from the world” (Khansahab, 2000, pp. 62–63). According to Das
Gupta and Bhirdikar,

Underlying the heroic persona of the singer are profound anxieties, and the deepest of them are tied up with the
production of music rather than with economic survival. ..It is the voice that becomes the site for uncertainty,
and this is not simply a question of musicality or sweetness. The notion of voice focuses on a number of issues,
and relates to the basic effectiveness of the musician’s art. The taasir—weakly translated as the “power” or
“effect”—of the music is measured ultimately by the effect that the singer has on his or her audience, the way
that a singer can not only delight but move the audience at will. (p. 28)

One of the most important episodes highlighted by classical musicians in their autobiographies re-
lates to the experience of listening to other musicians. The memories excavated by the musicians bring
to life the palpable way in which networks of mobility, kinship, and a passion for music helped make the
voice of the itinerant singer audible. Here is a passage where Alladiya Khan describes his travels with his
uncle and Jehangir Khan during his early period of training:

From there we went to Aligarh. There I heard Khurshid, a disciple of my elder uncle Mohammed Ali Khansaheb.
She sang well. In a few days we got word from the sarai (rest-house) that Aliya and Fattu (Ali Baksh and Fateh
Ali) had come. I had heard that they were very skilled. Gokhibai had taught them. Meanwhile, Rahmatullah
Khan of Sikandrabad came from Delhi with his sons. Rahmatullah was a friend of Chimman Khansahab. I went
with my uncle to meet him. Aliya and Fattu were staying in a room in the sarai. They were practicing with great
verve and all the musicians of the locality had come to listen. They were singing very well and everybody was
pleased. We went to the room next door where Rahmatullah Khansahab was staying. Casual conversation was
going on. My uncle expressed his desire to hear his sons. So Kudrutullah and Azmatullah were told to sing and
they started. Aliya and Fattu were singing in the next room. The two singers started singing with such power and
effectiveness that all the listeners started coming here, and finally Aliya and Fattu themselves stood up to listen
to their singing. (pp. 34–35)

Alladiya Khan’s description of this event foregrounds the presence of the listeners, and how they
move at the crucial moment toward the more effective singers. This reminds us of the sequence outside
Tansen’s haveli in Baiju Bawra in which crowds negotiate different registers of aurality. The narrative of
voices contending for the attention of listeners is brought to a close when Aliya and Fattu end their
singing to join the audience. Once again silence becomes a marker of the emotional and aesthetic power
achieved by musical sound. In these fascinating accounts, as musicians travel through different princely
states and key towns in search of patrons and connoisseurs, the sarai becomes an important location for
the production and consumption of music. Here Alladiya Khan describes his arrival in Baroda:

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 173

The news of our arrival spread in the city. We started getting invitations for concerts. In one concert all the skilled
singers in the city were present. Faiz Mohammed Khan, Bhaskarrao, who was learning from him, and Rahamat
Khan were present. Rahamat Khan was sitting in the back of the corner. I started singing. While listening, slowly
he started moving forward and by the time the singing was finished, he was sitting right in front, near me. As the
singing got over he rose on his knees and said: “True music is this which Alladiya of Jodhpur sings. All the rest
of us are false squabblers.” (pp. 75–76)

In the Lost World of Hindustani Music, Kumar Mukherji describes his first experience of listening to
Kesarbai:

As the curtain went up, we beheld a middle aged lady of imposing appearance…the pitch was lower than usual,
possibly G sharp, and her first enunciation of the sa, the tonic, revealed a quality of voice somewhat heavier
than most female musicians. As she progressed with her raga Lalit Gauri, the luminous quality of every note she
struck with her open-chested akar was such a departure from anything we had heard that we clasped each other’s
hands in sheer joy. (Mukherji, 2006, pp. 201–202, emphasis mine)

These passages highlight the sheer joy of listening captured through anecdotes about the “sensate and
sensible body.”42 Alladiya Khan’s account focuses on those listeners, the musicians of the sarai in
Aligarh, Rahmat Khan of Baroda, who were themselves well versed in creating musical sound. All the
accounts excavate the longer history of the pleasure involved in listening to music in a highly sonorous
context. They communicate a phenomenological experience of bodies that can “hear” as well as “be
heard,” that are immersed in the affective force field of musicality.
To these stories about classical music, I would like to add another anecdote that comes from a prac-
titioner of Bombay film music. Writing of his early days of struggle as a music composer in Bombay,
S.D. Burman described his frustration at the constant rejection of his compositions by his boss,
S. Mukerjee, the head of Filmistan studio. He evoked a peculiarly sonic dimension to Mukerjee’s
response:

