Finding Amirbai

Amirbai and her sister Goharbai

Amirbai’s gramophone at her house in Vijayapura

(From left) Music critic Prakash Burde and scientist Suresh Chandvankar helped the author with resources in Mumbai

Amirbai (1910-1965) was a big name in music, theatre and cinema in the first half of the 20th century. She had travelled from Kannada theatre to Mumbai films, and become a sensation in the nascent Hindi film industry before the advent of Lata Mangeshkar. I had heard her songs, but knew little about her.

To go back a little in time: Amirbai sang for ‘Kismet’ (1943), which championed the cause of Indian independence. Her song, ‘Door hato duniyawaale, Hindustan hamara hai’, was popular among freedom fighters. Gandhiji was fond of ‘Vaishnava janato’, which she sang for ‘Narsi Bhagat’ (1940). She suffered physical abuse at the hands of her first husband Himalayavala, an actor. She got a divorce and married Gujarati journalist Badri Kanchawala. Amirbai sang in multiple languages. She and her sister Goharbai were called the Bilagi sisters, Bilagi being a place near Bijapur (now Vijayapura). When I started to research Amirbai’s life, I was surprised to find not a single biography on her in any language. This project made me, a student of literature, enter the world of theatre and films. Since I had earlier researched the sacred traditions of India, my excursion into music and cinema felt a bit like liberation, and a bit like trespass. I roamed around for five years and wrote my book ‘Amirbai Karnataki’ (2012).

How it began

The journey began accidentally. At my engineer-friend Rajashekhar Jangamashetty’s house in Dharwad, I got to hear old film songs. Among the melodies I heard were ‘Maar kattari marjaana’ (‘Shehnai’, 1947) and ‘Ninnanu neneyuta raatriya kalede’ (a non-film song). Jangamashetty is proud of Amirbai, who hails from his part of the world. He had always been telling me to write about her. This time, he took me to the house of Suresh Kulkarni, actor and journalist. The three of us sat talking about her. My pursuit began that very day.

The first thing I discovered was that Amirbai had a legion of admirers in north Karnataka. An even bigger number was scattered across Maharashtra. My research took me several times to Kolhapur, Pune and Mumbai. This crossing of borders was not unique to Amirbai. Anyone researching cultural greats such as Sawai Gandharva, Mallikarjun Mansur, Bhimsen Joshi, Kumar Gandharva, Gangubai Hangal, Siddharoodha, V Shantaram, Girish Karnad, Venkatesh Kumar, Bendre, Shamba Joshi and Shanta Hublikar will have to cross over to Maharashtra. Each of them enjoys a huge number of admirers in that state. When it comes to music, theatre and films, Karnataka and Maharashtra share a deep bonding that goes back two centuries.

Goharbai spark

But sometimes, the relationship is not without rancour. Quite a few Marathis were angry with Amirbai’s sister Goharbai, who they accused of seducing their theatre music stalwart Bal Gandharva, who was much older. In reality, she was deeply in love with him, and had waited a long time to marry him. Several publications say she used a web of deceit to win him over. But thankfully, this anger did not extend to Amirbai. I met several Marathi music lovers who were apologetic about not giving the Bilagi sisters their due; they admitted they had neglected them because of their Kannada origin, and also because they were Muslim. But they were eager to make amends, and helped me in my research. In Mumbai, vintage music lovers, theatre music appreciation groups, and record clubs got me to listen to the songs of Amirbai and Goharbai. Some of them meet every Sunday to listen to vintage music. A Gujarati association told me about her Gujarati songs, and said they had assumed that she was Gujarati. Suresh Chandvankar, retired scientist at the Bhabha Atomic Research Centre, was particularly helpful.

Big landscape

To set a context for the book, I had to study not just the cultural traditions of the two states, but also their social histories. The artiste communities had their own stories to tell. Companies and feudal lords had played a big role in promoting the music, theatre and cinema of the time. Thus, I had to look at the business and political histories as well.

I began by writing two articles in Kannada on Amirbai, one for the daily Prajavani and another for the weekly Sudha. Prashant Kulkarni, a Kannadiga living in Pune, translated it into Marathi and published it. This created a huge community providing resources for my book. Several people sent me money the moment they heard about the book project. I didn’t really need the money. But in north Karnataka, people make contributions to show their appreciation to singers and actors. It is part of the Aheri (gifting) tradition. Singers of qawwalis are also honoured with money, and the tribute is called ‘nazrana’. I accepted the money, treating it with reverence. The ones who sent me money weren’t rich; they were fans of Amirbai. Some sent me pictures and newspaper clippings. Mehboob, a resident of Sholapur, stumbled on my articles in Marathi, and invited me over. He had lived in Amirbai’s house as a teenager, and had in his possession several rare pictures and letters she had written. Among the accidental treasures, I found a letter she had written in Kannada. “You are doing what we should have done,” he said, handing me the lot.

I met about 300 people over five years, many of them illustrious names. I met Gangubai Hangal in Hubballi, Puttaraj, Gawai in Gadag, and PB Sreenivas in Chennai. One thing I realised was the secular nature inherent in the world of arts. The greats I met hailed from different religions and regions. Amirbai was from a land famous for the Krishna Parijata theatre. She has sung songs in praise of Vittala, Rama and Krishna. ‘Ab tere bina mera koi Krishna kanhaiya’ from ‘Kismet’ had become a song that beggars routinely sang on Mumbai’s local trains.

