A requiem for my Baba

Raju Korti
It is easy to deploy platitudes when you describe your heroes but my eldest brother Anil, endearingly known as Baba, was so matter-of-fact that he would make anyone who crossed his path, to look very objectively at him. Straight as ramrod and a person of unflinching beliefs, he was a strange mix of human chemistry. I lived in his shadows for sixty years and when he passed on December 6, it took sometime to sink in and assess just how much he meant to me without the verbiage cliche that are conventionally used to describe the dead.
Even in the complicated maze of relationships, it is discernible that sibling relationships outlast marriages, survive the loss of parents and flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and warmth. Looking back at the decades that I spent with him, I can now only marvel at what went into the making of his distinct personality. Baba is a familiar address for father but my brother got his name from our grandfather who was disciplined to the boot and a task master. He inherited these genes from the senior Baba. But beyond this tough exterior lay an extremely sensitive and affectionate human being. That, however, never made him compromise on his exacting standards.
He passed his graduation in Civil Engineering with Honours  in 1970 and as a youngster about to enter college, I saw that his performance was top notch. I particularly recall his Engineering Drawing sheets that were worth preserving in a museum. The fonts that he replicated in his writing and drawing would be better than the original. His classmates often spent nights in my house, seeking his help in completing their projects. His handwriting -- whatever the language -- deserved consecration. I watched all this with awe, wondering if it was humanly possible for anyone to be so perfect with a capital P.
I attribute my love for Physics and Mathematics to him. I was not very fond of these subjects until my 7th standard but Baba had a peculiar habit of thrusting them in my face. Often, before going to college, he would open any book (which were many), any random page, tick-mark a problem and ask me to solve it before he returned. Sometimes I could, most of the times I could not. But when he came back he would make it look ridiculously simple and it was then I realized that these subjects were no demons if you had someone who could explain it like he did. Even before I took admission in engineering college, he had started explaining to me the concepts in layman's terms. The difference between him and me was while I dreaded Applied Mechanics, a killer subject for most, he took wanton delight in teaching it to me. And then, he evinced interest in everything and was deeply knowledgeable -- from sports to music and politics to science.
I recall how as an impressed younger brother, I mentioned him to my friends after he had passed the MPSC examination in the first attempt. Sometime after his marriage, he discovered a new found talent for cooking. In fact, so taken in he was that he would often discourage my sister-in-law to enter the kitchen. The house woke up on the sounds of the vegetable cutter but what was amazing was each vegetable piece was cut into precisely the same size. His artistic bent of mind was always in evidence in whatever he did. The best part was he knew exactly how much quantity to cook. It perfectly sufficed us. No wastage or question of eating leftover food. Watching cookery shows, he would innovate with every cuisine at his finger tip. His home-made spices were a huge draw and till to this day I wonder why he didn't get into that business. I am sure he would have given the existing brands a run for their money.
I could see that he seamlessly fit into any robes that he donned. My one particularly endearing memory is the way he bathed me as a kid. He would stand and make me sit at his feet. Then he would pour water on his head so that it fell on me too. While having an early lunch to go to office, he would feed me morsels. In all this display of care, he also took me to task me when I did anything wrong. By the time I got into Engineering, I realized he was almost as much a father to me as my real father. He had an uncanny ability to know what was in my mind. "You want anything?" he would ask and I would hesitatingly tell him I wanted to go for a movie or hang around with friends. He would just fish his hands in his pant pockets and gave me whatever came to him -- Rs 10 or Rs 50, a princely sum in the 70s. He never asked me to explain how I spent which made me even more responsible while spending whatever he gave. I remember I wanted to go in for a court marriage and feared my parents won't approve. Baba just put his foot down and said "it will be a registered and only registered marriage." When he spoke with that conviction, not even my father, himself a strong-willed man, could dare refuse.
I believe he commanded respect from old and young alike simply because he led by example rather than pompous sermonizing. In any case once he had made up his mind, he would never budge even if he realized later that he had erred. He hated compromises and mediocrity -- something that forced people who came in contact with him to be constantly on their guard and do their best. He had zero tolerance for the undisciplined especially those who had no respect for other's time. That to an extent also made him unpopular with many people but he couldn't care less. There were people who didn't know whether to thank him for his largesse and giving nature or to keep away from him for his apparent abrasive demeanour. He would make it a point to share pleasantries with thousands of people in his phone list with religious regularity every day without being hassled that many of them didn't even bother to respond. "I do it because I must do it. Matter ends," he would say.
Having suffered a very debilitating illness like Psoriasis for almost 30 years, he had become irritable and testy. It was excruciating to see the skin condition disfigure his handsome face and make him suffer years on end but he never abdicated any of his responsibilities. I guess he had realized that the end was near and had started offering each one of us financial help. 71 is no age to die especially if you don't have the usual suspects like diabetes and blood pressure. The impact of his exit -- something I didn't feel even when my father passed in 1990 -- has started hitting me.
I feel I am out on a limb now. Brothers don't let each other wander in the dark alone. I lived in his shadow all his life. Now I live in his glow.
Here is an ode to him:
I shared with you all my hopes, dreams and despair
I also had run ins with you, but you were also giving and forgiving
Deep within me I know my bond with you is unbreakable even in death
You always stood up for the right and were always correct
I may or may not show, you will remain the anchor of my life
You are my heart and my alter ego, without you survival is unimaginable
I know that you shall pass every test, whenever and wherever
And if I am born again, let ME be your elder brother
To repay your debt with interest.     