As the days went by, I made further discoveries regarding his sense of rhythm and harmony. Everyday after lunch
I had to carry my harmonium to his room. Lying comfortably on a sofa, he listened to my compositions, then
closed his eyes and snored. This snore was the signal that my composition was rejected…. This ordeal continued
for two months… (till one) day I went prepared for a showdown. As usual I started playing the harmonium and
went on humming my new tune till my boss’s eyes closed. There was nothing to it. I had to wait for the inevitable
snore. But suddenly, the boss woke up and said, Mr. Burman, why don’t you get this tune recorded. I was puzzled
and wondered why of all the tunes I composed for him he liked this one. I found out that evening. As I was
coming out of the rehearsal room the “room-boy” was humming the tune and quite correctly too. From that day
I made it a point to get my tunes approved by the “room-boy.” (Burman, 1955, p. 27)

To see the overwhelming investment in classical music in the films of the 1950s as strategies to pro-
tect the film industry’s reputation and commercial interests against B.V. Keskar’s policies would be
simplistic. Instead, I have argued that films depicting the lives of classical musicians enabled the film
industry to create complex discourses about music that raised fundamental questions about the musical,
performative, and public contexts within which the classical was produced. Composers of film music
presented themselves as important stakeholders in this debate by writing in film magazines and parti-
cipating in seminars. The films discussed in this article elaborated on the lives of classical singers in

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174 Shikha Jhingan

times defined by major changes in system of patronage. The films mapped these transformations through
narratives of personal struggles and through a deep engagement with issues of modernity and the new
public sphere. Films like Baiju Bawra, Shabab, and Basant Bahar were crucial in shaping the debate to
reform classical music and create a new middle class audience. While these films explored issues related
to patronage, musical virtuosity, search for a suitable guru, and access to an exclusive repertoire, their
definition of musical excellence ultimately placed overriding emphasis on the ability of a singer to move
his audiences. Articulating an aesthetic that privileged the “affective” registers of the film song, over the
technical virtuosity of the classical/court musician, these films questioned the binaries between the class-
ical and the popular. More importantly, by drawing attention to the affect of the “voice” as well as the
“experiential” dimensions of the pleasures involved in performing as well as listening, the film industry
made a strong assertion that the “national project” to popularize classical music could not bypass the film
song. The disembodied voices of trained playback singers combined with the iconic framing of on-
screen stars enabled audiences to experience the pleasure of “classical music” as it was reinvented and
made intelligible through the practice of the film song.

Acknowledgments
I wish to thank Ranjani Mazumdar for giving me insightful comments on this article and Ravikant for suggesting
modifications to the translation of the lyrics of the songs. I am grateful to Urmila Bhirdikar for introducing me to
the debates on modernity and North Indian classical music. An early version of this article was presented at the
conference on “Popular Cinemas of the Nehru Era,” organized by Nehru Memorial Museum and Library (NMML)
in November 2009. I thank all the participants for the discussion and comments. Another version of this article was
presented at a national seminar on “A Note in Time: Music as Social Text,” organized by the Department of English,
Shri Venkateshwara College, in January 2011. I wish to thank all the participants, especially Lakshmi Subramanian
for the discussion. I would especially like to thank Ravi Vasudevan for his valuable comments, suggestions, and
encouraging support.

