"Ae Baad-e-Saba Aahista Chal, Yahaan Soyi Hui Hai Anaarakali.
Aankhon Me Jalawe Saleem Ke Liye, Khoyi Hui Hai Anaarakali.
Hai Shaheed-E-Ishq Ka Maqbara, Zara Chal Adab Se Yahaan Hawa.
Tujhe Yaad Ho Ke Na Yaad Ho, Mujhe Yaad Hai Us Ka Maajhara."
(Oh zephyr, move slow, Anarkali is asleep here.
In the fantasies of Salim, Anarkali is lost here.
This is the tomb of the martyr of love,
Please move around respectfully here oh breeze.
You may perhaps not remember, but I do remember her woeful tale.)
When I listen to these words, I instantly remember my dad's first stereo player -- a National Panasonic model -- with huge round steel-framed speakers, which he bought in Jodhpur and carried with him long after his retirement from the Air Force. I also remember the cassette cover of Anarkali -- Salim looking over a sleeping Anarkali even as Akbar loomed large over them. The cassette doubled with the songs of Nagin.
They were a part of my childhood, my growing up. However, it was a long long time before I could give the poignant character Anarkali a face. Till then, I had to depend on some of the most enchanting songs ever of Hindi cinema. Like:
"Yeh Zindagi Usiki Hai, Joh Kisi Ka Ho Gaya, Pyar Hi Mein Kho Gaya"
or
"Mujhse Mat Pooch Mere Ishq Mein Kya Rakha Hai"
or
"Wafaaon Ka Majboor Daaman Bichaakar,
Dua Kar Gham-e-Dil, Khuda Se Dua Kar
Tu Aakar Gham-e-Dil, Khuda Se Dua Kar"
Of course, Lataji had to be the voice behind. Otherwise it would have been incomplete.
Then one day -- long after the triumphant march of TV -- I caught a glimpse of Anarkali. In the soft light of ancient cinematography, with a deliberate, naughty slant of the lips and lifting of an eyebrow, Beena Rai, with a single curl of hair dangling tantalisingly on her side forehead, completed my picture of the legendary Mughal courtesan who dared to challenge the might of Akbar only for her love.
I never followed up on her. Beena Rai never caught my imagination as a Sadhana or Waheeda Rehman did. Yet, she kept coming back to me, through Anarkali and through my grandmother's ruminations about her youthful days with my grandpa (The rascals used to watch three movies a day -- morning, matinee and night show -- at cinemas during holidays!!!).
But there was something Rai that I couldn't let go of her association with Anarkali. Even after the irresistable Madhubala took on the mantle (and how!) through K Asif's Mughal-e-Azam and Naushad-Lata's "Pyar Kiya To Darna Kya".
I couldn't forget the way she sang:
"Dhadak Raha Hai Dil To Kya, Dil Ki Dhadkane Gin.
Phir Kahaan Yeh Fursaten, Phir Kahaan Yeh Raat Din."
even as a mesmerised Pradeep Kumar held a bunch of grapes to her lips.
Even in black and white and degenerating film quality -- and of course also considering my young age -- I couldn't help but fall in love with Anarkali a.k.a. Beena Rai.
Today when I read about her passing away, I see an era of (at least perceived) beauty, creativity, passion and innocence passing by. When I see my grandma reminiscing about her dream honeymoon that lasted close to 40 years, I rue the fact that I was not born 60 years ago, when I could have perhaps enjoyed the little joys of life – like watching Beena Rai on the silver screen -- much more fully.
RIP Beena Rai.