A lilting memory of Khayyam

Raju Korti

This is what I wrote briefly about the legendary Khayyam who released my book on the late Mohammed Rafi when I met him at his Santacruz residence five years back. Although a little rhetorical, it still bears repetition:
"Of two Mohammeds, both Mountains! Didn't matter who went to who but meet they did to create a geyser of warm melodies from the early fifties to the late seventies. Mohammed Zahoor Hashmi, better known to music aficionados as Khayyam, formally released my book on the legendary Mohammed Rafi at his residence. The face of the music maestro, on the threshold of 90s, lit up with a bright smile on seeing the book and by his own admission, his mind took a quick odyssey to those eventful decades when music was at its pristine best. How Rafi's robust vocals negotiated the Pahadi strains of Khayyam's music is no revelation, yet the magic reinvents each time you hear the two complementing each other as only they could . The last of the Moguls of this music era accepted a copy with the same simplicity that Rafi also epitomized in his four-decade career. There couldn't have been anything more apt than to get a simple, unassuming legend to speak about another. An austere and no-frills release is what I aspired for."     

With the Composer of Composers: Khayyam

As the news of Khayyam's passing sunk in, a spool of memories rolled by. I was a taken aback when Khayyam opened the door himself, clad in a pyjamas and a crumpled shirt. The cynical smile on his face didn't bother me in the least for, his face was made that way. I could see he was struggling to stand so I helped him inside. A brief "hmm" was his response when he saw the book. "Ab baat karne laayak kuch hai kya, humne jo karna tha so kar diya" (Is there anything left to talk? I did what I could in my career). Having had to make some effort to get through to him, I wasn't going to let him escape so easily.
That was the time Khayyam had made himself incommunicado, not answering any of the calls made to him on his landline and mobile. He had lapsed into depression because of the untimely demise of his son and from which, he never ever recovered. So it required some convincing to make him talk to me but he opened up when he felt he was being asked the right questions. The first one took him by complete surprise the way I asked it to him bluntly.
"You were as good as any, at times even better, than many of your contemporaries. Why didn't you get commercial success?" I asked him. "I never ran after big banners. I rejected outright most of the films I got since I wasn't cut out to deal with trash. So if I was broke and kept struggling then it was because I didn't have the appetite to make music for rubbish. Since you want me to release your book, let me tell you, I made my first commercial hit with Rafi in 1950 "Akele me wo ghabraate to honge." (Beewi). Three years later, I had Talat vocalizing for Yusuf (Dilip Kumar) in Shaam-e-gham ki qasam (Footpath). And if I didn't have any work then, it was because of my own obstinate stand that I needed films with sensible and strong themes."
