if that makes sense: knowing nazia
by nooresahar / instalment 001 of her column ‘if that makes sense’ (!!!)
I first encountered Nazia Hassan’s music when, after spending a winter in Pakistan as a young teenager bashfully clapping along to songs at wedding celebrations that I didn’t know the words to, I was determined to brush up on my knowledge of Desi music. Relatives provided me with a list of some popular songs, and one of them was Hassan’s ‘Aankhein Milaney Waaley’, whose playful lyrics and fun tune made it a favourite of mine. Over the years, my knowledge of Nazia’s life and music became only slightly less rudimentary; upon discovering some of her music on Spotify, I realised that she had mostly made music with her brother Zoheb. My dad filled me in on the popularity of her music in the 1980s, the tragedy of her early death, and the fact that he once saw her on a train in London and got her autograph. This was not much to go on, and when I began to be a bigger fan of her music in the last year, I decided to find out more about her. Interviews, documentaries, articles and music videos of which she was the subject revealed a musical career that was more revolutionary that I had originally realised, and a personality which was more discreet than I had expected.
The story of Nazia Hassan’s career, one that triggered a musical revolution in South Asia, began when she was scouted by actor-director Feroz Khan who wanted her to audition for a standalone pop song, which he was hoping would accompany his upcoming film Qurbani (1980). The film and music industries in South Asia have almost always existed in a symbiotic relationship: to this day, ‘filmi’ music makes up 72% of the music sales market in India. Back when Qurbani was released, aside from some folk or classical music, filmi music reigned over the industry uncontested.
Aap jaisa koi meri zindagi mein aaye / Toh baat ban jaaye
Khan was unwittingly orchestrating the creation of a new genre, set to dominate the industry. He had enlisted producer and composer Biddu, who had achieved success outside of India by becoming one of the first disco producers of the 1970s (you might recognise his work from the song ‘Kung Fu Fighting’, which he produced). Despite being a young and relatively inexperienced singer, Nazia’s talent impressed Biddu, and she was enlisted to sing the pop song ‘Aap Jaisa Koi’ (‘Someone Like You’).
To the modern listener, ‘Aap Jaisa Koi’ is a fun, disco-inspired song with a simple enough sentiment:
Aap jaisa koi meri zindagi mein aaye / Toh baat ban jaaye
(If someone like you were to enter my life / Then it would be amazing)
But for a listener in 1980, the song was refreshingly original; new in style, pitch, and sound. ‘Aap Jaisa Koi’ helped Qurbani reach blockbuster status, and the song went Platinum in seven months, a record for the Indian music industry at the time. The song made Hassan, aged just fifteen at the time, the youngest ever recipient for the Filmfare Award for Best Female Playback Singer, and today it is a cult classic.
The earliest recorded video of Hassan was taken around this time. It is hard to believe that the girl in this grainy black-and-white video is going to dominate the music industry for the next decade. She comes across as a polite, slightly shy teenager, wide-eyed with her hair parted into two neat braids. She often looks down or at the interviewer intently, but giggles nervously at any slightly uncomfortable question. When the interviewer compliments her grace, Hassan sticks her tongue between her teeth and covers her face in embarrassment.
You could be forgiven for mistakenly thinking her unambitious; when asked if she would like to have training in dancing and singing to polish her skills, Hassan shrugs and smiles: “I don’t know. Um… Right now- right now I haven’t [had any training]. And right now I have school, so I don’t have that much time to… maybe after school or college I’ll learn, but not right now.” When asked if she has had offers to act in films, Hassan says yes. When asked if she has accepted these roles, Hassan says no.
Nazia and Zoheb Hassan seemed the perfect artists for this generation.
