Long before the gypsy legend Reshma came into prominence, it was the long-winded voice of Mubarak Begum that took one to the wilderness where the beloved, pining for her lover, sang her heart out. At a Nizamuddin function one was seemingly transported to a scene in which a caravan was passing through a desert with the stars twinkling overhead in the sky and the cold creeping in after the day’s heat, the nomadic women covering themselves up and the sleeping children as the camels moved forward, surefooted and quite sure of their destination without prodding by the cameleers. Mubarak Begum was born in Jhunjhunu, Rajasthan (when it was known as Rajputana) and it was but natural for her to be influenced by that milieu in the songs she rendered from 1949 to January 2016.
If one remembers aright it was at the Fatehpur Sikri cultural festival organised by the then mercurial UP Minister Ammar Rizvi years ago (to which Delhiwallas rushed in cars, buses and by train) that Mubarak’s voice mesmerised the elite gathering and almost transported one to the time when Jahangir as Prince Salim got fascinated with Anarkali and the charm she exuded in the court of his father. The song she sang was “Kabhi tanhaiyon mein yun hamari yaad aayegi” (na tu ji sake ga aur na phir tujhko maut aayegi?”) It was from Kidar Sharma’s film, Hamari Yaad Ayegi and as the singer stretched her vocal chords (like Dada Burman and Rafi) it became a haunting, throbbing melody that enveloped the palaces of Akbar’s deserted city and merged with the solitude of the starry heavens. Old men shook their heads in amazement and some in the vast assembly of ladies swooned in ecstasy. It seemed they were on the verge of what is called “haal” and generally associated with the aura created by qawwalis but here it was a film song that evoked that ambience and made connoisseurs of music remark in exultation, “kya gaati hai”. Among them was Ustad Aqeel Hussain Khan, a descendant of Ustad Faiyaz Khan of the Agra gharana. The ‘bols’, he said, would do justice to any classical music performance, with the difference that they were more effortless and free-flowing. Overhearing him, Michael Sharpe, a Rhodes scholar from England at St. Stephens College leaned sideways in his chair and enquired in great eagerness like Wordsworth, “Will someone tell me that she sings”? It was reminiscent of the “Solitary Reaper” who so bewitched the Romantic poet that even as he mounted up the hill, the music in his “heart he bore long after it was heard no more”.
Many who came back to Delhi from Fatehpur Sikri with kababs, Mughalia parathas and halwa after the concert too bore the pathos of Mubarak Begum voice in their hearts long after her song was heard no more. And to consider the fact that the singer was not the sort associated with a quintessential romantic female, for she looked modest, unassuming, unpretentious, with a comely complexion, a prominent nose and protruding teeth, hair combed back in the style of the 1930s when Zulf-e-Bengal oil was the choice of nearly every young woman’s hairdo. Besotted Qadeer Bhai said languorously, “Ham tau hoor-ki-pari dekhne aiye the, lekin jasbath mein beh gaye. Ek purqaif awaaz sun kar jis ne dil ko betaab kar diya” (had come to see a hoor of paradise but got lost in emotion on hearing a magical voice).
Born in humble circumstances she lived in them later in life too, with her son a chauffeur and her abode a one-room house allotted under the State Chief Minister’s quota on the recommendation of late actor Sunil Dutt. A contemporary of such great singers as Lata Mangeshkar, Suman Kalyanpur and Vani Jayaram, Mubarak Begum (like Bharat Bhushan) did not have the tact of saving her earnings. She was not only a free spender but also one who didn’t shy away from helping people in distress, with the result that in old age (she was 80 when she died) there was not even enough money to buy diapers for her as she was bedridden. Her daughter-in-law Zarina Sheikh however was a pillar of strength to the family and to her husband, Mahmud Hussain Sheikh, himself in poor health after the death of his sister early this year from Parkinson’s disease.
Yet Mubarak Begum had seen good days in her youth when she teamed up with Shamshad Begum and had been lauded for her singing, aided by a nasal voice that was the hallmark of such noted artistes as Umrao Jan Ada, Jamiat Jan and Gohar Jan, the last-named also the last in the tradition of singers patronized by the nawabs and rajas. Trained by Ustad Riazuddin Khan of the Kirana Gharana and Ustad Samad Khan, she worked with such noted film personalities as S.D.Burman, Mohammad Rafi, Kaifi Azmi, Shankar-Jaikishan and Khayyam. Among the songs she sang were “Mohe Aane Lagi Angrai”, “Devta Tum Ho Mera Sahara”, “Aiye dil bata hum kahan aa gaye”, “Aaj Ghar Wale Ghar nahin” and “Na Manzil Hai”. It’s sad that after the death of her daughter she lost her memory and also the will to live. What made her last years even sadder was the withdrawal of financial help from the Government and contemporary artistes who were so well off that they could support not one Mubarak Begum but many more of those who had become victims of fate. However, the story that her troubles began when she refused to sing for a Sufi divine after a visit to the Ajmer dargah is only a myth.
Even now sometimes after the moon and stars seem to be lost in sleep and also the nightjar in a quiet DDA Colony one hears the voice of Mubarak Begum nasally intoning “Kabhi tanhaiyon mein yun hamari yaad aayegi”. Yes, her memory will stay alive even in the loneliest of moments and continue to do so long after the tragic Begum’s name becomes a byword for singers who got drowned in the depths of their own soulful songs: for as the poet said, “Music when soft voices die lingers in the memory” (pronounced memorai to rhyme with die). Goodbye sweet Begum may the Janaat hoors sing thee to rest.