The glimpse of Khayyam's composing brilliance came through first in Lala Rukh (Rafi's Hai kali kali ke lab par) and then in Raj Kapoor's Phir Subah Hogi where the brilliant Sahir's lyrical affluence was a huge challenge. "I took it head on. The film and its music won critical acclaim but the struggle continued. Shola Aur Shabnam (1961) changed all that. Today, Rafi's "Jaane kya dhoondti rehti hai.." is considered as among all time classics, but god knows how many sittings I had with Rafisaab to get the song right. That plus the duet with Lata "Jeet hi lenge baazi hum tum.." really hit chart-busters." Although not in the same league as the other giants of his era, Khayyam never made his singers lose sight of the fact that it was his song and it had to be sung the way only he wanted it, come Rafi, come Lata.
He then went on to make quality music with Barood, Shagoon, Mohobbat Isko Kehtey Hain, Chambal Ki Qasam and Shankar Hussain. Here I am deliberately avoiding the constitutency which has never thought of Khayyam beyond the likes of Bazaar, Razia Sultan, Trishul and Kabhie Kabhie.
Since the spotlight was on Rafi, Khayyam recalled how the latter had started inviting the composer to his house regularly over lavish meals. "Intrigued why Rafisaab was inviting me over on and off, I asked him "Rafisaab kya baat hai, itne lazeez khaane aap mujhe khila rahe hain?. Shy to a fault, Rafi would just stop short of saying something. Then one day, he couldn't contain himself any more. "Khayyamsaab mere liye kuch aisi dhune banaiye jo mere liye yaadgar ban jaaye." the composer was taken aback at this unexpected request. " I told him: Rafisaab, paisa, naam, shohrat kya nahi hai aap ke paas. Ab mai aap ko isse zyada aur kya de sakta hoon? But he refused to budge. Then I told him, I had a string of devotional songs in mind and I could use his voice if he was ready. He just jumped at the offer but I told him point blank: Look, these are not film songs and the first thing I will want is you to forget you are Rafi and sing it exactly the way I want it. You will have to change the tone, timber and metier of your voice and give me your undivided attention to be prepared to forgo the heaps of songs that would come his way in those days. He agreed without condition.
I must admit he gave all his might to those songs. They still bring tears to my eyes. Rafi was huge and it was amazing how he lent himself to the compulsive yearnings in those songs. You may hear "Paon paroon tore shyam, Tere bharose he Nandlala and Shyam se nehaa lagaaye" over and over again and yet will not be able to imagine the kind of effort and dedication he put into those songs." His wife Jagjit Kaur heard these pieces of nostalgia and kept nodding.

Rafi and Khayyam: From the latter's album.

What was initially agreed upon as an hour's meet, lasted three hours but by then he looked very tired and politely excused himself. Most of what was discussed else apart is irrelevant here.
He promised to get back to me after reading the book. When he didn't respond after a long time, I called him. His response was pretty much the same: Hum ne jo karna tha wo kar diya aur Rafisaab ne jo karna tha wo kar diya. Mai nahi samajhta bolne ke liye kuch bacha hai."

What next in the Kashmir theater?

