I was struck by the aristocratic aura surrounding the man. Despite his advanced age, his bearing was erect, eyes piercingly sharp, mind alert and skin had a pearly glow.
Attired in a white buttoned-up shirt, white trousers, white shoes, and a quaintly incongruous black hat, he was barking an order to the hotel waiter. Sitting on an easy chair, a glass of whisky stood by his side.
Introductions over, he politely asked me to take a seat. Millions of questions swirled in my mind as I stood before my childhood idol. Instead, I just sat tongue-tied the whole evening, imbibing every word he uttered. It was 16th January 1998 - his 72nd birthday.
I was posted in Mumbai in the 1990s. I would meet him frequently, and over time, befriend him. Our friendship lasted several years till the day he died
I grew up listening to O.P. Nayyar. His music had a robustness and a rhythm which set him apart from the other composers. His songs were bewitching, easy on the ears but difficult to reproduce. The songs were playful and naughty, seductive and sensuous. He brought the folk and the modern together in perfect harmony. Of course, when one is young, everything appears larger than life. But his music has stood the test of time and continues to fascinate me and millions of his fanatic followers.
Each time I hear his songs, I discover something new - a subtlety here, a finesse there. The murkis, the harkats, the khatkas, the taans which embellished his tunes take on a new meaning.
The use of the accordion, clarinet, cello, piano, sarangi, dholak, and santoor imparted a wide and innovative spectrum to his orchestration.
The poor sarangi! Hindi film music had accorded it a rather limiting role — either in the kothas or as mournful accompaniment to melancholic songs. No music director had violated the rule. Till ‘The Disruptor’ came along and changed all rules of Hindi film songs. Not in small measure, but wholesale.
OP Nayyar took the sarangi out of the confines of the kotha and let it soar into the sky; from being an adjunct to a dirge, he transformed it into an upbeat musical instrument. He gave it a feel-good melody, a fast pace. He gave it respect. You could hear it sing joyfully, to be released from typecasting. Hear ‘Yeh Kya Kar Dala Tune’ (Howrah Bridge, 1958), and ‘Aankhon Hi Aankhon Mein Ishara Ho Gaya’ (CID,1956).
Take the santoor. The beat allotted to it by music composers was gentle. It was elevator music. OP Nayyar used it as a fast-flowing brook – still soft but now more insistent – in the prelude to ‘Jaayiye Aap Kahaan Jaayenge’ (Mere Sanam,1965). Never was the santoor used like this.
The foremost contribution of OP Nayyar to Hindi film songs was rhythm. His innovations in the percussion section were so revolutionary, and catchy, that they became his trademark. It was a delight to hear OP Nayyar explain the intricacies and nuances of his extraordinary ‘off -beat’ offering to the Hindi Film Song.
First the tonga beat. He popularized it so much that it is now indelibly linked to him.
Think tonga, and OP Nayyar’s name invariably comes to mind. Take for example – ‘Banda Parwar Thaam Lo Jigar’ (Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon,1963), ‘Zara Haule Haule Chalo More Saajna’ (Saawan Ki Ghata,1966), ‘Yun To Humne Lakh Haseen Dekhe Hain’ (Tumsa Nahin Dekha ,1957), ‘Piya Piya Mera Jeeya Pukare’ (Baap Re Baap ,1955), and many others.
Castanets are a Spanish percussion instrument consisting of two round pieces of wood or shell which are held by the fingers and clicked together in rhythm to music and dance. OP Nayyar used it extensively in his songs, and how! The song’s complexion changed. Just hear ‘Aayiye Meherbaan’ (Howrah Bridge, 1958) when Asha croons ‘Ishq Ke Imtihan’. The song would have been flat without it. Or during ‘Kaise Pehchanun Ki Naam Nahin Janun’ from ‘Lakhon Hain Nigah Mein’ (Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon, 1963). It adds zest and frothiness to the hero’s romantic quest.
Almost all Hindi film songs have beat patterns which are straight and regular. But OP Nayyar had other ideas.
Take ‘Yeh Haseen Dard De Do’ (Humsaya, 1968). You give the song to a tabla player. He will provide the beat pattern which would be simple and linear. But in the hands of OP Nayyar, the beat pattern went through an earthquake. So, while the beat remained the same, its complexion radically changed, as did the song’s. The beat patterns are complex yet riveting. Hear ‘Aaj Koi Pyaar Se’ (Saawan Ki Ghata, 1966) and ‘Mohabbat Cheez Hai Kya’ (Yeh Raat Phir Na Aayegi, 1966) and see if the beat patterns don’t shake you up.