Notes
1. On the basis of his travels and conversation with hereditary musicians, Bhatkhande collected and compiled 1,800
compositions, which were presented in six volumes of Karmik Pustak Malika in Marathi and later translated
into Hindi. According to Bakhle, Karmik Pustak Malika “brought out for the first time, in one series of texts,
virtually the entire corpus of popularly sung ragas and compositions. This meant that students no longer needed
to participate in elaborate rituals of admission into a guild in order to learn music” (Bakhle, 2005, p. 126).
2. All the three films under discussion are about male musicians. Popular cinema dealt with the female singers/
musicians through the figure of the tawa’if, who combined singing with dancing in a kotha. There are a few
exceptions to this; for example, the parallel narrative of the two qawwal singers in Barsaat Ki Raat (Santoshi,
1960), who are depicted as professional hereditary singers and perform at melas and dangals competing against
male qawwals. Yatindra Mishra (2009, pp. 46–47) has shown that early film music drew significantly from
the repertoire of the baijis or the courtesans. In their work on the Muslim Courtesan Film, Ira Bhaskar and
Richard Allen have drawn attention to the significant presence of the musical accompanists, sarangi, sitar and
tabla players, and an interactive audience of patrons in the kotha who appreciated the singing of the courtesan
(Bhaskar and Allen, 2009, p. 52).
3. Shri Krishna Narayan Ratanjankar was a protégé of Bhatkhande and served as the first Principal of Marris
College of Music in Lucknow, set up by Bhatkhande. According to Mohan Nadkarni, Keskar also had a brief stint
at the Marris College. See Nadkarni (1999, pp. 161–173).
4. As a practice, the film producers had to sign a contract with AIR before the songs from their films could be aired
on AIR.

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 175

5. Letter by Gul Malani in Filmindia, October 1952.

6. Subsequently, the ban was lifted and in 1957, AIR started the Vividh Bharti service in which film songs were
given a liberal presence. This was clearly aimed at reclaiming the listeners whom AIR had lost to Radio
Ceylon.
7. Letter by A. Anandan, Illustrated Weekly of India, August 9, 1953, p. 50.
8. Gharana refers to a family or a clan of Hindustani music with a distinctive style of music. Usually the legacy
of a gharana was passed on to the sons, nephews, or sons-in-law. According to Kumar Mukherjee, the names of
the gharanas come from the towns or cities where the originator of the style lived.
9. Ragas form the melodic basis of Indian classical music. A raga is a specific melodic entity with a certain com-
bination of notes, to be adhered to within a scale.
10. Thumri is considered to be a light classical form characterized by fluidity of ragas. Thumri is generally associated
with the music of the courtesans or the tawa’ifs and the lyrics of Thumri by and large express a female narrative
voice. Tarana is a light classical form using syllables or mnemonic syllables for drumming. In the hierarchy of
Hindustani classical music, both Thumri and Tarana would be considered “lesser” forms of music in comparison
to Dhrupad and Khayal. For an insightful discussion on “light” and “classical” music in relation to genres like
Thumri and their gendered construction, see Ollikkala (1999), Rao (1990), and Du Perron (2002).
11. The effect of musical sound gets enhanced through silence, when expressed by Tansen and Ghaseet Khan who
are well versed in music.
12. See Aziz (2003). Aziz shows that Naushad made both Amir Khan and Rafi sing Darbari Kanada in Baiju
Bawra in which the “monomaniacal exclusivity of Tansen is contrasted with the communal inclusivity of Baiju”
(pp. 88–89).
13. Alap is a slow note by note elaboration of musical ideas. In vocal music it is associated with the use of vowel
sounds like “a” and precludes literary text. Tan is a fast musical phrase, showing the characteristics of a raga
through intricate note patterns. Tans can employ words, syllables, or vowels. According to Ranade tans are
“musical high points, deployed in various musical genres” (Ranade, 2006b, p. 109).
14. Ashok Ranade has suggested that through the songs of Baiju Bawra, Naushad provided a “polished but diluted
‘classical’ Hindustani music” (Ranade, 2006a, p. 130).
15. Pankaj Rag argues that Mohammed Rafi’s rendering of folk as well as classical based singing in Baiju Bawra
turned him into a top ranking singer far ahead of his contemporaries like Mukesh and Talat Mehmood. See
Pankaj Rag (2006, p. 139).
16. Mukhda is the refrain or the often-repeated first two lines of the song. Antara refers to the stanza.
17. The phonograph (78 rpm record) gave a distinct temporal identity to the song that went on to become the kernel
of the film song. Gerry Farell (1993, p. 48) shows that following the first recordings, Indian music performance
existed in two worlds: the extended live performance and the two- or three-minute duration of the disc. It has
been suggested that this represented a further split between the performance practices of the courts, and those
of the urban milieu of musical entertainment. Stephen Hughes (2007, pp. 3–34) has suggested that the coming
together of gramophone industry and drama music created conditions for the arrival of the film song. Bhaskar
Chandravarkar (1987, pp. 8–11) has also noted the role of theater songs, turned into a saleable commodity by
gramophone companies in prefiguring the film song.
18. According to a legend raga Darbari Kanada with its origin in Carnatic music is one of the many ragas introduced
by Tansen into Hindustani classical music. Some anecdotal references also describe it as a favorite raga of
Akbar. The raga is played or sung late into the night and is known for its emotional appeal. In this sequence we
see Tansen (Surendra) engaged in a slow elaboration of the raga through sargam moving from the lower to the
higher notes.
19. Kanu Desai is known as one of Gujarat’s pioneering modern artists who went on to study in Shantiniketan. By
combining his interest in line drawings, painting, sculpture, and plaster casting, Desai became a prolific art
director in Hindi cinema with films like Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baje and Baiju Bawra to his credit.
20. The posters were carried in the Hindustan Times, Delhi Edition.

