Madan Mohan: A Tribute

Sanjeev Kohli

Born on 25 June 1924, wellknown composer Madan Mohan passed away on 14 July 1975, at the unnaturally young age of 51. He is known for his ghazals and his melodious compositions, which remain evergreen decades after his demise. In fact, he had two posthumous hits, Mausam and Laila Majnu and then, about 30 years later, Veer-Zaara, which used his previously unproduced melodies, rescued from oblivion by his son Sanjeev Kohli, who is presently head of Yash Raj Films.

Sanjeev Kohli reminisces here about his father, and the musical journey of Veer-Zaara.

On childhood memories of his father and his music

Madan Mohan the father is etched deeper in my memory than Madan Mohan the composer. The legend that he has now become was something I discovered only after he was gone, largely because he died too soon, while my sister, brother and myself were still too young to realize his redoubtable talent. Today I am flooded with myriad memories of the father I miss so much.

He was a very affectionate father and an intensely emotional person. He showered us children with a lot of love and always said he would like to be more a friend to us than a father. I remember my mother telling me that he considered me very lucky for him, since his first commercial hit, Bhai Bhai (1956), released in the same year that I was born.

Being the eldest son, I had my share of responsibilities, and his concern and interest in my academic performance was evident. I never let him down, as I did well in school and he attended our school award functions as a proud father, applauding me the loudest during my special moments. He was never ‘Madan Mohan the film personality’ – he was just the father at such events. In fact, very few people through school and college even knew that I was Madan Mohan’s son – largely because he never used the surname ‘Kohli’ in his film career. All through school I longed to have my friends be aware of the hits that he had created. But obviously, they were all too young and patronized the more commercial, lighter and easier songs. In fact, due to this reason, even I would end up singing other composers’ songs at school functions. When this extended to a small get together at home, he was of course disappointed that I ended up singing ‘Baharon phool barsaon’ instead of ‘Aapke pehloo mein’ – both released in the same year!

One of my most memorable experiences as a child was when he suddenly told me that he wanted me to take a week off from school and go with him on a holiday – I think it was in the late 60s, when I was in my teens, and he probably felt that he needed to bond with his growing son. We went to Pune and Mahableshwar with him driving the car – just the two of us! We walked, we talked, played games, and ate all our favourite meals at the best of places – he even taught me how to row a boat on this trip.

Of course, the composer in him always peeped through – at the most uncanny moments, I remember him suddenly humming away – whether it was in the swimming pool with us or even in a hotel lobby. It was a new tune striking him, which he had no means of recording at that point in time.

Cooking was his passion. The only problem was, he would wake me up at 6 am on a Sunday morning to go shopping for the ingredients. We would go to Nullbazaar for the meats, all chopped under his supervision, while I stood by, not particularly thrilled by the visuals and odours! We would then go to Crawford Market for the vegetables. And as a finale, to compensate for the lazy Sunday morning that I had missed, I would be treated to the Royal Falooda at Badshah Drink House – his favourite. And then, after the entire day spent in the kitchen, when we sat down to eat the meal, it was the most delectable taste one could ever imagine – as delicious as his compositions!

Once, when he won the Music Director’s Association Award (awarded by the composers themselves), he insisted on having a party at our house, for which he personally cooked the entire meal, while every composer of the industry participated in the celebration, wondering which was better - the food or his award-winning song!

Lunches on Saturday at the Wayside Inn, a perennial favourite of his, and morning swims at the NSCI Club on holidays with sumptuous breakfasts and snacks, and sometimes long drives to the Sun ‘n’ Sand pool in Juhu – these were some of the wonderful times our father spent with us. He would personally organize great birthday parties for us when we were children, including blowing the balloons himself; while shopping for crackers and fireworks was always a Diwali ritual.

Visiting the Sunday races was a high point for him. It was like his relaxation after a week’s hard work. He would pick out his suit well in advance and, accompanied by my mother in her finest sari, would make it a Sunday to remember. I also remember great evenings spent at our residence with his colleagues – most often, Chetan Anand, Priya, Kaifi Azmi, at other times Rajinder Krishan and Raja Mehdi Ali Khan, and of course, Lataji. He would cook for them and play them a song he had recorded earlier in the day, while we children would sit outside the room and listen way past our bedtime.

