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Remembering the legend that was Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan

Khalid Mohamed goes down memory lane to the time when he met the late Pakistani singer, who went on to shape much of the music in the industry

Pakistan's eminent ghazal artiste Rahat Fateh Ali Khan finds himself in a strange quandary today. Bollywood's frontline filmmakers wish to record songs by him but aren't sure whether they would be asking for a controversy or, worse, protests and bans.
Sufi-flavoured ballads are still de rigueur for every second film, big or small, the major chartbusters being last year's Channa Mereya and Bulleya from Karan Johar's Ae Dil Hai Mushkil. But when it comes to ballads, qawwalis and ghazals across generations, the most-missed voice remains that of Rahat's real-life uncle, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, in terms of downloads and playlists across the world.
Here's a voice of limitless artistry - technical as well as spiritual. If you want someone to take you higher, it's Nusrat bhai, who passed away at the age of 48 almost 20 years ago on a day (August 16, 1997) when it was raining in Mumbai. The newspaper obit - that I had to thrash out in a matter of minutes - couldn't do him justice. But, then, which obit does?
Apparently, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan recorded as many as 125 albums. You probably own one, two or dozens of his classic Sufi albums (the Real World label's releases are the best). Then there are his brief, ready-to-radio-air tracks, his lengthy riffs, the qawwalis, the geets, the pop and movie ditties and, of course, the remixes.
He didn't approve of retreads, but admitted that his music reached out to a wider, younger listenership as a result. Vis-à-vis Afreen Afreen, I suspect he wasn't exactly kicked about Lisa Ray sashaying through desert sands seductively in the music video, but he kept his reservations off the record.
The one album that's a must-possess is titled Shahen-Shah, recorded way back in 1989. Each one of the six cuts here expands on re-listening, with the voice transporting you to another realm. Close your eyes, switch off the lights, and listen to Kali Kali Zulfon Ke Phande Na Dalo. It can be variously interpreted as a romantic ode to the beloved or as an invitation to lose yourself in worship, away from the everyday traps and deceptions. On the same album, try Meri Aankhon Ko Bakhshe Hain Aansoon - the vocals take you to yet another life-affirming plane.
Nusrat bhai was first heard in India via tape-recorded cassettes, much in the manner of the music of Mehdi Hassan preceding the artiste's visits to concert performances in India. His Allah Hoo and Tere Bin Nahin Lagda were played in homes, on tapes at evening soirees and on radio broadcasts.
Indeed, I had hoped against hope that Shyam Benegal would actually get permission to use a Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan track in Mammo, which I had scripted. Benegal loved what he heard of Nusrat bhai, but preferred to use a vignette by a Pakistani female vocalist, which is the director's prerogative.
The first time I met Nusrat bhai was at the Centaur Hotel in Juhu, courtesy Shekhar Kapur, who had used his music in Bandit Queen. My subject was so shy that I was apprehensive. I'd return to the office with monosyllables. Gratifyingly, it just took a question on India and Pakistan's relations to connect. He opened up, his already moist eyes welled over with emotion. He talked of "music that knows no borders", and hoped to perform at an awards ceremony that I was once a part of.
Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan was already the global flavour by then. Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder, Oliver Stone and Martin Scorsese had used his music. To get him to perform at a show meant a coup. After clearing acres of red tape, permission was secured at last for Nusrat bhai and his troupe to perform at the Filmfare Awards in Mumbai.
Lucky Ali's was the opening act. He wouldn't stop singing, his guitar going on twang-twang-twang. Dharmendra, who was being presented the Lifetime Achievement Award, was thrilled; we loved him. Then it was Madhuri Dixit's turn to perform. and it happened. She had to freeze in the throes of a dance movement.
The cops - and the politicos-that-be - literally switched off the power, because the clock was ticking beyond 10.30 pm. The closing act of the function couldn't be performed. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and his troupe wouldn't be permitted to sing. That was the first year when a "time limit" was suddenly prescribed for the award show. There had been no precedent.
The man of devotion smiled sadly, his eyes again looking wet. We apologised profusely. He nodded, "It was not your fault. some things are not meant to be." Fortuitously, my meetings/interviews/chats with Nusrat bhai continued unaffected. In his hotel suite, he would appear freshly bathed and dressed most often in white or grey. He liked dressing up, and there was that hint of musk attar. I must have met him every time he returned to record in Bollywood studios. His attitude, his voice and his tentative smile remained unaltered. Out of the blue, he asked me if I'd agree to write a book about his music. "Me? Of course," I whooped. "Neqi aur pooch pooch [a good deed needs no permission]?"
He was to return from the US after a spell of medical treatment for his kidney ailment. "Do you know my father never wanted me to sing? Like all fathers, he wanted me to become a doctor or an engineer," he had said almost inaudibly. It was at the chaliswa of his father, a classical musician, that Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan had first sung as a child. It was at a graveyard. "That's why I am not afraid of death," he had narrated. "One's devotion lasts forever."
wknd@khaleejtimes.com