Few playback voices in Hindi cinema have conveyed ‘dard’ as evocatively as Mukesh. I use the Hindustani word, and not pain, consciously. Because ‘pain’ does not quite carry the same connotation that Mukesh brings to life in his voice. Sure, he did not have the trained repertoire of Mohammed Rafi or Manna Dey that could render the toughest of classical notes without breaking a sweat. True, Kishore Kumar was a far more versatile singer with his range. However, none of them could possibly aspire to have the pensive pathos that characterised Mukesh’s voice. To quote poet Firaq Gorakhpuri, who might well have written these lines for what Mukesh brought to a song:

Mutrib se kaho iss andaz se gaaye

Har dil ko lage chot-si, har aankh bhar aaye

There’s the wonderful story involving leg-spinner wizard B.S. Chandrasekhar, a die-hard Mukesh fan. In a Ranji Trophy match between Bombay and Karnataka in the 1970s, Chandra was bowling to his India teammate Sunil Gavaskar. After a particular delivery that bamboozled Gavaskar, he came down the pitch to the batsman, not to stare him down as players these days are wont to do, but to ask, ‘Suna kya?’ A Mukesh song was playing on the radio and a fan in the stands had turned up the volume. Chandra was just asking Gavaskar if he had heard the song. Gavaskar would later recount that he would often hum a Mukesh song to inspire Chandra on the field.

Most eulogies to the singer talk primarily of his work as the voice of Raj Kapoor in compositions by Shankar-Jaikishan. In fact, the celebratory lists that made the rounds about a month ago on his 100th birth anniversary seldom went beyond Mera Joota Hai Japani and Sab Kuch Seekha Hamne. Though immensely popular, for some reason these songs seldom appealed to me. For one, I find Raj Kapoor’s performances in these too mannered (‘see how naive I am’, they seem to underline) so that the rendition also fails to resonate with me. Also, these popular songs seldom allowed Mukesh the vocal dexterity he was capable of as these below did.

Saranga Teri Yaad Mein (Saranga, 1960)

Is this the greatest Raga Yaman song ever in Hindi cinema? Bharat Vyas’s lyrics and Sardar Malik’s timeless melody — so great has been the impact of this one song in his criminally overlooked oeuvre that he was termed the ‘Saranga’ man — create a song of unparalleled beauty. However, it is Mukesh’s rendition that elevates it to a classic.

There is something otherworldly that he brings to the song. Be it the anguish in the words ‘madhur tumhare milan bina din kat-te nahin rayn’ or the plaintive nostalgia that he embodies in ‘woh ambuvaa ka jhoolnaa, woh peepal ki chhaaon… aaj ujadke rah gayaa woh sapnon ka gaaon’, Mukesh has seldom sounded this ethereal.

Pukaro Mujhe Naam Lekar Pukaro (Bhool Na Jaana, 1965)

Another forgotten film (it never got a theatrical release), another obscure composer (Daan Singh) and another Mukesh masterclass, this time a romantic number of unmatched sentiments. Gulzar creates the perfect testament to the kind of love he best epitomised in his songs (strangely enough, the song seldom finds mention among Gulzar’s best): ‘Achanak se do ajnabee mil gaye ho, jinhe rooh pehchanti ho azal se, bhatakte bhatakte wohi mil gaye ho.’

Just listen to Mukesh coax and cajole the beloved to call him by his name. Be it playfulness (‘Kunware labon ki kasam tod do tum zara muskura kar baharein sanwaron’), sensual longing (‘Badi sar chadhi hai yeh zulfen tumhari, yeh zulfen meri baazuon mein utaaro’) or pathos (‘Tumhari hatheli se milti hai jaakar, mere haath ki yeh adhoori lakeeren’) — all find a home in Mukesh’s flawless rendition. Oh, to be serenaded by these words in this voice!