Raju Korti

I have been following closely the international ferment ever since the Indian government abrogated Article 370 and 35 A of the Constitution scrapping the special status granted to Kashmir. For the world of me I have still not been able to figure out what is the tangible outcome of these steps beyond the stated position of the Indian Government on Kashmir. True, the government has done something which has always remained in the realms of a fiercely debated political issue and the ground reality, as of now, has not ramified into anything major. However,  given the perennial volatility in the state, it always is a distinct possibility that state and non-state players from across the border could make this moment of hush lapse into the bloody chaos the Valley is used to.
Watching India's Permanent Representative to the United Nations and repeatedly saying that the "matter relating to Article 370 remains an entirely India's internal matter with no scope for external ramifications," Syed Akbaruddin sounded articulate and refreshingly different from the otherwise banal-speak most diplomats resort to. Somehow, he reminded me of James Baker, former US Secretary of State minus his subtle wit. The one significant observation Akbaruddin made at the UN was the opinion of China was not the opinion of the world and to that extent, he effectively blanked out another attempt at internationalizing the issue. To his credit, he didn't do badly at all looking to the United Nations Security Council's marked reluctance on Beijing's push to get the world body hold a closed door meeting on the issue. There is little doubt that New Delhi has done its home work well and has virtually slammed doors on any external mediation in Kashmir but then if Pakistan's past record is anything to go by -- including that on the historic Shimla Agreement of 1972 -- any hopes of a peaceful settlement are tenuous. Akbaruddin, did well to present that New Delhi was prepared to go the extra mile by reconstructing the Agreement in tune with the changed situation in Kashmir. As of now, the posturing of majority UNSC members that there should not be any outcome issued after the closed door deliberations on Kashmir has forced China's hand into making a statement in its individual capacity. In effect, that is a tacit admission that status quo persists in Kashmir. As for Pakistan customarily raising the issue in UN has been without any traction and doesn't look like it will have any in near future.
I am sure Delhi will not even bother to think about the Chinese perception that the Constitutional amendment by India has changed the status quo by India. Akbaruddin couldn't have been more pre-emptive when he said he would present Delhi's national position too "if national statements try to masquerade as the will of the international community" in an obvious reference to China and Kashmir. The diplomatic master-stroke here was how could a Constitutional matter become a threat to peace and security as claimed by Pakistan. A federal arrangement cannot and does not have any implications beyond the country's borders. Pakistan's foreign minister Shah Mahmood Qureshi asking Security Council to revoke the special status to Jammu and Kashmir didn't cut any ice as it had to.
In the midst of this regulation debate even the government's worst detractors back home have not said anything about that the amendment was a clever beginning to alter the demographics of the new union territory. My apprehension is it could be only a matter of time before this turns out a cause for bigger debate within the country than outside it. My personal take is one is entitled to his opinions but not facts.
When President Richard Nixon had appointed Daniel Patrick Moynihan as US Ambassador to India, the latter -- who followed a neoconservative American foreign policy -- had infamously remarked that South-East Asia was the most dangerous place in the world. I remember him having said something to the effect fact sometime in 1975 that Pakistan in future would be over-run by army generals who would demand Kashmir back with nuclear weapons.
Had Moynihan been alive today, he would have smirked behind his thick-rimmed spectacles for that small piece of prophecy.