While he was totally Indian at heart, and of course in his music, his command over the English language was amazing. He was indeed a sahib among his colleagues, in his demeanour, the clothes he wore and his knowledge of global affairs. His passion for sports – whether cricket, hockey or football – led him to attend every possible match in the city. He played billiards and snooker like a professional. We would sometimes accompany him to wrestling matches, where he would always tease Dara Singh that he had the better muscles. One could hardly imagine that behind this tough exterior was the man who had created such sensitive and emotional music!

Of course he enjoyed his evening drink – always the best Scotch whisky for him, which he would pour for himself and his friends in the most expensive cutglass tumblers. A particular musical decanter with a couple waltzing to music was his favourite and used to fascinate me as a child – I would watch him drink just for the style with which he did it. I remember that he would always make an exception, at the behest of my mother, on important religious occasions and also on the day of Karva Chauth.

His prized possessions were his Grundig and Akai spool recorders – very few people in India at that time had them, and he treated them like jewels. His master spools played on them. It was only much later that he would ask me to put on one of the spools, which I learned to do with meticulous care. I was fascinated with those spools and the sound that emanated from them. Little did I know what role those spools would play many years later!

His other joy was his Studebaker car, which he would wash himself. He would call it his ‘baby.’ One could spot it a mile away because of its unusual colour – so often, with him at the wheel and us behind, I would see neighbouring car owners wave out to him even before they saw him - recognizing the car first.

His other favourites were his pet dogs – Sugar, an Alsatian, and Romeo, a collie. They died when we were little children. He was so attached to them that he refused to let us have any other pets because he could not bear the pain of losing them and did not want us to go through the same experience.

Though we were allowed our forays into the occasional recording, he preferred that we did not bunk school for this purpose. Of course, we would sometimes feign illness early in the morning to skip school - only to ‘feel better’ later in the day so that we could go to a recording, particularly of a song that we had watched him rehearse.

I can never forget some of the recordings of Heer Ranjha and Chirag that I attended, marvelling at the complete respect he commanded from the fraternity – musicians, recordists, singers, poets and even his peers. I recall other major composers sometimes dropping in to his recordings and hugging him for a well-composed song. There was a wonderful camaraderie, the hallmark of those times. My fascination during the recordings was always to watch Lataji and Rafi saab through the thick glass windows of the control room – their expressions, their emotions and their mellifluous voices and infallible renditions, reverberating on the speakers – a truly unforgettable experience!

Once our college Music Society contacted him directly to be the Chief Guest at a function. I learnt of it later and was quite nervous, as very few people knew that I was his son. He however came on time and endeared himself to the entire audience, making me a very proud son – I was better known, even among my professors, from the very next day. All of them were Madan Mohan fans and could not believe that I had never made known to anyone that he was my father.

On recognition and awards

I realized later that it was the lack of mass admiration that always caused him anguish and, over the years, embittered him. The man who was acknowledged as a genius by people who understood and appreciated music was never at the top in the hit parades or with the big banners or the big stars. One of the few times he made it to number one on the Geetmala was with ‘Jhumka gira re’, which, though a very popular song, was probably one of his lesser compositions.

The films he composed for were rarely successful and often only remembered for their songs. Films that he worked hardest for, often ran for just a week at the box office and this broke his heart – this was true of Jahanara, Dulhan Ek Raat Ki and even Chirag. He never got to work with the biggest stars – he never did a Dilip Kumar film, and did only a couple of films of Raj Kapoor and Dev Anand with small banners that are not even remembered today. His biggest hits are not visually remembered – though the songs have endured the test of time.

I remember him being dejected often when he did not get an award he was nominated for. If it was awarded to a song of lesser calibre, it hurt him deeply. When he won the National Award for Dastak in 1970, it was after having lost out on many popular awards earlier. He didn’t want to go to New Delhi to receive his award. He agreed only when Sanjeev Kumar, who also won an award for the same film, cajoled him into going.

