When He Sang Mere Sapnon Ki Rani

75-year-old guitarist Clarence Peterson, who was associated with Jagjit Singh for 40 years, remembers his friend

I first met Jagjit when he wasn’t Jagjit Singh, the great ghazal singer. It was 1969 and he was just a man looking for a music group that he could take to East Africa on a musical tour. He had dropped by the office of Kalyanji-Anandji, where I used to work at the time. He asked me, “Clarence, I have a sponsor who wants to take a musical group to Africa. Can you get one ready?” I was a bit flustered, but since I was a singer, I jumped at the opportunity. After the group had been made, he looked at me and asked me with a perplexed grin, “But what I am going to do in this group? What will I sing?” I made him sing Mere Sapnon Ki Rani with strict instructions, “Shake and dance, don’t stand all serious on stage.”

That tour must have been an eye-opener for him, because once we came back, he decided he was going to sing alone. He thought being part of an orchestra was humbug. He started writing and recorded his first album, The Unforgettables, soon after. It became a huge hit. I remember going with him to London’s Royal Albert Hall. His hard work had paid off. Soon, I had started working full time with Jagjit. I had worked with Talat Aziz and Penaaz Masani before, and I was one of the first guitarists on stage. And working with Jagjit was a different experience because he was a genius. He had the most melodious voice ever and a great ear for music. Maybe that’s why even though he was very jolly, he could be strict as well. He could hear a wrong note on stage amid all the noise, and he would say it right there. But later, he would forget about who had made a mistake and we would all be friends again.

And we were friends, despite the fact that I was working for him. We were brothers. I remember going for an America tour early during his career, and telling him, “Don’t pay me at all. Just buy me a house when I get back. I have got married and I need a house.” He came back and promptly bought me a house in Chembur. He went there personally and made a payment of Rs 20,000, which was a big amount in those days. I did eventually pay him back, but there was no pressure. Both he and Chitra came over for the housewarming, and I can still see his proud smile when he said, “Peter, is this the same house? How nicely you have done it up.”

After his son’s death in 1990, he stopped singing for a year. And he would have never started singing if people hadn’t urged him on. And even though Chitra never sang again, Jagjit decided to go on. I think he understood that the ‘show must go on’. And when he sang on stage, though he was unhappy and sad, he seemed happy. He liked entertaining people. But he was perpetually sad after Vivek died, and never wanted to talk about it. He kept it all inside him. 

He was a man with a big heart. I had a small misunderstanding with him in 1981 and stopped working with him. I started playing for Pankaj Udhas. But when I needed help, I turned to Jagjit. I wanted to make an album, as I was a composer as well. I had done the music for a movie called Aahat, and wanted to do it again. I went to his house and Chitra opened the door and said, “Look who is here. It’s Pritam Singh. The Bada Shaeb is here.” He used to call me Pritam and I never called him Jagjit, only Maharaj! I saw Jagjit emerge from the bathroom with just a towel on, and he was so happy to see me. He asked me “Tell me, what do you want?” He sent me to many music companies, but I guess my fate didn’t want me to become a music composer. But he told me later, “You come work with me, play with me.” I knew he already had a guitar player but he insisted, “No. You play with me.” And he gave me dates for five gigs right there and then. That’s how big his heart was.

The last show I played with him was at Nehru Centre in Worli on 16 September. He was well and fine. There was nothing wrong with him. It was one of the rare concerts that even Chitra had come for. He was signing autographs, smiling, cracking jokes. But just before the next show with Ghulam Ali on 23 September, his secretary called and said it had been cancelled. Later, we heard he had had a heart attack and then a brain haemorrhage. We tried seeing him in the hospital but no one was allowed in. We just sat worried outside his room, waiting for news. Everyone seemed distraught but we all had our hopes up. How could a healthy man just die suddenly? 

I still can’t believe he is gone—because if that’s the truth, then everything in my life is now in the past. He made my life and gave me a house. If he ever said anything harsh to me, I heard it from one ear and took it out the other. He never ever held a grudge and never ignored any of the people working with him. He would secretly help everyone with money or any other issue. Without him, it was possible that I would have eventually gone back to Lucknow, where I worked in the Indian Railways, and I would have never ever seen the world. I think it was in my fate to meet him and roam the world—even if I didn’t become famous. I will never work with anyone else now, because there is no one like Jagjit. I am happy taking tuition classes and earning my living through that. Now, whenever I am alone, I will think of him—singing his immortal songs—and I will know that all that I had in life was because of him. Without him, life isn’t life anymore. 

(As told to Aastha Atray Banan)

About The Author

Clarence Peterson