A brush with Feroz Khan

Raju Korti
500 years before the legendary Mohammed Rafi was born, William Shakespeare is reputed to have said that a rose is a rose is a rose. Even if called by any other name, it would smell as sweet.
This small piece of literary history came to fore so resonating and how! And it needed the somber reflection on the past of a good-looking actor called Feroze Khan, who lost his battle with cancer in Bengaluru a decade back.
Among the spectrum of stars rising from relative obscurity to the portals of commercial fame in the early sixties was Feroze Khan. No one had the slightest misgivings about Feroze’s talent as an actor, but you had to hand it to him for his musical instincts.
I had met the actor a couple of times fleetingly and never had the opportunity to talk to him on many of the songs – most sung by Rafi -- during the sixties and early seventies.
On a professional commitment to Amby Valley (a picturesque locale between Mumbai and Pune) on one hot and humid afternoon, I drove with the handsome Khan. The event was occasioned to herald the crushing season of the wine festival.
FK didn’t bother to mingle with anyone. He just chose to recline in a quiet corner nursing a glass of South African wine. We had been discussing some formal gibberish when abruptly I decided to test his memory. Slanting his head towards me, I just hummed the first line of a song pictured on him. FK already looking redder than the wine in his glass paused and shot back: “Ah! Reporter Raju?” he said with a smile, happy to pun on the name of one of his earlier films. “I am not a reporter any more, I am the editor”, I shot back jovially.
A few quick sips in that sweltering heat were already having their effect. He blanked me by putting his large palm on my mouth as he caught on to the song “Gussa fazool hai” (Reporter Raju, 1962). “My vote goes for “Jaag dil-e diwana” (Oonche Log) he quickly retorted. Running his fingers on his bald pate he said, “You know I am one of the only two actors in Hindi cinema for whom Rafisaab has yodeled. I consider it an enviable landmark in my career.”
Just to test him a little, I asked him if he remembered a film called Mai Wohi Hoon. “Of course, I do, he replied his eyes now bloodshot. I had two gorgeous solos in that film “Aankhon pe palkon ke ghunghat” and “Bahut haseen ho bahut jawan ho”but try as he might, he couldn’t remember the composer (Usha Khanna). The quintessential hero that he was, it wasn’t surprising that he could remember his heroine Kum Kum with whom he sang an unsurpassing duet “Aa jaa re mere pyaar”.
If FK was embarrassed with the kind of films he did then -- one of them was Samson -- he wasn’t so with a duet from that film “Ek baat hai kehne ki aankhon se kehne do.” But I had opened a can of worms. He just went on and on with his films like Tarzan goes To India, Suhagan, Bahurani, Char Dervesh, Suhagan and Teesra Kaun. But one mention about Ek Sapera Ek Lutera and FK spun into his emotional spiral with two solos “Hum tumse juda hoke..” and “Tera bhi kisi pe dil aaye..”
I lost him after the crowd caught up with him. The only aside in that conversation was his aversion for film journalists. “Whenever they want to meet me, I tell my secretary: Saale ko ek daaru ki botal de do aur dafaa karo.” My only takeaway was he didn’t offer me one.