In his last few years, while he did have a few good films, including Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Bawarchi, Gulzar’s Koshish and Mausam, Chetan Anand’s Hanste Zakhm, and H. S. Rawail’s Laila Majnu, he even found it difficult to get recording dates in studios. The young guard had arrived in the late 60s and was dominant in the early 70s. The number of films these composers were doing were many, and hence the few recording studios available were booked by them for months at a time. The Famous Tardeo Studios, Film Center, and the Mehboob Studios, where most of his gems had been recorded, now had no dates to give him. This delayed his recordings and films, and added to his bitterness, which remained in him till his sad and untimely demise.

At his funeral, while I, as a young teenager, performed the last rites, I was amazed at the grief-stricken people from the industry. I saw the top singers sobbing uncontrollably, the top stars of the day helping in the last rites – it was almost as if they were mourning the fact that they would never be able to work with him again.

When I joined the music business, I realized his worth even more. I got more respect from the industry professionals because I was Madan Mohan’s son. Madan Mohan compilations were among the bestsellers of HMV, younger music directors always considered him their idol when they were interviewed, young singers would sing his songs in contests – I remember the thunderous applause that a Madan Mohan song would get in Lataji’s concerts.

He was a man of conviction and stuck to his principles. When he was convinced that Talat Mehmood was the right singer for some of Jahanara’s songs, although the director was insistent that Rafi saab be given all the songs, my father was willing to give up the film rather than budge from his stance. The same thing happened when he chose Rafi saab over Kishore Kumar for the songs of Laila Majnu. The directors finally gave in and these films became musical landmarks. At times I wonder if his principles and his self-esteem became obstacles to his commercial success. Since he would not compromise with his melodies, maybe he chose to discontinue working with some filmmakers, and this led to him losing out on some banners.

On his untimely demise

When my father passed away in 1975, he was only 51 years old. After his untimely demise, I found various spool tapes with unused compositions in his voice. Some were alternate tunes he had made for a film, which remained unused, some were just tunes he had hummed and saved up to be used in the future. I heard and relished a few, and kept the tapes away safely. While listening to these tapes, I could hear myself as a two-year toddler, in my father’s lap, making baby sounds as he tried to compose 45 years ago. It was a very emotional journey.

In the same year he was nominated for the Filmfare Award for Mausam. And I prayed that at least he get this award posthumously. But he lost to Kabhi Kabhie, a Yash Chopra film! However, I continued to fantasize that one day his unused compositions would be used in a big film with a top director and the top stars of the day, with Amitabh Bachchan and Hema Malini dancing to them – that his songs would be top of the charts again, and that he would win a popular award for the first time.

On Yashraj Films’ Veer-Zara

In 2003, one day Yashji told me that after six years he had decided to direct another film, but the film needed old world music based on ethnic sounds, music that had a strong melody line with acoustic instruments – music like that of the 60s and 70s – music like that of Heer Ranjha and Laila Majnu.

Yashji further added that he had had sittings with various composers, but was missing that old melodic charm, as all of them had synthesized their tunes to a large extent to suit the changing tastes of today’s young listeners, who were now in the throes of a full-blown western influence – night clubs, grooves, and remixes.

He was in a dilemma.

Instinctively, I blurted out that I had some old world melodies on tape, now lying unheard for 28 years, and would he like to hear them? He seemed excited at the idea and very surprised that I had never mentioned this before. His son, Aditya Chopra, was scripting the new film. Adi was a man of today and needed commercially acceptable songs. There was no place for nostalgia and emotions here. Only Yashji and Adi knew what they needed. I didn’t.

I was told to go and listen to as many of the tapes as I could, and to play them some selected tunes.

I spent almost a month, going back at first to the two or three cassettes I originally had (thank God they were undamaged!) and in those itself I loved three or four songs that I knew would work even today. When Yashji and Adi heard them, they reacted very positively, but they still wanted to hear them on dummy tracks with two or three musicians, as they were very old recordings, often almost inaudible.

I got together a team of three musicians and we recorded 30 dummies – tunes taken largely from the three cassettes and a few from the spools. I wrote dummy lyrics to the tracks and got three young singers to sing them. The songs were now ‘presentable’ as we did a few arrangements on them – all instinctive and with the help of one of the musicians, R. S. Mani, with whom I had worked often before on miscellaneous albums I had produced.

