Raju Korti
Watching a music channel yesterday late night showing for the umpteenth time a clip from Teen Deviyan (1966) in which a debonair Dev Anand unleashes all his flirtatious charm on the bevy of beauties around him through Kishore's "Khwab ho tum ya koi haqeeqat", one thing came almost as tunefully. In the aggregate of the song situation that rides on a chocolate face, boisterous voice and feminine grace, the unsung hero is the Piano.
Having watched the progression of films from the fifties to the late nineties, I have concluded with unimpeachable evidence that the Piano, Guitar and Sitar have never been able to overtake the charisma of their male and female protagonists. It is almost as if these instruments play second fiddle or side-kicks to them. Let me come back to "Khwab ho tum ya" to buttress my point. To begin with, before the song, Dev Anand asks a Simi breathing down his neck "Yahaan koi Pyano Vyano hai kya?"
I am sure you must have, as I did for years, focused on Dev Anand in a killer black suit and tie, his femme fatales awe-struck at his effervescence in full flow. But hold on. We also watched an anguished Shammi Kapoor dressed similarly in "Dil ke zarokhe me tujh ko bitha kar" (Brahmachari/1966), Feroze Khan in "Bahot Haseen ho bahot jawaan ho" (Mai Wohi Hoon/1966) and Ajit in "Mai khushnaseeb hoon" (Tower House/1962) to name a few. For that matter, Rajendra Jubilee Kumar in a rich Sherwaani making a forceful point with "Ae husn zara jaag tujhe ishq jagaaye" (Mere Mehboob/1963). The highest common factor here is the plush dress sense. The lowest common denominator is the Piano. Its luxurious status stood no chance before the dapper heroes. You may call it a stereotype but I prefer to call it an unwritten code. In the tug of war between your fascination for the hero and the song, Piano takes an apologetic backseat despite making all the right notes.
The hero is fluent enough to use the fingers of both hands. They dance on the Piano keys from one end to another, sometimes banging the keys like a percussion instrument. The poor Piano takes it in stride despite its imposing presence in the midst of its august gathering. Come to think of it, have you ever seen a poor hero on a Piano? No director has been that expansive in his thinking unless I have planted this idea in his mind.
The Guitar isn't been far behind. Probably it has a slightly better status because of its portability and a more jazzy appearance. The hero can either prance around with it or hold a part of it under his armpits and the rest of it like a child in his lap. The sixties had its heroes wield it like a Hanuman's "Gadaa" (mace). Watch Joy Mukherjee doing that in "Laakho hai nigaah mein" (Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon/1962). Throughout the song, he never even once fingers (with) it. A decade earlier, Dev Anand at least made a semblance of working his fingers in "Dil ki umange hain jawaan" (Munimji/1955). The seventies and eighties gave the Guitar a new dimension. The likes of Rishi Kapoor preferred to cuddle it like a baby to woo their Lady Love. The number of songs where the hero is armed with a Guitar are far more than those on the Piano. In the process, it has suffered bigger abuse. One of them being gender discrimination. The ladies never got to express themselves on the Piano as their male counterparts got to.
I clearly remember in my school days many friends joining Guitar classes because they genuinely believed themselves to be from the neo-generation that derived its glamour quotient from the instrument. It was also presumed that with their manes, bell bottoms, long bush shirts and a Guitar hanging down their shoulders, they could impress the lasses. They never got far, let alone becoming Rishi Kapoors. Their Guitars vanished faster than their ambitions.
The Sitar has been kind to the heroines but then the codes apply here as well. The Sitar does not deserve anything else than a pure silk saree. At least I have not seen any female actress strumming it in middies, skirts, frocks or other such western outfits. The protocol is the heroine should sit in a particular posture while her fingers run on the strings with Carl Lewis speed. Mercifully, it hasn't occurred to any film-maker to break this convention and the instrument has retained the dignity it deserves. With the kind of films made today, Sitar has almost staged a quiet exit.
A point to note. Between the upscale Piano and the impoverished Ektaara (a single-stringed music instrument used mostly on beggars, mendicants and orphans), flutes, saxophone and tabla have flitted in and out as guest artistes. But more about that some other day.
Watching a music channel yesterday late night showing for the umpteenth time a clip from Teen Deviyan (1966) in which a debonair Dev Anand unleashes all his flirtatious charm on the bevy of beauties around him through Kishore's "Khwab ho tum ya koi haqeeqat", one thing came almost as tunefully. In the aggregate of the song situation that rides on a chocolate face, boisterous voice and feminine grace, the unsung hero is the Piano.
I am sure you must have, as I did for years, focused on Dev Anand in a killer black suit and tie, his femme fatales awe-struck at his effervescence in full flow. But hold on. We also watched an anguished Shammi Kapoor dressed similarly in "Dil ke zarokhe me tujh ko bitha kar" (Brahmachari/1966), Feroze Khan in "Bahot Haseen ho bahot jawaan ho" (Mai Wohi Hoon/1966) and Ajit in "Mai khushnaseeb hoon" (Tower House/1962) to name a few. For that matter, Rajendra Jubilee Kumar in a rich Sherwaani making a forceful point with "Ae husn zara jaag tujhe ishq jagaaye" (Mere Mehboob/1963). The highest common factor here is the plush dress sense. The lowest common denominator is the Piano. Its luxurious status stood no chance before the dapper heroes. You may call it a stereotype but I prefer to call it an unwritten code. In the tug of war between your fascination for the hero and the song, Piano takes an apologetic backseat despite making all the right notes.
The hero is fluent enough to use the fingers of both hands. They dance on the Piano keys from one end to another, sometimes banging the keys like a percussion instrument. The poor Piano takes it in stride despite its imposing presence in the midst of its august gathering. Come to think of it, have you ever seen a poor hero on a Piano? No director has been that expansive in his thinking unless I have planted this idea in his mind.
I clearly remember in my school days many friends joining Guitar classes because they genuinely believed themselves to be from the neo-generation that derived its glamour quotient from the instrument. It was also presumed that with their manes, bell bottoms, long bush shirts and a Guitar hanging down their shoulders, they could impress the lasses. They never got far, let alone becoming Rishi Kapoors. Their Guitars vanished faster than their ambitions.
The Sitar has been kind to the heroines but then the codes apply here as well. The Sitar does not deserve anything else than a pure silk saree. At least I have not seen any female actress strumming it in middies, skirts, frocks or other such western outfits. The protocol is the heroine should sit in a particular posture while her fingers run on the strings with Carl Lewis speed. Mercifully, it hasn't occurred to any film-maker to break this convention and the instrument has retained the dignity it deserves. With the kind of films made today, Sitar has almost staged a quiet exit.
A point to note. Between the upscale Piano and the impoverished Ektaara (a single-stringed music instrument used mostly on beggars, mendicants and orphans), flutes, saxophone and tabla have flitted in and out as guest artistes. But more about that some other day.
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