In Jitesh Pillaai’s words:
It was a chance college assignment to interview a celebrity. I chose Rahul Dev Burman. I was not sure of the drill. I called on the landline; there were no mobile phones then. His secretary Bharat Asher mumbled that RD would be recording at Famous Studio, Mahalaxmi, his preferred music den. RDB had just suffered a stroke and was looking frail, supervising the background music for a film called Aag Se Khelenge (1989). He was monitoring a chase sequence between Jeetendra and Kimi Katkar. So there was me in some weird baseball cap and loafers. He sized me up. I told him the purpose of my meeting. He asked me to meet him the following day.
I cannot even begin to describe how I felt that very moment. It was a lifetime of my music standing in front of me. Music culled through radio in childhood, Chayageet on DD and movies. It’s the moment that defines your life and you. I was marked. It sort of culminated in an interview. I never did the college assignment, but Filmfare graciously carried portions of the interview. That’s a long story for another day. The written interview per se wasn’t memorable. What made it memorable was RDB’s absolute lack of pretension, his memory, and his gently guiding me through the interview. I was further hooked.
And my search for Pancham and his music began. My second and last meeting with him was when he was physically weak, all alone in his music room. I guessed that he was working on the music of 1942: A Love Story (1994). His man Friday Sudam was around. The silence of Merryland Apartments first floor flat drained me. Drink in hand, he spoke cautiously, keeping all his cards close to his chest. The room was white with musical instruments strewn carelessly. His record player and his amplifiers and assorted musical gizmos were silent while he spoke in a sort of a gurgling voice. I, all of 19, foolish and overconfident, reminded him of some of his songs, which he had forgotten. Indrajeet Aurangabadkar, the still photographer, clicked several frames. There was one frame with me too. I’m filled with a pang because I’m not in possession of those prized pictures.
He was at his career’s lowest ebb. Some films like Jurrat and Rama O Rama (both in 1989) did nothing to seal the dent. The industry was riding a Bappi Lahiri and Laxmikant-Pyarelal wave. Pancham regulars like Nasir Hussain, Rahul Rawail, Dev Anand had stopped calling. And Subhash Ghai’s dodgy behaviour during the announcement of Ram Lakhan (1989) had left him dispirited. And to be fair, even his work at that time—Zalzala, Aag Se Khelenge, Jagir, Chor Pe Mor, Indrajeet, Aaja Meri Jaan—did not behove him.
And then there was his unbeatable body of work with Lata Mangeshkar. Be it Ghar Aaja (Chhote Nawab, 1961) or Tumse Milke Zindagi (Chor Police, 1983) or Naa Teri Haan Bani (Bindya Chamkegi, 1984) or Tere Liye Palkon (Harjaee, 1981). Pancham’s music complementing Lataji’s pristine vocals like a moonbeam on an inky blue night. Pancham’s partnership with Kishore Kumar too has been discussed threadbare in book after book, analysis after analysis. If Kishoreda’s voice was the antidote to heartbreak, Pancham’s music was the balm. Go through Jaane Kya Sochkar (Kinara, 1977), Naa Jaane Din (Chala Murari Hero Banne, 1977), Aye Zindagi (Namumkin, 1988) to realise how adroitly Kishore’s voice navigated Pancham’s deceptively simple tunes. Together they were a love affair to remember.
What was the key to Pancham’s enduring appeal? Was it the tonal quality of his music? Was it his ability to mine magic out of the strangest of instruments? Or his constant improvisations with rhythm and form? With easy facility, he managed the commercial chartbusters Yaadon Ki Baaraat (1973) and Hum Kisise Kum Nahin with the somewhat artsy Ratnadeep (1979) and Sitara (1980).
Also Read: Editor’s Take: The Silent Brooding Cinema of Govind Nihalani