I remember the day Yashji and Adi heard the 30 dummy tracks. I was extremely nervous – not for myself, but for the fear of rejection of my father. Why bring up this possibility if it was to belittle him, now, 28 years after his death, when he was an acknowledged legend? Moreover, I was groping in the dark. I didn’t know what they were looking for. I didn’t know the background of the film at all!

I guess they liked what they heard – and told me they had found what they were looking for. In a few days, they had selected 10 out of the 30 songs and assigned them to situations in their screenplay! I was overwhelmed.

Then came the biggest dilemma. Who would execute these recordings? We would need a composer and arranger to embellish the melodies with suitable arrangements for the film. This was something I had no experience in. Various top composers were suggested to me by wellwishers. Then Yashji and Adi informed me that they wanted the sound and arrangements of the dummy tracks – and that I alone should recreate these melodies, with the three-member team that made the tracks with me. And that is how R. S. Mani, originally a programmer and keyboard player, became the first time arranger of such a big musical! Two complete novices in this area – Mani and I. Completely unheard of!

The initial euphoria soon gave way to pangs of apprehension. It was going to be a tightrope walk between the ‘old world’ and ‘modern world’! My father’s admirers and fans would crucify me if the sound was ‘too’ modern! Yet the youngsters would never accept these songs if they felt they were ‘old’ melodies. If a young kid was told that some of these compositions were 50 years old, he would just write them off before giving them a chance.

The songs took a year to record. There were nine songs in all. I had decided that most interludes in the songs would be other tunes of Madanji, as I wanted his stamp all over the score. I heard a few more tapes to get some more melodies for this, and found even better tunes than the ones selected but Yashji and Adi didn’t want to hear any more - their minds were made up. I used some of these as interludes. I had to work hard to select the right tune to blend with the main tune in each case.

We used the trademark Madanji violins and of course the sitar as much as possible, and largely used acoustic sounds. In fact, as electronics have taken over, some of the musicians were playing in a film song after a long gap. Woodwinds, French horns, mandolins, santoor, solo violin and of course the Indian flute blended together in most songs. Some of the musicians had also been part of Madanji’s recordings when he was alive. We had Madanji’s portrait in the studio throughout the recordings and all the musicians and singers would seek his blessings before we commenced the day’s work.

Yashji was clear that only Lataji would sing the female songs and that thrilled me, because Madanji’s tunes were made only for Lataji and it would have been incomplete if she had not sung them. But at the same time it would be so challenging for her to sing for Madanji again after 30 years… she was keeping indifferent health. But she found an inner strength to sing as only she can. A very emotional experience - only I knew what she was going through at the recordings, the tears in her eyes did not escape me. When I was mixing the album in London, I asked the young 20-year old assistant engineer how old he thought the female singer was. He said, ‘maybe 22 or 23!’ Was he shocked to hear that she was actually 75!

Yashji and I decided it would be worthwhile to feature Madanji’s voice actually composing the tunes, so a separate CD was made – ‘The Making of the Music’, in which the original source was blended into the way each song finally emerged!

To my surprise, Yashji entrusted the task of doing the background score to Mani and me again, as he wanted the Madan Mohan stamp even there. It took a month of concentrated effort. We created distinct themes for each major character, and once again most of these were unused tunes of Madanji.

Indeed, with Veer Zaara, every fantasy of mine came true in one stroke. Madanji’s tunes formed the soundtrack of one of India’s biggest and most successful films, created by India’s most successful producer and director, Yash Chopra. The top stars, Shahrukh Khan, Preity Zinta and Rani Mukherji, formed the cast of this film. Amitabh Bachchan and Hema Malini danced to his tunes again, and his songs were on the top of the charts for almost an entire year, and he finally won many popular awards – the IIFA award, the Bollywood Award and the Sangeet Award – all by popular audience vote. The appreciation from music lovers was overwhelming. Yashji and Adi were very happy with the results. The music sales were stupendous. I personally witnessed foreigners humming the songs in Germany and France. I saw my father’s name on billboards at Leicester Square and Broadway. When I hear little children sing ‘Jaanam dekhlo’, a tune composed more than 50 years ago, I feel so moved - and thrilled that the tune is timeless!