Tracking the journey of a CR welder who became a literary icon in Hindi cinema | Mumbai News
Mumbai Shailendra didn’t want to write songs for Hindi films. He considered cinema to be a descendant of capitalism. There is an anecdote that when Raj Kapoor offered him Aag around 1947, Shailendra declined, saying, “I want to excite the people of India with my poetry.”
A year later, Shailendra suffered from financial insecurity and wrote two songs for Kapoor’s ‘Barsat’. Overnight, the Central Railway welder became a literary icon in Hindi cinema.
Shailendra brought Hindi cinema closer to the faithful. Forty-seven years after his death, his soulful songs continue to echo in fields and factories, bastis and bazaars, cafes and caravanseraisari.
In a career spanning 18 years, Shailendra has written nearly 800 songs for 171 films, fusing myth and metaphor, rhythm and rag, Sufism and Marxism. Hard-core Marxists, with their upright character, established a dictatorship of the proletariat in the world of light and shadow, so to speak.
At a recent function to mark Shailendra’s birth centenary in a Mumbai suburb, eminent poet and filmmaker Gulzar paid glowing tributes to the magician of words.
“Shailendra chose words that were simple but layered with rich subtext. He could have written ‘Dum bhar joh idhar Moonh phere, O chanda, main unse pyaar kar loongi’ – a frugal “It’s a powerful image expressed in words,” Gulzar said.
Little is known that it was Shailendra who encouraged Gulzar to write his first song for Bimal Roy’s ‘Bandini’. “I wasn’t really keen on joining the film as a songwriter. But Shailendraji pulled me up and said: ‘Go and write a song.’ Tum ko Bimal-da se zyaada aql hai kya?’ (Do you have more wisdom than Bimalda?),” said Gulzar, who has long been recognized by film buffs as Shailendra’s literary successor.
When Shailendra made his debut in the film industry, the concept of mass entertainment was changing rapidly, paving the way for new alliances and equations. The phenomenal success of ‘Ratan’ and ‘Kismat’ (both musicals) forced the production house to rethink its strategy. They started investing heavily in songs.
Trained playback singers, ace composers, incredibly talented musicians (especially those from Goa), and young poets teamed up to transform film music into a high art and make commerce flourish. .
Shailendra and his colleagues deepened the literary content of the film. They eschewed greasy sentimentalism and clichés: “Wow maa” and “haire daya” were thrown out the window. A new era of poets came with new ideas and fresh images.
Majroo, Hasrat Jaipuri, and Rajinder Krishan composed bubbly romantic numbers, while Shailendra and Sahil gave voice to the anxieties and aspirations of an emerging nation scarred by partition, but still transforming an ancient civilization into a modern, inclusive republic. was eager to change.
While Sahil indulged in heavily embellished Urdu poetry, Shailendra wrote in a simple, unadorned style: ‘Nanhe munne bachche teri mutthi mein kya hai’ and ‘Haaye re woh din kyoon naa aayae’ are heart-wrenchingly beautiful songs composed by Pandit Ravi Shankar for Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s ‘Anuradha’.
Shailendra’s visuals were amazing. “I offer him my right hand for ‘Woh kaun hansta hai phoolon mein chhupkar’ (first line of the first verse of ‘Suhana safar aur yeh mausam haseen’ in ‘Madhumati’),” said young Rahul Yadav. said. A Hindi poet who runs a tea shop on the outskirts of Mumbai.
Lyricists, whether male or female, achieved an exalted status because they helped perpetuate the cinematic persona of the protagonist. ‘Awara hoon’, written by Shailendra, cultivated Raj Kapoor’s Chaplinesque image. In Mera Jyota Hai Japani, which made Kapoor a household name in Soviet Russia, Shailendra deftly combined Hindi cinema with the Nehruvian spirit, celebrating pluralism and peace.
India’s first exposure to feminism came when Waheeda Rehman sang the road to freedom to the beats of ‘Aaj Phir Ji Ne Ki Tamanna Hai’ in another of Shailendra’s masterpieces ‘Guide’. It was when I danced.
Shailendra’s fielding was amazing. He could write about unrequited love (‘Rula ke gaya sapna mela’) or a farm worker’s longing for rain (‘Dharti kahe pukal ke’) with equal gusto. did it. ‘Chun karti aayee chidiya’ from ‘Boot Polish’ is an ode to a child’s world of peacocks and pachyderms. The list of songs is endless.
Shailendra was a disciplined writer. According to mythology, he begins his day by taking a short walk along the Juhu beach. The morning was reserved for Shankar Jaikishan (SJ). Shailendra was well aware that writing for a film was a high-pressure job and deadlines had to be met come rain or shine.
Industry veterans say he was adept at writing based on beats suggested by composers, which can be quite a daunting task. In the midst of the heat and clatter of the recording studio, Shailendra sat in a corner refining the Word of God, tweaking a line here, a musical phrase there, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Often a single word or a fleeting image sparks a poet’s imagination. Once, SJ, ace musician Dattaram and Shailendra were on their way to Kapur’s Chamber Studio. As the car passed by the mesmerizing beauty, Jaikishan eagerly turned around to catch another glimpse. Dattaram said, “Jaisahab, mud ke kya dekate ho?” Shailendra’s first line was “Mud ke na dekh mud ke” (“Shree 420”).
It is said that ‘Tesri Kasam’ turned out to be Shailendra’s Achilles heel. As a producer, he poured his heart and life’s savings into the film, but the film was delayed inordinately. By the time it was ready for release, there was no longer a demand for black and white films. Suffering from mounting debts and a protracted legal battle, Shailendra died of a heart attack on December 14, 1966, Raj Kapoor’s 42nd birthday.
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(Tag translation) Mumbai
