Behind Rafi’s enduring magic

In his 100^th year, the question: Just how good a singer was he?

Alok Tiwari

Forty-five years ago, this day, Mohammed Rafi left this world. In his centenary year, his influence goes on like the limitless expanse of blue sky. There was a time when it felt the tech-modulated new sounds may obscure the golden age of Hindi film music. Strangely though, technology has not only helped preserve that legacy but also enabled its revival. Old music, old songs, old singers— Rafi prominently among them— are riding something of a second wind. There are channels and websites devoted to him and his songs. Fans dutifully chronicle anecdotes from his life, even if their veracity sometimes seems doubtful.

Explanations have been around for almost as much time as his songs. Reams have been written about his versatility and range, the emotions he brought out, his flawless Hindi-Urdu pronunciation. Lyricist Javed Akhtar called Rafi the original playback singer, the first to realize that his songs are not his own but of character on screen. Fans are never tired of pointing out how he incorporated the mannerism of each actor of his time.

Even at the expense of annoying the fans, I think this is not quite true. Our familiarity with actors and Rafi’s astounding range make it appear so but I doubt in a true blind test anyone would be able to tell that a song was meant for a particular actor. What Rafi did was to tailor his voice and style to the character and the situation. In this way he was more of a voice actor than a singer. Before him, and largely after him too, the songs remained firmly of the singer.

Rafi’s songs belonged to the character to such an extent that composers did not hesitate in featuring his voice over multiple characters in the same movie. It was not uncommon for the male lead, supporting actor, the comic, and a mendicant to lip-sync to his songs within two and half hours with nothing feeling amiss. Rafi had the ability to infuse the unique emotions and style for each one. In his heydays he ran a virtual singing superstore. The music directors never needed to go elsewhere.

Rafi did follow the old style for a while. But he figured out his USP early and shook up the staid world Hindi film music, filling it with unheard of verve and energy. In a newborn nation, composers were eager to experiment, and his voice provided a perfect vehicle to them. His romantic numbers dripped with honey and sad ones overflowed with pathos. He could go overboard in fun songs and bring out goosebumps in philosophical ones. The ease and emotions came through in fast-paced rhythmic numbers influenced by western music and in tough classical-based ones that tested the limits of his talent.

Rafi dominated the male playback singing for nearly two decades, really coming into his own in 60s. This when there were at least six other contemporary male singers who were legends in their own right. They all had their unique flavours and place, but none came close to Rafi. His was the go-to voice for two generations of actors and not just the lead ones. And this was with a voice that defied classification. It was not soft and tremulous like Talat’s nor silky like Hemant’s, nor nasal like Mukesh’s. It was not the vibrant baritone of Kishore and did not have fluid sharpness of Manna Dey. It was a standard-issue male voice that could belong to anyone. Rafi infused it with such genius that many are moved to call it the voice of God.

If a modern parallel is to be drawn, his singing was akin to Roger Federer’s tennis. Others could get past him on occasions, but none had the x-factor, that undefinable something, that turned the craft sublime and had you asking, ‘what did he just do there?’ Like Federer’s game, Rafi’s songs appealed to casual listeners as well as to connoisseurs, they had artistry and technical perfection. He was a unique combination of supreme talent and extraordinary hard work. This came through often in even run-of-the-mill numbers.

A singing superstar, Rafi remained a famously modest, even diffident personality. For a man with close to 5,500 recorded songs, it is tough to find even 30 minutes of his spoken words. There is a 10-minute BBC radio interview from the 70s in which the interviewer ties himself in knots trying to get Rafi talking largely in vain. Yet, this shy man with thick Punjabi accent found such panache in front of the microphone that you wondered if it was the same person.

He was also a quintessentially studio singer. Rafi did live shows across India and around the world and a couple of albums of those sold well. Yet, unlike Kishore, Rafi the performer was not a patch on Rafi the singer. Though fans still lapped it up, he rarely attained the same fluidity and ease on stage as he did in the confines of a studio, probably a result of his reticent nature. On stage too, he rarely spoke, just sang.

Rafi’s domination was challenged in 1969 with arrival of Rajesh Khanna and RD Burman on the scene. That saw Kishore Kumar claim the crown that had been his. It speaks to his stature though that even in his leanest patch, Rafi averaged more than a hit per month, something a top singer of any time would be proud of. He did reinvent himself in mid-70s adopting a more robust tone. Rafi became the voice of Rishi Kapoor and several younger actors. Amid this comeback, he was taken away young, just at 56, leaving his fans wondering what if he had had a more normal lifespan? Would he have continued to make himself relevant with new music like Asha Bhosale? Would he have taken to singing commercials and theme songs for TV series, like Mahendra Kapoor? Or just faded into background like Talat and Manna Dey? We will never know.

This column appeared in Lokmat Times on July 31, 2025