Hemantha Kalam - 96 "Melancholic Sin'

The year must be 1965 or 1966. There were two more girls before me till I could get my turn. I was a runt of a boy doing my III standard, if I got my counting right, and was waiting in the queue to participate in the annual singing competition, in my school. The venue to sing was not on a dais but in the room of the school’s manager, an unnerving person.

After an eternity, which was no more than 10 minutes, I got my chance. I had to fold my hands in humility and obeisance, to the school’s manager Late N. S.  Sarangapani, and sing. I started singing one of my father’s favourite songs “Ee visaala, prasaanta, ekaanta sowdhamlo......” (in English, it freely translates into ‘in this spacious, peaceful, desolate mansion.....’), which was a private song sung by Late M. S. Rama Rao, a renowned singer in the Telugu devotional and film sectors.  

My father helped me practice well for proper tuning, pronunciation, diction, appropriate spacing and word breaking. As a matter of fact the original of this song is rather sober, but my father made it more mellifluous and trained me to sing that way.

Like he used to do always, he held me in his hands and used to make my head rest on his shoulder while strolling in the house compound and singing melodies of Ghantasala, Hemant Kumar, Mohammed Rafi, Talat Mahmood and others, to make me sleep.

That’s how it was engrained into my system that I could not only appreciate melodies that were sung even before I was born but also try to sing a few of them. That my grand uncle was a well known music director also helped, as I was mostly in the music atmosphere. 

Coming back to the present story, I thought I sang the song well. After all, my name and my family name were at stake and I had to keep the flag flying high (well, ours is a family of music and dance – My paternal great grandfather taught dance to the famous south Indian film actress Savithri). But dear Sarangapani hardly bothered about all these finer aspects. Apparently no song and dance jigs for him. Perhaps, I realise now, that he could have been a staunch follower of Subrahmanya Bharathi who famously said “Yaamarintha mozhigalilae tamizh mozhi pol inithaavathu engum kaanom...” (among the languages known to us, we won’t find a language as sweet as Tamil anywhere).

 

He randomly selected three winners, all who sang in Tamil, and that was that. I lost out. It was only then and recently that my singing was outright rejected, when one of my colleagues said that she can’t stand my singing even if I hum under my breath. Otherwise I guess my singing in general was at least bearable and approved, even if not liked.

As far as the contest was concerned, the school had multi lingual students from almost all regions of India and multilingual songs were sung on the day. But no, Siree! No chance for the others. The school was guided by a gentleman called Thomas Richard Duncan Greenlees (1899-1966 -https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duncan_Greenlees), a South African, as the Principal/Head Master/Correspondent; yet dear Sarangapani ran the school on his terms. At least his dressing and mannerisms terrified the students so much that for all of them he was no less than a despot. Whereas Duncan Greenlees made himself a darling of all school children.

In this case, Sarangapani was the jury and the judge and the verdict came out swiftly. I was in absolute tears. I knew that I sang well. The song was also good. It was so good that a good 35 years later, O.P. Nayyar used this private song in a Telugu film called ‘Neerajanam’ (1988 - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zK4E6fAt3JA).

This was in the morning session. The whole bitter episode spoiled my appetite. When my father brought me lunch I broke down before him and told him that I sang well but did not win. He had this lovely smile on his face and he said “don’t worry, the others must have sung better than you. Let’s practice more”. So we kept singing together at home and used to enjoy life as it came to us. This helped me in future too.

Sometime during the time when I was doing my X standard, I got an opportunity to sing before an audience of hundreds of students. I started with the Tamil film song “Nalla perai vaanga vendum pillaigalae...”. After the first stanza, I got the jitters of the crowd and forgot the rest of the song. Hooting and catcalls started. Unfazed, I refused to get down, but then I could not remember the song either. The teachers were gesticulating to me to get down from the stage or else...! One of my ingenious friends quickly gathered his wits and scribbled the full song in a hurry and tried to pass it on to me. I didn’t want any of that. Either I sang on my own or let the others suffer. Suddenly I remembered the next words and sang the song fully and well to a loud and long applause. That I got good from my teachers later, for this circus, was another matter though.