It would become clear, however, that Hassan did not need extra training or an acting role to secure her position as a cultural icon. Just a year after the release of ‘Aap Jaisa Koi’, Biddu, Hassan, and her younger brother Zoheb would team up to make an album: Disco Deewane. Released on the singer’s 16th birthday in 1981, it was the first pop album to come out of South Asia, and was welcomed with open arms by the younger generation. A growing middle class in India with more disposable income to spend on music, combined with emergent diasporas established in various countries around the world, had meant South Asians were experiencing an increased exposure to ‘Western’ artists and music genres such as disco or pop. Still interested, however, in maintaining their own cultural roots, Nazia and Zoheb Hassan seemed the perfect artists for this generation; the debut album charted in fourteen countries worldwide and became the best-selling Asian pop record to date. In India, it sold 100,000 records within a day of its release in Mumbai alone, going Platinum in just three weeks, and Double-Platinum soon after. It experienced success among the South Asian diaspora in Canada, the UK, the US, and the West Indies. It was the first South Asian pop album to top charts in Brazil, as well as becoming a hit in Russia, South Africa, the Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia and Latin America.
Nazia and Zoheb, a now famous duo, were thus embarking on their innovative musical career. They worked on several film soundtracks together, but their non-soundtrack albums were just as, if not more, successful. In 1984, they released another album titled Young Tarang — my own personal favourite. My feelings for this album are, I imagine, quite similar to those of the diaspora kids who identified with Hassan’s music 30 years ago. The simplicity and accessibility of the lyrics, the fusion of cultures taking place in both the production and sound of the songs, and their overall catchiness and whimsicality, combine to make the album an easy favourite. The ten tracks make up a strong and cohesive body of work, ranging from buoyant tracks like ‘Pyaar ka Jadoo’ (‘The Magic of Love’) or ‘Dum Dum Dee Dee’, to more aching ballads like ‘Chehra’ (‘Visage’). At the time of its release, it was yet another rousing success for Nazia and Zoheb, further cementing their position as the first pop stars of South Asia and selling over 40 million copies worldwide. The Hassan siblings also decided to release music videos alongside the album; as the first South Asian album to do so, it proved to be yet another trailblazing move.
My feelings for this album are, I imagine, quite similar to those of the diaspora kids who identified with Hassan’s music 30 years ago.
The music videos are simple, with shots and effects that seem now to be marks of an amateur production, but they are indicative of the leap that Nazia and Zoheb were taking. Of the seven music videos, some of them are uneventful: for their song ‘Dosti’ (‘Friendship’), Nazia and Zoheb skip down a street in matching white outfits, singing about the value of friendship. For her song ‘Sunn’ (‘Listen’), a soft slow ballad, Nazia picks her way through a field in a yellow shalwar kameez, presumably looking for her lover as she sings:
Sunn, mere Mehboob sunn / Mere saanson se sun / Mere geeton ki dhun / Tu hai kahan
(Listen, my love, listen / You can hear it in the breaths that I take / The melody of my songs / Where are you?)
Other videos are more elaborate, such as the one that accompanied ‘Aankhein Milaney Waalein’ (‘The one who meets my eye’), probably Hassan’s most enduring music video. In it, she wears a pink, puffy dress as she slowly travels down a staircase, holding a masquerade mask to her eyes as she looks down at a crowd of faces, a spotlight on one man as she entreats:
Ankhein milaanay waalay / dil ko churaanei waalay / mujkho bhulaana nahin
(“The one who meets my eye / The one who steals my heart / Do not forget me”).
The camera moves to a close up shot of her face as she croons the famous bridge:
Mein jawaan / Mein haseen / Mere pas kya nahin?
(“I’m young / I’m beautiful / What don’t I possess?”)
After a series of daydreams, wherein Nazia sits down to dinner with the object of her affection, or dances around the room slowly with him, the video ends with her carrying a bouquet of flowers from an unknown sender back upstairs alone, the camera panning to the abandoned mask for the final frame.
Young Tarang was marked by a flurry of innovative activity, as seen in the creation of those music videos and the world tour that followed the album, which served to strengthen the duo’s fanbase. In the interviews I found from the following years, the latter half of the 1980s, Nazia had reached peak stardom, and it feels as though the interviewers are speaking on the behalf of a public who is anxious to get to know her. Though older and more comfortable, Hassan is hardly any more revealing than she was in her first television appearance. When asked in a 1988 interview about where she is nowadays, she replies, “Well, right now, I’m in this programme.” The interviewer presses her to answer properly: “When you’re not here, where are you?” Nazia smiles and concedes; she is in London, studying Law. In truth, Hassan was spending many busy years dividing her time between London, where she was studying, and Pakistan, where she would use the summers to work on her music. Such endeavours were still proving fruitful; Nazia and Zoheb released their fourth album, Hotline, in 1987. By the end of 1980s, however, it was apparent that Hassan was interested in taking her career in a new direction.
