Of A R Rahman, communal bias; and sour notes of self pity!

Raju Korti
Ask anyone if they know a composer called Dileep Kumar Rajagopala and you will mostly get blank stares. Rename him A R Rahman and recognition arrives instantly. Awards tumble out of his biography with impressive regularity: Grammys, a Golden Globe, a BAFTA, National Awards, and global adulation. Yet awards, especially in a fickle and self-serving film industry, are not certificates of greatness. To critics like me, they often mask mediocrity elevated by timing, marketing, and hype.

After minting money and fame, Rahman now claims that work has dried up because of his Muslim identity, carefully wrapped in the euphemism of a “communal thing.” This is not only a convenient alibi but also a deeply irresponsible one. The Hindi film industry has always thrived on vested interests, shifting tastes, and brutal commercial logic. It has never survived, or collapsed, on the basis of religion.

Rahman: Discordant notes.

The truth is far simpler and far more uncomfortable. Rahman is an abysmally poor composer who rode a brief wave of novelty. His music, once labelled experimental, soon hardened into predictable noise. That he won awards does not elevate the work. It only confirms how shallow and trend-driven the ecosystem has become.

What Rahman seems to have forgotten is the long and luminous line of Muslim artistes who shaped this very industry without ever crying persecution when the spotlight moved away. Mohammed Rafi remains the most glaring example. A singing genius, he ruled unchallenged for years and then gracefully accepted his partial eclipse by Kishore Kumar after Aradhana and the Rajesh Khanna phenomenon. Rafi acknowledged success without resentment and failure without bitterness.

I vividly remember a function where Naushad, the doyen of composers and a man wedded to Hindustani classical music till his last breath, spoke to Bal Thackeray about Rahman’s jazzy brand of music. I was present when Naushad expressed his displeasure, not with malice but with concern for musical standards. Thackeray, then still accessible and alert, abruptly rose and asked who this upstart called Rahman was. The moment was telling. Respect in the industry was earned through depth, not decibels.

Consider Dilip Kumar, born Yusuf Khan, the first Khan superstar and the finest actor among the trinity of Raj Kapoor, Dev Anand, and himself. He was a regular visitor at Bal Thackeray’s residence, sharing drinks and spiced peanuts prepared by Thackeray’s wife. Later, Thackeray publicly thundered that Yusuf should be packed off to Pakistan. Yet Dilip Kumar never once claimed that his career was sabotaged because of his faith. He let his work speak and history judge.

Sahir Ludhianvi was an avowed atheist. Meena Kumari, born Mahjabeen Bano, convincingly played Hindu daughters-in-law without ever complaining about roles that contradicted her religion. Talat Mehmood, Sajjad Hussain, Ghulam Haider, Ghulam Mohammed, A R Kardar, Johnny Walker (born Qazi Badruddin), and countless others lived and created in perfect cultural harmony. Religion was never a bar to creativity, nor an excuse for decline. On the contrary, Dilip Kumar, Meena Kumari, Madhubala, Ajit, Jagdeep, Shyama, Jayant, Nimmi, Sanjay (the list is long) adopted Hindu names to etch themselves in the profession. Ironically, the refrain I used to hear then was Muslim and Christian professionals capitalised on Hindu names.  

Rahman’s so-called creativity, even at its best, sounds worse than the mediocre cacophony flooding today’s soundscape. Many purists dismissed his work as a passing fad, a novelty that aged badly. Roja, Bombay, Rangeela, and even Slumdog Millionaire were ordinary products of their time, inflated by marketing and global curiosity. If those are hailed as milestones, one wonders what vocabulary remains for genuine musical greatness. The golden period of Hindi film music, by and large, ended in the nineties, and Rahman did little to resurrect it.

If Rahman truly believes he is out of work, introspection would serve him better than provocation. Playing the victim green card reeks of ingratitude. He amassed wealth and acclaim as A R Rahman, not as Dileep Rajagopala. To now hint that the same society conspired against him is both childish and disingenuous. Small wonder that his remarks have drawn flak from all quarters, including lyricist Javed Akhtar of his own era.

The film industry has one immutable rule: every dog has his day. Some enjoy long summers, some brief winters, and some never see daylight. Rahman had his place under the sun. In an industry where values rise and vanish overnight, he must either accept that his time has waned or work harder to justify a revival. Until then, he can gaze at his awards cabinet and draw whatever solace he can from the trophies of yesterday.