‘Dil ki choton ne kabhi chain se rehne na diya jab chali sard hawa maine tujhe yaad kiya’
(The wounded heart restlessly aches… Whenever the wind ripples, for you…I crave)
‘Iss ka rona nahi kyun tumne kiya dil barbaad
Iss ka gham hai ki bahut der se barbaad kiya’
(I don’t mourn the fact that you broke my heart…
Just that you took too long to break it)
Only Ghulam Ali, the master of verse and melody, can miraculously fuse two couplets from Josh Malihabadi’s famous ghazal, Soz-e-Gham with another ghazal, Hum ko kis ke gham ne maara by Masroor Anwar and make them part of the same anguished whole.
He can do it because he is not just a ghazal singer but a lover of poetry. Like the late Jagjit Singh, who blended two ghazals, Meherbaan hoke bula lo by Ghalib and Usski hasrat hai jisse dil se by Amir Minai in one composition, Ali can see harmony in diverse poetic pieces and knows how to play with a verse, how to tweak a sher, how to sing a ghazal like a poet.
Then there is his complete mastery over not just the gayaki (classical singing) but also his audience.
In the days before live concerts could be preserved for posterity on YouTube, you could hear recordings of Ghulam Ali’s concerts on cassettes. And the rapturous response to the way he emphasised a word, held back the punchline with a long alaap, the sense of drama and a barely suppressed smile that he infused his singing with.
And much before the creative collaborations between India and Pakistan became de rigueur, he was singing for the likes of B R Chopra and Ravi (Hasrat Mohani’s Chupke Chupke) in Nikaah, and familiarising us with the works of poets like Nasir Kazmi (Dil mein ek lehar si), Ibne Insha (Yeh baatein jhooti baatein hain), and Daag Dehelvi (Tumhare khat mein).
Poet Mohsin Naqvi, who was tragically shot in 1996 by fundamentalist forces in Lahore, was immortalised by Ghulam Ali when he sang, ‘Ye dil ye paagal dil mera.’ This ghazal is still the anthem of restless, existential drifters across the subcontinent.
There were also the collaborations with Gulzar (Visaal), Meraj-e-Ghazal with Asha Bhosle, countless concerts across India, his cordial rapport with Jagjit Singh and Talat Aziz, the heartbreaking solo, ‘Chamakte chaand ko toota hua taara bana dala’ for the Mahesh Bhatt film, Awaargi, in the 1980s.
He is the last man standing from the holy trinity of modern ghazal in the subcontinent. Mehdi Hassan and Jagjit Singh are gone and it is our great fortune that Ghulam Ali is still here. He performed recently at Bengaluru. In an exclusive email chat, Ghulam Ali gave brief but pithy insights into his passion for music. Excerpts:
You were named after Ustaad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan and as a child, even sang the thumri, ‘Saiyyan bolo tanik mose rahiyo na jaye..’ before him. What did that moment mean to you?
My father was a great fan of Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan Saheb and he named me after him. I started learning music when I was just nine and have been listening to him since then. Thumri is what I always wanted to start my musical life with and just made an effort to sing, ‘Saiyyan bolo…’ and it was a small effort to show him my respect.
And now you are a legend yourself..
When people call me a legend, I feel I am not worthy of that title. I am just doing my job. It is the love and affection of people that they consider me a legend. It has been now almost 60 years since I started singing. That thumri was the beginning and every new concert and song is also a beginning. Like I said, singing is a sacred job for me.
Does the dilution of seriousness in music bother you?
Jiska wajood nahi hota uske bare main kya baat karni. Aaj ke daur ke gane aur gayki main aaj ki baat hai aur aaj kal log serious nahi hote hai (that which has so soul, no existence, why talk about it? Today’s music reflects the times and people today are not given to seriousness, generally). All young singers are good. Everyone has their own way of singing and they are doing it nicely.
Would you consider performing at the Coke Studio Pakistan?
Mere chahnewala mujhe jahan bulaenge, main zaroor jaoonga (wherever my fans call me, I will go).
Your work with Asha Bhosle in Meraj-e-Ghazal is still remembered. Any memories of that time?
Ashaji is like my younger sister and I loved singing with her.
After all these years, what does music mean to you?
Khuda! God! Bhagwan. That sums up my love for music.
You have been to Bengaluru before…
I am coming here after four years and I have memories of a very warm reception and people listened to me nicely and patiently.
with The New Indian Express Reema Moudgil works for The New Indian Express, Bangalore, is the author of Perfect Eight, the editor of Chicken Soup for the Soul-Indian Women, an artist, a former RJ and a mother. She dreams of a cottage of her own that opens to a garden and where she can write more books, paint, listen to music and just be silent with her cats