A R Rahman: The Faking of Mozart

What he said and what he left unsaid in his Oscar acceptance speech

Rahman called up long time collaborator lyricist Mehboob, and said, ‘Listen man, I need to dedicate a song to amma. It’s long overdue. Even the vadas are getting soggy bottom at lunch. You need to help me on this one macha.’ Mehboob followed the conversation with a nod.

Back at home, Kareema Begum was watching television, when a video from the film Indian distracted her, The song was, ‘Telephone dhun mein hasne waali, Melbourne macchli machalne waali.’ She clicked her tongue in distaste.

‘Enna da,’ she blurted to a heavily pregnant Saira, ‘What is this fish talking business, I hope he is not inspired by your giggling in the house.’ Saira couldn’t care what mother-in-law thought, she knew if she tried to crack a smile her belly would try to breathe as well, and she did not have any more room for elasticity. Her humour was in short supply at the moment.

‘My son needs rest, look at the filth he is churning out these days, this is not music, fish curry.’ Kareema fumed. ‘Amma,’ Saira acknowledged, ‘You should tell him to stop.’ Kareema, satisfied that Saira understood what she meant, fussed further on her way to the kitchen where the pressure cooker had whistled for her attention. She came back to Saira with a quarter plate of thinly sliced unripe mangoes sprinkled with malaga podi, ‘Here you go, you need some indulgence.’

Rahman was caught in a rut. It had been five years since Roja and he was taking on all of the projects that came his way, churning mediocrity in the name of music. None were pleased, least of all Rahman himself who knew that if he delivered one hit in the name of his mother, he would be back on track. He stared at his mother’s smiling portrait hung in his recording room.

At an awards show Rahman met Bharat Bala and confessed his need for a bail-out. It was perfect timing. Bala asked him to re-jig Vande Mataram as India’s 50 years of Independence was close and it would befit both the nation and his mother.

In January 1997, on the 27th day of Ramzan, Rahman, who has a notorious reputation for working in the wee hours, descended into his musical lair built under the now deserted street at Kodambakkam.

Rahman believed that at 2am, when he composed the first two verses of Maa Tujhe Salaam, angels had opened the gates of heaven and a cosmic light had filtered into his studio and answered his prayers. His mother’s portrait shone in the divine light. Mehboob wrote additional words, Bala conceived a music video on a mammoth scale and Sony Music was quick to herald the music sensation of Asia.

Kareema Begum with Rahman.

During the filming of the video, Rahman suggested to Bala that in order to give a thrust to the tempo of the song, he would stomp his feet in defiant declaration when the phrase ‘ma ma tujhe salaam’ came about in the lyrics. Bala thought it didn’t go with the fluid style of the video but gave in. When the part came where Rahman screeches ‘ma ma tujhe salaam,’ he head-banged his curly locks, stomped like a mini-stallion, and threw up his short arms like a manic circus clown. Bala was convinced of Rahman’s superlative acting skills. The shot was canned in one take.

Saira had been bribed by Rahman to tell Amma that what Rahman was actually singing in the video was ‘amma tujhe salaam’ after the phrase ‘ma ma tujhe salaam’ was repeated. Rahman thought Saira’s word would do the trick.

Kareema, who was beginning to get tone deaf, not particularly due to her son’s cacophonic music, didn’t really buy the con each time the video played on television when Saira would tug at her Chettinad saree tucked in the traditional pinkosu style and tell her how her son had jubilantly included ‘amma’ in the national song to pay tribute to her. ‘What cheek, comparing me to mother India!’ Kareema would chuckle back to her chores, careful to not reveal too much of her unbridled joy.

Such was the impact of the Vande Mataram album that Rahman was flooded with work from as far as Japan and Finland and with his inspiration Michael Jackson. There was no looking back since, not even for mother’s advice.

Twelve years later at the Oscars ceremony, when Rahman was tongue-tied receiving his trophies, the best he could come up with in his acceptance speech was ‘Mere paas Maa hai.’

Saira clucked, “He should have said, Mere paas Amma hai.”

The world was watching.

Kareema, draped in a lustrous red and gold Kanjeevaram, sitting in the audience with Saira, nudged her and smiled, ‘Oh, my favourite child.’

Both mother and son had reached an impasse. It was time to hug and turn around.

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