Manna 'Day'

I had the privilege to meet Manna Dey at my friend Biren Das’s house in Bangalore where he was a fairly regular visitor.

He always came with his wife and sat through musical programmes of some upcoming artistes that Biren used to arrange. He always had a word of praise for those who were good and promising. He was very punctual and never behaved as some ‘greats’ who believe they grace an occasion by their presence and come and go when they like.

He had a phenomenal memory. If we asked him about a song he had sung many years back, he could recount who the lyricist was and who had set the tune. Once after the dinner was over and most guests had left, a few of us were still at KC Das house, and so was Mannada. We were  wondering if Mannada would sing a couple of songs for us. I took courage and asked him if he would please mind singing  a few  songs and Biren joined me in my request.

Mannada had a soft corner for Biren and would never say ‘No’ to him. Mannada got up and we went inside where a harmonium was waiting. “I hardly sing outside these days, but since you ask,” he said  and he took the harmonium and began to sing some Bengali songs. He was easily past eighty years then and he sang at least eight songs without any script with unbelievable clarity of voice.

 It was during one of his visits to Biren’s house when I was sitting with him that he told me how several years after he had a bypass surgery in Bombay he went to Dr Devi Shetty’s hospital in Bangalore for a routine check up.

After a royal treatment and all the necessary tests  Mannada was cleared after a few days and when Mannada asked for the bill, he was presented with a bill for a  total amount of “0” and a bouquet of flowers. On asking Dr Shetty, he said, “Mannada we grew up listening to your songs and you did me an honour coming to me for your check-ups. Do you seriously mean I could charge anything from you?” Mannada recounted this story with some pride.

One could go on writing about him, but I would end with an incident on a summer noon in Calcutta when I boarded a minibus and sat down near a window. I think I was the only passenger. I felt the urge to sing one of Manna Dey’s songs that was haunting me since the morning and wanted to sing it to myself in a low voice  and as  no passenger was there, I looked out through the window and hummed his song, “O amar mon jomunar ange ange, bhab taronge katoi khala.”( I observe the diverse  plays in the rise and fall of waves of  thoughts in the flow of the Yamuna of my mind.)

 After I finished I looked inside and saw that the young conductor had come over and was sitting next to me, listening to me. I felt a little embarrassed and smiled at the conductor. “Sir, you hardly get to hear such lovely songs these days,” the conductor said. I had not bought my ticket yet. I brought out my wallet and offered to pay for my ticket. “No, sir, no ticket from you. You just treated me to a  Manna Dey’s song.”