Nazia had reached peak stardom, and it feels as though the interviewers are speaking on the behalf of a public who is anxious to get to know her.
In 1992, after the release of their final album Camera Camera, Nazia announced that she was leaving music - for good. She had become increasingly interested in social activism, and was involved in organisations such as Voice of Women and the National Youth Organisation in Pakistan. She helped in the introduction of mobile clinics in Lyari Town, which made medicine more accessible, and turned her attention towards helping young people and women in the underprivileged areas of her hometown, Karachi. Her educational pursuits also progressed, and in 1994 she moved to New York, where she became a political analyst for the UN.
Five years later, Hassan would return to television screens with a short interview. It became clear to me as I watched it that in a handful of years, she had experienced numerous life-altering events. Further research revealed that she had had a secret struggle with cancer in 1994, followed by a marriage organised by her family in 1995. Though it would not be apparent to them or the public for some years, the marriage was a miserable match for Hassan. In 1997, she had happily welcomed the birth of her baby boy, but soon after found out that the cancer had returned.
In the interview, when asked about her feelings about her past music career, Nazia is positive: “Zoheb and I… we were very lucky, we worked very hard with our music, but at the same time, you know, I think the kind of reaction we got, and the kind of appreciation we got, it’s very rare.” She hints, though, that navigating the industry as two teenagers unaware of contracts, copyrights and royalties was not all plain sailing. The interviewer asks if this means they got badly ripped off. “Oh, yeah, by everyone,” Nazia laughs.
She seems surprised that she has retained relevance in pop culture, surprised that when she gave up music her and her brother weren’t able to just “fade into the background”. There was, in fact, a staggering response from the public when they were made aware that Nazia was suffering from cancer. Ultimately, despite her proclivity to privacy, she is grateful to have received such an outpouring of love: “I’m a firm believer in God, [...] And I’m telling you, I mean it sounds cliche to say, but it is the prayers that help. [...] The outpouring of prayers that I’ve had, are really what’s saved me [...] I can’t thank people enough.”
The interviewer asks if they got badly ripped off. “Oh, yeah, by everyone,” Nazia laughs.
When asked about the future, Hassan says she is intent on enjoying the present. “I think you can worry too much about the future — worry too much about dying, worry too much about… you know, what if the disease gets worse and blah blah blah and all of that. But I think what’s important to do is to be as positive as you can be, and […] I cherish every day.” She talks about her love for her family, and her face lights up when mentioning her son, “a two-year-old monster”. She is sitting her bar exams, she wants to go back to school, she is toying with the idea of a new album. The new album, in fact, is something that people ask her about every day, “Eventually, you know, we might do something. But at the moment my main [...] goal, if you like, is just really to get better…I want to fight this battle first, and then go on and do other things.”
It would be her last interview. Just a year later, on the 13th August 2000, months after seeking a divorce from her husband, Nazia Hassan succumbed to cancer, aged just 35. In the years following her demise, it was Zoheb who would reveal that there were many aspects of Nazia’s life that she did not make apparent to her closest family, let alone the public. This included social work she was doing, which she informed her brother of when she was dying, to make sure it would be continued after her death. But there were also many personal struggles that the singer decided to face alone. These ranged from navigating a male-dominated industry as a young woman, to the stresses of an unhappy marriage, to the struggles of battling serious illness.
The fun, light-hearted imagery and sound of her music is thus difficult to reconcile with the knowledge that this deeply private individual led a complex and fraught personal life. Over twenty years after her demise, Nazia is known for the music she released which for many became the soundtrack to the 1980s, and the pathway she created for countless South Asian artists to explore new genres and establish themselves as musicians independent of the film industry. She is remembered for her activism, which revealed a gentle character concerned for the plight of others. Yet, even with all that I now know about her, when I think of Nazia Hassan some of the first images that resurface are those music videos from Young Tarang. Skipping arm-in-arm with her brother, picking her way through a field and singing about love, sitting alone in that pink, puffy dress and asking the all-important question: she is young, she is beautiful. What does she not possess?