But the revolution OP Nayyar wrought was bringing on board both the Western and Indian beats to songs. His songs are replete with this fusion. He would have the western beat, usually the drums in the mukhra. In the antara, the dholak would take over. It wasn’t contrived, it didn’t look forced. Dholak was the most natural choice for the composition that he imparted to the antara. Then back to the drums in the following mukhra. This dual usage gave the song a hitherto unknown texture. One example – ‘Balma Khuli Hawa Mein’ (Kashmir Ki Kali ,1964).
OP Nayyar was referred to as a rebel composer, a maverick. All India Radio found OP Nayyar too trendy and banned most of his songs. Radio Ceylon was the only source.
This iconoclastic trait of his was invariably one of the topics of discussion that OP Nayyar and I used to have. He had retired from the film industry and was living as a paying guest in Thane, near Mumbai. OP Nayyar’s family had severed ties with him for his ‘wayward’ behavior and he had left all his possessions with them. OP Nayyar was not bitter about it because, as he told me, he deserved what he got. His primary source of income was music royalty. His new passion was homeopathy and astrology.
I would drive down very often to Thane – with a bottle of Black Label – and spend the evening with him. Just the two of us in his small room. He would serve boiled eggs for snacks. Late in the night he would serve dinner of mutton which he had bought personally earlier in the day and cooked over slow fire. The family he lived with was very tolerant and allowed him these liberties.
Though he would be initially reluctant, after a few pegs, and my persistence, he would talk about his music. He would patiently unfold his musical journey that began in the early 50s with ‘Aasman’ (1952) and took off with ‘Aar Paar’ (1954).
There was no music system in his room. Just a carton of diaries, letters, and photographs. He would show them to me. Some of the letters, written by known names of the playback industry, were explosive stuff. He showed me a postcard with the handwritten mukhra of his famous song ‘Pyaar Par Bas To Nahin Hai Mera’ (Sone Ki Chidiya ,1958). It was signed but he kept his palm over the name. “Guess who has written it?” he asked, smilingly.
“Talat Mahmood, of course?” I replied.
He shook his head in disbelief. “And here I thought you knew all my songs.” Of course, I knew the answer but wanted him to confirm, which he did.
OP Nayyar was a master in adorning words with notes. Equally commendable was his superb selection of singers. He understood their strengths and limitations and was able to bring out the best in them.
Geeta Dutt was not a trained singer, yet under OP Nayyar's baton her renditions were masterful. She used to sing sad songs and bhajans. OP Nayyar transformed her into a singer who could now sing all songs - happy, sad, sultry, romantic.
The magical combination of OP Nayyar and Asha Bhosle is one of the abiding milestones in the history of film music. It was OP Nayyar who was responsible for shaping and styling her vocal line. Asha Bhosle was not only heavily influenced by Geeta Dutt but also suffered from Lata Mangeshkar complex. What OP Nayyar did was to give her confidence and to help her come out of that complex. OP Nayyar was very proud that more than anybody else, it was he who had really molded her voice. His bitterness about Asha Bhosle would surface now and then. How she only gave credit to RD Burman, and not to him, in making her what she finally became
In the early 1970s, when OP Nayyar was no longer the top music director, his personal relationship with Asha was on the rocks as well. The two finally split in 1972. Prior to that, they had recorded ‘Chain Se Humko Kabhi Aapne Jeene Na Diya’ (Pran Jaye Par Vachan Na Jaaye,1974). This was the last song of Asha under OP Nayyar and won her the Filmfare Award.
Mohammed Rafi held a very special place in OP Nayyar’s heart and vice versa. Their combination yielded timeless classics straddling every mood - from the rumbustious to the romantic. OP Nayyar had immense respect and fondness for the singer. Rafi had penned a variant of the ‘Tumsa Nahin Dekha’ title song for OP Nayyar – ‘Yun To Humne Lakh Sangeet Kaar Dekhe Hain, Par Nayyar Jaisa Nahin Dekha.’ Yet, Rafi was at the receiving end of OP Nayyar’s strict discipline when he was thrown out of the studio when he reported late for a recording and was kept out for many years. OP Nayyar had to then perforce use Mahendra Kapoor – a singer he detested because of his tendency to go off-key. He would contemptuously refer to him as ‘Charandas’ – a person given to touching the feet of all and sundry.