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176 Shikha Jhingan

21. Letter by J.C. Kapoor in Filmfare, October 2, 1953, p. 16.

22. Naushad convinced Amir Khan and Pandit Paluskar to sing for Baiju Bawra by assuring them that “millions
would listen to the songs sung by them in one night, as against their normal audience of 200–300 people.” From
“Rewind to Melody” in Cinema in India, August 1992, pp. 21–26.
23. Proceedings from the Film Seminar are available in R.M. Ray edited Film Seminar Report, Delhi, Sangeet
Natak Akademi, 1955.
24. Letter to the editor by Hardeo N. Sinha in Filmfare, January 7, 1955.
25. Some of the popular songs of Shabab are “Man ki been matwari baje” (Listen to the strings of my heart), “Jogan
ban jaoongi” (I will renounce this world for you), “Jo main janati bisrat” (If only I knew he will forget me),
“Marna teri gali mein” (My death will come at your doorstep), “Aye na balam vaada karke” (My beloved never
came as promised), and “Chandan ka palna” (A cradle of sandalwood gently rocked by a silken rope).
26. Raga-mala literally means a garland of ragas. In this musical form, a composition is strung together with dif-
ferent ragas.
27. It is pertinent to add that both Keskar and Naushad agreed that classical music needed to be brought out of the
clutches of feudal patrons. Keskar proposed that the state-controlled AIR had to play a major role in bringing
classical music to the people. But, in my reading of Naushad’s statement, his reference to the ruling classes does
not exclude the authoritarian administrative rule represented by Keskar.
28. In his insightful work on the hitherto unknown musicians of Bombay film industry, Gregory Booth shows that in
its early years of sound, musicians came to the film industry from both music drama and classical music back-
grounds (Booth, 2008, p. 122).
29. Vasant Desai composed music for Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baje and Goonj Uthi Shehnai, both films known for
their heavy reliance on “classical music.”
30. Through raga-mala and muquabla sequences, the films made a subtle distinction between a classical perform-
ance and a film song, though with a few riders. In Baiju Bawra, Swami Haridas transmits knowledge to Baiju in
a dream sequence, through a raga-mala that is distinctly different from a film song while “Man ki been matwari
baje” (Listen to the strings of my heart) in Shabab despite being a raga-mala, carries all the markers of a film
song. “Ketaki gulab champak ban phool” (Splendour of flowers in a spring garden) in Basant Bahar begins as
a classical performance but turns into a “film song” with Gopal/Manna Dey’s entry.
31. The distinctive feature of the film song was a musical introduction followed by a mukhda or refrain, interlude,
two or three stanzas, and an end flourish. According to Ranade, Naushad “succeeded in tightening the musical
concept of the film song as distinct from ‘singing in film’” (Ranade, 2006a, p. 195).
32. The music of Basant Bahar was composed by Shankar–Jaikishan (SJ), who were known for lighter, foot-
tapping music, with an overt reliance on “Western” orchestration. Through Basant Bahar, SJ could prove that
they were well versed in classical music. Pankaj Rag (2006, p. 388) has given a detailed account of all the songs
of Basant Bahar, mentioning the ragas they are based on. Several of these songs became popular on Binaca
Geet Mala. Especially noteworthy is “Main piye teri” based on raga Bhairavi, in which Panna Lal Ghosh’s flute
almost competes with Lata Mangeshkar’s voice.
33. Editorial of Filmfare August, 1952, p. 5.
34. Rajeev Patke shows that enlightened patronage brought prestige as well as economic stability to the musician
giving him the opportunity to deepen his art, but the “oversupply of musicians and a perennial shortage of
dependable and knowledgeable patrons meant that most musicians lived peregrine lives fraught with uncertainties
and beset by rivalries” (Patke, 2007, p. 53). In her work on North Indian music in Maharashtra, Urmila Bhirdikar
(2007, p. 225) shows the emergence of a new public sphere in Bombay toward the late nineteenth century when
the “knowledgeable audiences of royal courts, kothas and dawats get replaced by a new curious and appreciative
audience,” offering new challenges to the musician.
35. In analyzing the way Manna Dey’s voice has been introduced in this sequence, I find it useful to recall Rajiv
Patke’s idea that alap pushes forward the idea of a “pure sound” through the sustained sound of vowel “a.” For
elaboration, see Patke (2007, p. 38).