The Black and White of Cricket

Raju Korti
It is not for me to even talk about something as barbaric and inhuman as the color of human skin. To me, it has always been one of the worst forms of torture because it is directed at something you never asked for and something you can never change.
I came to grips with this bitter truth as a youngster who was the only dark boy amongst all cousins. "Look, the other children in the family are so fair," was thrown at me with such regularity that a time came when I actually started to feel proud about the color my skin.
Racism is taught in our society, it is not automatic. It is cultivated behavior towards persons with dissimilar characteristics. That is the simple, unvarnished truth when you see racism travel from the four confined walls of your house to even playgrounds. Through subtle references and these days in more violent ways, racism continues to scourge all walks life even in this millennium.
The immediate provocation for this blog is the racist slur by Pakistan cricket captain Sarfraz Ahmed ridiculing South African Andile Phehlukwayo as "Abe kaale..."  (you dirty black). Sarfraz has since apologized as most others do after being caught in the eye of storm but his so called regrets were also colored, as in his skewed wisdom, his remark was "unfortunately captured" by the stump mic. Indians, by and large, have always been the target of racism although they are not entirely clean themselves. I recall BBC Test Match Special commentator Brian Johnston referring to the Indian crowd at the Oval in 1971 as a "dirty black crowd". Johnston tried to cover it up later by saying it was a slip of the tongue as what he actually intended to say was "dirty black cloud because it was overcast. Chuckles from his colleagues in the commentator's box proved that the tongue had not slipped. Slip of tongue is not associated with the silver-tongued British. Not at least when they make racist comments. In the past teams from Australia, England and New Zealand would make an exaggerated show of their anti-India expression. Indian food made them puke, Indian beds with their bugs gave them sleepless nights and the drive across to venues creaky and back-breaking. Of course, they wouldn't mind playing in India for money because the gains in their own country were nothing to rave about. That most foreign players now sing paens to Indian hospitality, especially during the Mr Moneybags IPL is conclusive evidence.
A number of Indians see Australia as a nice place, but with racist people. Just as the western world's concept of India is frequently based on the stereotypes of poverty and exotica, many Indians' idea of Australia is that it remains a land of boorish ex-convicts. Remember how the talented David Hookes was punched to death by bar bouncers after a drunken argument. It is equally true that many Indians are boorish, racist and therefore culpable themselves. They commonly use offensive labels to describe ethnicity. Many think nothing of subjecting visiting players to vile abuse. In Mumbai, considered the Mecca of Indian cricket, Brad Hogg was jeered some years back as a b- - - - -d.
Hogg is probably just another player. Geoff Boycott (and Andrew Flintoff) poked fun at the West Indians yesterday after being thrashed by 381 runs. Barely a few weeks earlier, Australia's greatest non-turning leg spinner Kerry O' Keefe made cheap cracks at Mayank Agarwal and Cheteshwar Pujara. The comments were not per se racist but they were born out of you-know-what. Keefe finished his bowling career with an average of 31 plus and doing better in one-dayers averaging almost 40. A classic case of pot calling the kettle black. I remember to have read a story in The Guardian where Boycott, while speaking at an informal gathering, claimed that the Knighthood honor was handed out like "confetti" to West Indian greats like Viv Richards and Curtly Ambrose while ignoring English cricketers since it was (then) last received by Alec Bedser in 1997. Note that Ian Botham was Knighted in 2007 not for his cricketing exploits but for his services to charity. The racist undertones in Boycott's irritation was unmistakable.
Australian and English teams have routinely included sons of immigrants even as their cricket boards have, as a matter of regulation, claimed to have zero tolerance towards racism in cricket. The cynical may view this as good optics and nothing more, but it can't be entirely like that. In school we often referred to the England cricket team as "bhaadotri team" (team made up of mostly foreign players). Unlike South Africa which has a racial quota in its team, Australia and England are not mandated to select players on the basis of race. In 2011, Islamabad-born Usman Khawaja made his debut a mere five years after moving to Australia. He even married an Australian woman who later converted to Islam.

The truth in Black and White: Boycott & Richards (File grab).

Indians are no less racists. West Indians and Zimbabweans are referred to as "kaale kalute" (contemptuous term for blacks). But then, let's face facts. India is estimated to have around five million immigrants. If one of them were to qualify for selection in the Indian team, are we ready to accept him? In the 85 plus history of Indian cricket, no player of foreign origin has played for India. That sums up the story.
The Australian team battling a crisis of credibility, promised 'elite honesty' as they prepared for a home Test series in India. There was a heated racist banter between rival players during the Border-Gavaskar Trophy although the dust settled down as quickly as it rose. What grabbed attention is the noise outside the field. During the Melbourne Test fans were ejected from the ground after multiple warnings following racist chants of "Show us your Visa" directed at Indian players. The atmosphere in the Australian commentary box was also unhealthy although not as toxic with rabble-rousers adding fuel to fire. While the Indian management expressed its hurt at the caustic Australian commentary the Australian commentators did not even receive a rap on their knuckles. Fox Sports in particular. Worse, Dean Jones called South African Hashim Amla a terrorist, least bothered he was on air and the cricketing world was listening to that insensitive and intemperate innuendo. It was almost a month later after coming back home, Jones said rather condescendingly he was sorry for making that "stupid remark."
Anyone who cares to listen to the audio of those barbs in the veil of commentary will recognize the tone of contempt and rabid racism. What was seen in Melbourne was disgraceful. Commentators mocking players, their achievements, their system, their names. The funniest part of this charade is contrite apologies are accepted later with a resolve to move on but no one realizes the damage is done.
I guess what remains now is outright abuse and physical fights.