Mohammed Rafi’s loss was Mahendra Kapoor’s gain. Just imagine all the songs that he sang were meant for Mohammed Rafi! How would the songs have sounded? ‘Badal Jaaye Agar Mali’ (Baharein Phir Bhi Aayengi ,1966) in Mohammed Rafi’s voice!
After three years, Mohammed Rafi landed up at OP’s house and sought forgiveness. They both embraced each other and cried. “Rafi was a much better man than I,” OP Nayyar conceded to me. But by then, OP Nayyar’s career was going downhill which even Mohammed Rafi couldn’t salvage.
The walk down the melody lane never failed to hold me in thrall. OP Nayyar was the only composer who did not record a single song of Lata Mangeshkar. I raised this issue with him. Contrary to public perception, he stated that he did not have any problems with her at all. In fact, he admired her greatly. “But can you think of any of my songs that she could have done justice to?" he used to ask. “Her voice wouldn’t have suited any of my songs. Can you think of any?” I let it pass.
OP Nayyar told me that no singer could achieve more than eighty percent of his vision of the song.
The author, Ajay Mankotia with OP Nayyar. Image Source: Ajay Mankotia
Sometimes, whenever he was in a generous mood, OP Nayyar used to command me to sing. Though initially I considered singing before the maestro to be sacrilegious, I became more and more comfortable over the years with OP Nayyar's constant encouragement.
Two incidents shall forever be etched in my memory. OP Nayyar had come to our house for dinner in Mumbai. Towards the end of the evening, with everyone in good spirits, he asked for my harmonium. I was stunned since all along our friendship he had steadfastly shunned the instrument. He then asked me to sing.
There I was attempting his ‘Aapke Haseen Rukh’ (Baharein Phir Bhi Aayengi, 1966) while OP Nayyar was polite not to wince in public and throw me out of my drawing room. What a magical evening it turned out to be with his evergreen masterpieces with OP Nayyar indulgently shepherding the proceedings on the harmonium!
Self-respect (or ego) never left OP Nayyar till his last days. His voice, though frail, was still commanding, his bearing still erect, his passion for homeopathy and astrology as strong as his earlier passion for music. He couldn’t stand fools in his heydays; he couldn’t stand them till the end. He could sift the real from the frauds. Yet he had a mellow side which I saw in the second incident.
After a typical evening, he asked me to sing an Iqbal Bano song ‘Ulfat Ki Mayi Manzil Ko Chala’ which I barely managed.
"Sing it again".
Embarrassed, I gave it another go.
"Once again".
Completely mortified, I gave it my all. His eyes had already started welling up during my third attempt and he was in full cry as I finished. He asked that I dial my mother (Usha Bhatia -who had been a singer on AIR, Delhi before her marriage and who OP Nayyar had heard and admired).
Expecting a severe dressing down from both, I was shocked when he told her that the song had transported him back in time and he had been overcome with emotion.
On 28th January 2007 the Emperor of Melody breathed his last. In a style so typical of him, the King of Rhythm clipped-clopped his way to join his Maker - leaving behind a legion of fans and a treasure trove of immortal melodies.
Composers like OP Nayyar don't die. He will continue to give us unadulterated joy through his songs. Tareef karoom ka uski jisne OP Nayyar ko banaya.
Ajay Mankotia pursued BA in Economics (Honours) from St. Stephen’s College, Delhi University followed by a Master’s Degree in Economics from the Delhi School of Economics, Delhi University. He also has a Diplôme D’études Superiéures Spécialisées in International Economic Relations from the University of Paris-XI, Paris, and Master’s Degree in Law (LLM) from Law Centre, Delhi University. Ajay, who joined the Indian Revenue Service in 1982, has worked at a wide variety of posts in the Indian Government, including Chief Vigilance Officer of some public sector fertiliser companies. He retired as Commissioner of Income Tax with Voluntary Retirement in 2008 after having spent twenty-six years as a taxman and joined a media company as President (Corporate Planning and Operations). He presently runs his own Tax and Legal Advisory. With his vast areas of interests, Ajay regularly writes articles on tax, vigilance, music, films, sports, defense and other topics of interest in newspapers and online news portals. He is married to Atima Mankotia and has a daughter and a son.
Buy his book, There's Seven For You, Three For Me: Chronicles of a Taxman from Amazon.
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