IT was an evening with magic woven in the air by songs once sung by the legendary Mohammad Rafi. One after the other, the performers tried to imitate the maestro and regaled the audience. Some copied his range. Others came out with Rafi-like reach of the crescendo and resilience to the base.Still others tried likening their style to his playing sudden drops and immediate starts. Rafi’s velvety delivery with his silver tone, unbrazen, unbruised and wavy voice, posed a challenge of sorts to the singers. And above all, mixing devotion with their presentation, was each singer’s hallmark.
He too had been a Rafi admirer all his life. He too had sung Rafi numbers in his college days, drawing room get-togethers and official functions. He too used to win applause on each rendition. His friends called him Mohammad Rafi.
But now he had grown old. Too old infact. His voice did not support his range. His urge fell flat. His lungs failed him. His throat gathered phlegm even while talking, which he had either to blow out, or gulp in. Most of his admirers were gathered upto their ancestors. He had none to tell him to sing a Rafi number. But he was to the core a Rafi worshipper.
Rafi Nite made him reach the venue with his family. They seemed to know about his passion. He could not compete. But he wanted still to perform. He couldn’t find a slot. He was restless. Perhaps he could not have been allowed to sing. Or the organisers thought so. But he was determined to have his way.
He climbed on to the stage, carrying his keyboard synthesiser, carefully wrapped in a sheet of cloth. He ordered the mike to be brought near him. He also beckoned the tabla player, to give him company. With conscious effort, he could balance himself. He squatted keeping the keyboard in front of him while unwrapping it. His hands trembled.
People watching all this laughed. They made fun at his entry. His aggressive style. His tremors. When the battery cells for the synthesiser fell off his hands, it evoked a bigger laughter. The orchestra director had the courtesy to help him put the battery in place. There was whistling and hooting too. Organisers did not know how to pull this man off the stage, without being rude to him, in full view of the audience.
Then he began. His fingers started flying from one end to the other. It made sonorous music. Tabla beats added still more charm to the presentation. People’s laughter died down all of a sudden. And then he began to sing. He gave the first line, “Aae bahar ban ke lubha kar chale gaye…!” And the repeat. And the fillers. And the entire song.
The auditorium walls resounded with only his singing. No laughter. No exchange of glances. No hooting. All present were mesmerised. Photographers took him in focus. Many others also followed suit with their cameras, from amongst the audience.
There was huge applause when he finished. Some wanted him to sing another number. He sat there still squatting. Still smiling. Still in the “race”. But he chose to opt out amid thunderous felicitations and salutations.
He wrapped his keyboard equally carefully. Shook hands with the tabla player. Smiled at the audience once again with a “howzat” and joined his family, waiting with moist eyes.
Of the Rafi fans, admirers and “devotees,” this old man was perhaps the most spirited of them all. While all others sung a dead Rafi, he was the one who brought him alive.
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2009/20090122/edit.htm#५
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