Words are easy, friends are hard to find

Lakshmikant Pyarelal took the Hindi film industry by storm for over four decades with their enchanting songs. Pyarelal, who was in Bangalore recently, remembers his late companion, and says there will never ever be a friend like him

March 03, 2015 06:11 pm | Updated 06:11 pm IST

Music directors Laxmikant (left) and Pyarelal (middle) with singer MohammedRafi.

Music directors Laxmikant (left) and Pyarelal (middle) with singer MohammedRafi.

This is how most fairy tales are – they start with ordinariness, but end in palaces. Much of the early story of Lakshmikant-Pyarelal, music directors who ruled the Hindi film industry for over four decades, resembles the story of several others who wanted to find their footing in Bombay. Their parents were neither rich nor famous, but what they passed on was humungous talent. The duo met as teenagers at Ranjit Studios in Bombay, became best of friends, and through their hardwork and passion, they occupied the upper echelons of the music industry. The next forty years or so, they spent most of their waking hours together in the studios with top musicians and producers, composing music for nearly 635 films.

Pyarelal, at 75, has a memory that sparkles – he is a treasure house of stories, and with his subtle sense of humour regales the listener with episodes from within the studio. With Lakshmikant’s demise in 1998, a significant part of their career as composers came to an end, however, he has done a few films, composed orchestras among other things.

In Bangalore for a concert, Pyarelal, over a leisurely chat, brought the whole era alive. It’s a matter of surprise how, a young violinist, who practiced 10-12 hours of classical music everyday, ended up choosing a career in the films. It was life’s difficulties that brought him to the studio, but how the two turned it into a story of amazing success was their commitment. His father, a competent trumpeter, was a bandmaster. He lived in Baroda, went to Karachi, and then to Calcutta, and finally moved to Bombay. “My father passed away when I was eight years old. The few years that I spent with him were fantastic – he knew so many instruments and had such a fine knowledge of Western classical music. He was of the firm belief that every Indian music practitioner should have a fair idea of Western classical music and vice–versa. He had devised a remarkable module by which you could master the techniques of an instrument in seven months,” recalls Pyarelal, as he remembers his father saying, “Music is our life. Don’t ever give it up.”

Pyarelal’s father had sowed the seeds of solid music in his son rather early. He was a big fan of Yehudi Menuhin and often got a chance to see him in the years that he played for Bombay Symphony Orchestra. Pyarelal always longed to meet him, but that came years later in what was a fleeting moment. “Times were difficult. I went with my violin to Ranjit Studios to get work in a film orchestra, and met Lakshmikant who played the mandolin. It was in 53-54. The orchestra was full of veteran musicians, and we got to sit only in the third line of the orchestra. Lata didi heard us play and so impressed she was that she put us on to many composers of those times.” The duo began playing for Naushad, Khemchand Prakash, Nisar Bazmi, S. Mahendar and several others. As they gained expertise, they moved to the second row and finally to the first row of the orchestra! Lakshmikant and Pyarelal were both of the same age and after recordings they spent time together. “We sat together, had lunch together, tea together…. During our free time, we sat in Shivaji Park discussing music. Those were such simple days. Our pockets were mostly empty, we would pool in the few annas we had for a vada-chai and share it. Once, we went to an Irani café near Regal cinema. After we ate, we realised that we had no money left to catch the train back home. Lakshmikant had a pass from Dadar, so we both walked the entire distance. He didn’t take the train because then I would have to walk home alone, so we walked together….,” he remembers. As long as Lakshmikant’s mother lived she celebrated Pyarelal’s birthday.

“They lived in a small house in a chawl. She would prepare two three different kinds of bhajis for me with rotis, and in those days when we had very little, it was really very special. In the later years, she never missed giving me a small gold coin. My birthday was always celebrated by her.”

In 1957, Pyarelal decided to go to Vienna and join the symphony orchestra; Lakshmikant did not let him go. “Let’s do something together, don’t go. I won’t let you go…,” he was adamant. They took up films, but nothing was significant. In 1963, Babubhai Mistry made Parasmani and Lakshmikant-Pyarelal’s music became talk of the town. “We were in great awe of Shankar-Jaikishen and our early compositions had the flavour of the veteran composers. But by our second film Dosti , we had made a conscious departure. Jaikishen gifted a silver violin for my wedding. He had said, ‘these boys will be great one day.’ I always cherish those words….,” says Pyarelal.

From film to film, the duo grew in strength. Soon, Lakshmikant Pyarelal replaced most film composers who they worked for. “Lakshmikant was very hard working. The one thing that he repeatedly told me was that there should be no third person between us. So the melody, background score and everything else was done jointly,” explains Pyarelal, breaking into the song, “Satyam Shivam Sundaram”. “Can you tell which portion of the song is Lakshmikant and which is Pyarelal?” He sings the song line by line and explains how after they had hit upon the main melody, they both kept adding various elements to the song. “We used to be so over enthusiastic that the producer and director would be sitting between us. I would sing a line, and Lakshmi would sing another. They would get tired of turning their heads and once we were politely told that one of us should sing!” They loved what they were doing, and the understanding between them was perfect. Not even once, did Lakshmikant step into studio, he always sat at the console and left everything to Pyarelal. “Not even once did we count money. Lakshmikant would divide the wad of notes into two and whatever was in his right hand came to me.” In fact, he apparently had told Pyarelal never to put up a name plate outside his flat. “Our names should never appear separately. They should always be seen together.”

It was not just about them, but Pyarelal says they met such wonderful people during their journey. “RD Burman was fantastic. Once, we were recording for a film and at the same time Pancham was recording with Sachin da. We wanted him to come and play the organ for us. He left his recording, spent all morning recording with us and returned in the afternoon. That was the kind of friendship we shared….” Rafi, he says, was an amazing human being. “He was a top notch singer, but so down to earth. Whenever Rafi saab stepped into the studio, Kishore Kumar would stand up and offer his respect.” Pyarelal has so much to say about Madan Mohan, Roshan, Naushad, Lata Mangeshkar and Hridaynath Mangeshkar, that it opens the door to a world that we hardly know. What we know are the great songs, but as Pyarelal puts it poignantly: “Agar woh log achche insaan nahin hote, who gaane itne khoobsoorat nahin ban paate…”

Pyarelal never tires of telling stories, but after almost two hours, his wife gently tells him “it’s enough”. “Nahin nahin, ye baat to mujhe batana hi hain…,” he says, and continues. “I miss Lakshmikant very much. He was very ill in 1998, and I had to leave him and go for a show in Sandiago, USA. The show got over at 3.30 a.m. Indian time. I called him at that unearthly hour, and his daughter gave the phone to him. He himself was so ill, but the first thing that he enquired was about my leg injury. ‘Tumhara paanv kaisa hain Pyare?’ I asked him: ‘Tum kaise ho?’ and the phone fell. Lakshmi had gone into coma….,” he goes into silence. “I didn’t have a house of my own. Lakshmi and his mother bought a site close to their house, handed it over to me and said ‘you build a house’… Can there ever be such friends….”

Death and separation don’t spare fairy tales too.

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