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The Bombay Film Song in the 1950s 177

36. In his autobiography Manna Dey (2007, pp. 166–167) has described his initial hesitation to sing “Ketaki Gulab”
with Bhimsen Joshi as “the very thought of being unfavorably compared with so august a personality and
having my hard earned reputation as a singer ground to dust made me quake.” Dey was persuaded by his wife,
Sulochana, to accept the assignment as he was well versed in classical music and as she argued, “what’s more,
the film’s hero will be singing the song on-screen and winning the singing contest, according to the script.
So, what’s there to be afraid of?” According to Pankaj Rag (2006, p. 388), a very nervous Dey went to Abdul
Rehman Khan Saheb to train himself before the recording of “Ketaki gulab champak ban phool.” According to
Dey (2007, p. 167), Joshi showered him with praise after the song was recorded.
37. Khayal is a predominantly vocal style of singing in North Indian classical music in which the composition is set
in a definite raga with ample scope for improvisation.
38. Janaki Bakhle suggests that Bhatkhande wanted to wrest “classical music” away from the hands of the Muslim
ustads not because they were Muslim but because they were secretive and disorderly and “did not possess the
knowledge to create and sustain a modern academy of classical music” (Bakhle, 2005, p. 124).
39. Amanda Weidman discusses this issue at length in her work on modern technologies in the context of South
Indian music. Technologies of recording and broadcasting according to Weidman “create a disruption of
traditional modes of teaching, performing and listening, a very real disturbance that is experienced by musicians
and listeners variously as a forgetting of voice, a loss of face-to-face contact, and a speeding up of time”
(Weidman, 2006, p. 246). Weidman writes that “radio challenged the time-theory of the ragas since radio treated
all time as a matter of duration, or quantity, within which music could be made to fit” (Weidman, 2006, p. 272).
According to J.C. Mathur, “strict audition system provided standards to judge musicians and subjected them to
a sense of discipline” (as quoted by Weidman, 2006, p. 272).
40. Another unfortunate exclusion was that of women professional singers—the baijis or the courtesans. According
to Lelyveld, Patel ensured that singers and musicians, whose “private life was a matter of public scandal” were
barred from singing on radio (Lelyveld, 1994, p. 119).
41. In their analysis of Alladiya Khan’s autobiography, Amlan Das Gupta and Urmila Bhirdikar point toward the
instability in the life of the itinerant musicians as they were often compelled to travel in search of patrons and
music-friendly circles. For example, “the death of a particular ruler would suddenly put many musicians out of
job, if his successors did not inherit the same tastes.” See My Life, Introduction by Urmila Bhirdikar and Amlan
Das Gupta, p. 20.
42. In his work on perception, French phenomenologist Merleau-Ponty has emphasized the idea of perception
through the living body which is both sensate and sensible. The body with the ability to see is itself a visible
body, participating in the being of the visible (Merleau-Ponty, 1968, p. 138). I am extending this notion of sight
in the sensate and sensible body to the field of aurality, in which the act of responding to music and the creation
of musical sound crisscross each other.

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