A couple of years after, in one of the cultural programmes organised in an institution, I started singing a Hindi song “Mera jeevan kora kagaz kora hi rah gaya...”. Halfway through I felt that my legs became jelly and I couldn’t stand any more. I pulled a chair on the dais to sit down and continue singing.

If my grand uncle was alive, perhaps I would have attempted to make a go at singing for films under his tutelage, for whatever it was worth, but he died at a rather early age and I never wanted to approach others or have anything serious with the film industry. I had always been a bit of Laissez Faire that way. So I kept aloof and satisfied myself singing songs in Karaoke sessions where people seem to like my singing and where I am not shooed and shunned off!

My dad’s taste in music ranged from listening to D. V. Paluskar to the antics of Kishore Kumar. He was singularly in love with the music instrument Shehnai and adored it (which I abhor) and Ustad Bismillah Khan was his musical God.

My father used to love “Ab tere siva kaun mera Krishna kanhaiya...” from Kismat (1943) as much as “Laara Lappa Laara Lappa...” from Ek Thi Ladki (1949). He loved the songs “Sar Jo tera chakraye...” from Pyasa (1957) and “Ai dil hai mushquil jeena yahaan...” from CID (1956) which he even taught my daughters to sing.

His favourites included Hemant Kumar’s “Vande mataram...” from Anand Math (1952), “Man dole mera tan dole...” from Nagin (1954), Talat Mahmood’s “Ai mere dil kahin aur chal...” from Daag (1952) and “Jayen to jayen kaha...” from Taxi Driver (1954).

Even while on death-bed, he was reminiscing his own memories associated with these songs and one night he suddenly described a scene and asked me whether I remember the song and the name of the film which escaped his memory. I said I did and softly sang “Raat ne kya kya khwaab dikhayi...” from Ek Gaon ki Kahani (1957) for him.

His Telugu favourites included “Pushpa vilaapam”, a private song sung by Ghantasala and written by Karunasri (Late Jandhyala Papaiah Sastry). His Telugu film favourites included “Taa dhimi taka dhimi tolu bommaa...” from Bangaru Paapa (1955) an adaption of Silas Marner and “Evaru chesina karma vaaranubhavinchaka...” from Keelu Gurram (1949). 

But I used to love more of his singing the Telugu song “Ee visaala, prasaanta, ekaanta sowdhamlo...” in his own melodious tune and voice. I even dare say, without any hesitation, that his rendering of this song was much better than that of the original. It seems to have come so naturally to him (even when he was singing songs it was rare to see him practice at home).

The biggest sin is that I had never recorded him singing this song, despite having recording devices at home since 1979. In fact, I never even thought of recording any of my father’s songs ever. At least my wife made him sing a song in the end but it was only a consolation to his original melodious voice.

Alas, it is too late now as it has been over four years since he passed away on this day, the 14^th July, in 2017. If only I have the power of travelling back into time or to have a device to rewind time to bring him back! I do hope that he is able to sing to his heart’s content wherever he is now. Santhi santhi santhihi!

Well, until the next,  

Krutagjnatalu (Telugu), Nanri (Tamil), Dhanyavaadagalu (Kannada), Nanni (Malayalam), Dhanyavaad (Hindi), Dhanyosmi (Sanskrit), Thanks (English), Dhonyavaad (Bangla), Dhanyabad (Oriya and Nepalese), Gracias (Spanish), Grazie (Italian), Danke Schon (Deutsche), Merci (French), Obrigado (Portuguese), Shukraan (Arabic and Sudanese), Shukriya (Urdu), Sthoothiy (Sinhalese) Aw-koon (Khmer), Kawp Jai Lhai Lhai (Laotian), Kob Kun Krab (Thai), Asante (Kiswahili), Maraming Salamat sa Lahat (Pinoy-Tagalog-Filipino), Tack (Swedish), Fa'afetai (Samoan), Terima Kasih (Bahasa Indonesian) and Tenkyu (Tok Pisin of Papua New Guinea), Malo (Tongan), Vinaka Vaka Levu (Fijian)

 

Hemantha Kumar Pamarthy

Chennai, India