Glow of youth

A majority of the people I met were in their 80s and 90s. They were hugely knowledgeable, and emotionally invested in vintage film music. They would shed some tears when I spoke to them; their faces would glow. They were excited to see a younger writer talking about their youthful years. Sometimes, their memory failed them. I had drawn up a list of people to meet, but some passed away before I could make the trip. I was weighed down by the regret that I hadn’t taken up the project 10 years earlier. Among those who could have shared their rich memories of Amirbai with me were the legendary singers Mohammed Rafi and Noor Jahan and the celebrated music composer Naushad. Manna Dey, who had sung with Amirbai, was in Bengaluru when I called. His daughter invited me over, but when I called again for an appointment, an ailing Manna Dey came on the line and said, “I don’t want to talk”. Lata Mangeshkar had sung ‘Gore gore o banke’ (‘Samadhi’, 1950) with Amirbai. I couldn’t meet her either. Some maestros, such as Bhimsen Joshi and DS Garud, were in delicate health, and I decided not to contact them.

Bitter and sweet

The musicians explained Amirbai’s art to me in musical terms. Earlier, I was a lay listener of Hindustani music, but the book demanded an understanding of the nuances. This pushed me to take up music classes. I also visited Sitarwale Galli in Miraj to learn about instruments and how they were made. A book is written to share knowledge, but the author has to acquire knowledge first. The knowledge I needed existed in the hearts of musicians and listeners. I learnt with humility that there wasn’t a big difference between taking and giving. The second realisation was that it was impossible to explain the cultural history of a state without an understanding of its music. Any writing about music without this understanding is half-hearted. To understand literature, we need to gain an understanding of music, theatre and cinema. Sculpture, cinema, theatre, painting, photography, literature and music share an umbilical cord connection.

Actors and singers of an earlier era have enjoyed affluence and fame, but when it comes to social status, it is a different story. So when I first contacted Amirbai’s family in Vijayapura in 2010, they didn’t show much interest in the book. Amnesia is often a boon. But they opened up when they saw I was sincere. I handed the manuscript to a member of the family and asked if they wanted anything removed. As much as I wanted to write about a cultural icon, I did not want to hurt the sentiments of her family. Once the book was published, I became a member of the family. I visited her relatives in Mumbai, and I got invitations to all the celebrations in her family circles. Writing a book means developing relationships with a multitude of people.

The Kannada chair at the Jawaharlal Nehru University published an English translation by CS Sarvamangala. Prashant Kulkarni translated it into Marathi, and Granthali Publications brought it out. The Marathi book got a rousing reception, and many musicians from Maharashtra got in touch with me. Some visited me in Hospet.

What it achieved

Among the many happy outcomes was the addition of Amirbai’s portrait to the gallery of pictures at Vidyavardhaka Sangha in Dharwad. A chapter became a part of the curriculum at the Women’s University in Vijayapura. The university also installed her statue on the campus. When we launched the book in the city, the scene was surreal. The hosts took a horse-drawn chariot to the Ibrahim Roza Khabrastan, where Amirbai is laid to rest. They placed her portrait in the carriage, and took out a procession all the way to the venue, named after her contemporary Hanamantharao Kandagal. Ibrahim II, an Adil Shahi ruler from Vijayapura, was a music lover. He had built a city called Navarasapura, dedicated to music education. I knew about it because of my research interest in the history of the region. My connections with Vijayapura grew exponentially after I wrote the book. Born in Chikkamagaluru district, I studied in Shivamogga and Mysuru, but the music lovers of Vijayapura have embraced me as one of
their own.

Place in history

In my estimation, Amirbai was one of the pioneering singers in Indian films. She was great as Noor Jahan, who sang some of the most memorable songs of that era. After Noor Jahan migrated to Pakistan, Lata Mangeshkar rose on the horizon. Amirbai acted in a few films, but she was a singer at heart, and her performances did no justice to her true talent. She lived in luxury in a rented bungalow in Mumbai. She had bought a house in Bijapur from a British officer.

When I began writing the book, my wife Banu found it intriguing that I had stopped reading, and had switched to listening to music all night. She was also a little apprehensive about her husband chasing the story of an actress. She joined me in my field work, and watched the films of Amirbai and Goharbai with me. When she heard about the tragedy of Amirbai’s personal life, and the misery she had experienced at the hands of her first husband, she was moist-eyed. Despite all the odds, Amirbai had built a theatre in Vijayapura, and this made Banu proud. The book brought us closer.

(Translated from Kannada by S R Ramakrishna)

Her songs
In Kannada
Baa baa bayasida banasiri (Chandrahasa, 1947)
Olidare mana haay (Aasha Niraasha, 1954)
Ninnanu neneyuta ratriya kalede
Madhuvanadali nalidaaduva baa
Vaari nota nodi malla maadidanavva
Hogona nammoora jatrige

In Hindi
Raate thi chandni (Mere Sajan, 1941)
Ab tere siva kaun mera (Kismet, 1943)
Dheere dheere aa re baadal (Kismet, 1943)
MIlke bichad gaye ankiya (Ratan, 1944)
Ud jaoon re mein (Amrapali, 1945)
Hame kya patha tha (Shehnai, 1947)