Woh Tere Pyar Ka Gham (My Love, 1970)

I have often wondered at the sheer fatalistic overtones of the words here (‘Yeh na hota toh koi doosra gham hona tha’ – there were other sorrows in store even if this one had not come calling) and Mukesh’s pitch-perfect rendition of the same that steers the song clear of maudlin territory. Mukesh was a past master of the sad song and it is these that are justly celebrated, but the Pacific depth of despair that he plumbs here simply blows you away.

Anand Bakshi’s words create an unrelenting world of despair but it is Mukesh who makes this, possibly, the last word in stoic acceptance of the inevitability of sorrow in the pursuit of love. Just listen to the pathos in his voice that complements the strains of the trumpet that run through it. Not to mention Shashi Kapoor’s emoting that adds layers to the song. And guess who the composer was? Daan Singh again, making him the creator of two of Mukesh’s greatest songs.

Kai Baar Yunhi Dekha Hai (Rajnigandha, 1974)

No one – not even Shankar-Jaikishan – gave Mukesh better melodies to render than Salil Chowdhury. No one, not even Shailendra, gave Mukesh songs as evocative as Yogesh did. Consider Kahin Duur Jab Din Dhal Jaaye in Anand, the songs in Annadata and Chhoti Si Baat. Kai Baar Yunhi Dekha Hai, however, is the pinnacle of their collaboration, and for my money, Mukesh’s best song ever.

What makes the song unique is how the words and Mukesh’s voice articulate the woman’s perspective and, exceptionally for films of the era, talks about her heart being undecided between the two people she loves. Is there a song that expresses the dilemma of a fugitive heart better? Has there been a more sensuous exposition of the humble sari than here as it absently caresses a palm, so full of possibilities, so full of regrets, a myriad play of emotions rendered so beautifully by Mukesh? Basu Chatterjee’s unfussy, simple picturisation (the song is not lip-synced) in a taxicab adds to the dreamy quality of Mukesh’s voice to create an evergreen number that is as much philosophy as it is love.

Yeh Din Kya Aaye (Chhoti Si Baat, 1975)

Another Salil Chowdhury-Yogesh gem that finds the perfect home in Mukesh’s mellifluous voice. Though the way it is shot robs the song of its essence, it is redolent of the emotions one experiences in the first flush of love. Very few lyricists manage to get the heady effervescence of these emotions as well as Yogesh did.

Consider the line ‘dekho basanti basanti honay lagey meray sapne’ — the juxtaposition of basanti (spring) and sapne (dreams) says everything there is about new love. Salil Chowdhury’s vibrant melody (with its ecstatic play of the trumpet) gets the right conduit in Mukesh who gives every emotion just the flawless touch. You can actually visualise the golden hues of dawn and the crimson skies of dusk as Mukesh sings ‘Sone jaisi ho rahi hai har subah meri, lagey har saanjh ab gulaal se bhari’. Or find your bewitched heart soaring to the skies when his sonorous voice articulates ‘Wahan mann bawra aaj ud chala, jahan par hai gagan salona saawla’. Divine.

Bonus Duet: Sansar Hai Ek Nadiya (Raftar, 1975)

Duets like Kabhi Kabhi Mere Dil Mein and Ek Pyar Ka Naghma Hai are justly celebrated in Mukesh’s oeuvre. However, this is one of my personal favourites for the pathos both Mukesh and Asha Bhosle bring to play to little-known lyricist Abhilash’s words and Sonik-Omi’s melody with some of the most memorable violin riffs in a Hindi song ever, backed by some evocative harmonising vocal chorus.

One of the great philosophical songs on life that Hindi films specialised in at one time, this has Mukesh articulate with great feeling the transience of life, solitude as the essential condition of being and, in one of the finest stanzas in a Hindi film song, an uplifting take on ‘sin’. When he sings ‘Hai kaun woh duniya mein na paap kiya jisne, bin uljhe kaaton se hai phool chune kisne’, you know instinctively that god forgives. If Mukesh was the messiah of melancholy, this was among his finest sermons.

(Shantanu Ray Chaudhuri is a film and music buff, editor, publisher, film critic and writer)