When the world was ours

In the subcontinent, the black-and-white 1950s are worth harkening back to

The 1950s is viewed with a fond nostalgia among the older white men in the West. To many, that decade, before the long-haired hippies, uppity peoples of colour, and women who forgot their traditional place in the society, was the last time the social order was good and proper. 

To many others, the 1950s was also a time of steady jobs and pay rises for working class men in the West, who happened to be disproportionately white. In both narratives, women and ethnic minorities are absent. 

Women and minorities are, of course, not quite as nostalgic about that decade. Harkening back to the 1950s is, essentially, a reactionary impulse in the West.

In the subcontinent, the 1950s is largely forgotten. But watching black and white songs from that decade, one wonders whether we could do with a bit of nostalgia. And unlike in the West, this nostalgia would very much be liberal and pluralist in nature.

The 1950s was the first decade of freedom, after two centuries of British rule, in our part of the world. India was creating the world’s largest democracy. The democratic experience had yet to end in Pakistan. Both countries had avoided economic calamities, and while there was grinding poverty, neither had suffered from the famines that befell the land every few years throughout. The horrors of partition were still fresh, but the animosity between the countries were yet to harden, and hopes of reconciliation were very much in the air. 

Hopeful is the vibe of one of the most well-known songs of that time -- Mera juta hai Japani, voiced by Mukesh to Raj Kapoor’s screen portrayal in 1955’s Shri 420. Kapoor plays a newcomer to Bombay, from Allahabad (home of Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister), and is tempted into a life of corruption by the greedy businessman Seth Sonachand Dharmanand and the vamp Maya. He is saved by Vidya, played by the inimitable Nargis.

The choice between the illusion (maya) of gold (sona) and false religion (dharma) and education (vidya) could well have come from one of those books Nehru had written in jail before freedom. 

Of course, Mukesh-Kapoor affirms in the song that while open to the world -- pairs of Japanese shoes (this was a time when Japan made cheap labour-intensive stuff, much like Bangladesh today) and English trousers, and a Red Russian hat -- the heart remains firmly Indian for all that: Phir bhi dil hai Hindustani. 

The newly independent India’s place in the world is more explicitly articulated by Mohammed Rafi in Hum laaye hai toofan se kashti nikal se (We have sailed the boat safely through the storm), where the refrain is, Is desh ko rakhna mere bachchon sambhaal ke (Keep this land safe, my children). The world is endangered by the atom bomb, and the children are warned about the traps and temptations of the world. 

It’s from a 1954 coming-of-age tale called Jagriti, which was a remake of the Bengali movie Paribartan (1949), and itself was further remade (possibly without copyright attribution) in Pakistan as Bedardi (1956). Hemanta Mukherjee composed the music for the Indian movie, while the music composer in Pakistan was a Bengali named Robin Ghosh, and Noel Dias sang the song. The same child actor, Ratan Kumar / Syed Nazir Ali acted in both movies. 

There are, of course, telling differences between the songs. In the Pakistani version, children are asked to keep the mulk (instead of desh) safe. And the Indian song refers to Bapu (Mahatma Gandhi) while the Pakistani one pays respect to Quaid (MA Jinnah). Not to mention that the Pakistani version ends with a call of arms to hoist the crescent flag in Kashmir. But both movies unmistakably capture the spirit of the two relatively new countries.

It wasn’t just the Pakistanis who were “inspired” by their neighbours, of course. Arguably the most famous Urdu songs of all time were bettered by Abdul Hayee, better known as Sahir Ludhianvi. 

The songs I refer to are Muhammad Iqbal’s Tarana-e-Hind and Tarana-e-Milli. The poet-philosopher of Pakistan had composed the first song in 1904. A paean to India -- which is claimed to be better than the world (sare jahan se accha) -- the song is still sung by every school child there.

In Pakistan, it’s the pan-Islamic reformulation that is better known. In this version, Iqbal claims China, Arab, India, indeed the world was as home -- Muslim hain hum, watan hai, sara jahan hamara (We are Muslims, the world is our homeland). 

Both versions of Iqbal’s song are usually played with martial fervour. But the chest thumping is replaced with a playful, relaxed tune by Khayyam for the 1958 redemption drama Phir Subha Hogi. Sahir subverts Iqbal’s lyrics with biting social commentary -- rehneko ghar nahi hain, sara jahan hamara (No home to stay in, the whole world is ours).  

Along with SD Burman, Sahir was also part of arguably the greatest Bollywood soundtrack ever -- that of the 1957 Guru Dutt drama Pyaasa. This is a noticeably darker movie than the Kapoor ones. But even this has a defiantly positive ending, in the sense that the hero leaves the world of fame, fortune, and perfidy to start a new life with a courtesan. 

During his first visit to the red-light district, seeing that Hawwa ki beti and Radha ki beti (daughters of Eve and Radha) are crying out for help, Dutt (that is, Rafi) asks: Jinhe naaz hai Hind par woh kahan hai (Where are those who are proud of India)?

That is not a hopeful song by any means. And when one listens to it, one can’t help but despair about what would happen to anyone questioning the nationalist propagandas of India-Pakistan-Bangladesh today. 

In the subcontinent, the black-and-white 1950s are worth harkening back to, as even in its bleak form it was a brighter time than our blighted technocolour present.

First published in the Dhaka Tribune. This is the third in a series marking the 75th anniversary of the end of the Raj.