Ustad Tafoo called me to his studio in the busy, narrow lanes of Allama Iqbal Town near Moon Market in Lahore.
Steep staircases led to the recording studio on the second floor of a dim marble-tiled building, a newer construction among the old eateries — chargha anyone? — and small stores, tuck shops and tyre shops in the crowded neighbourhood. I’m somewhat surprised that a man his age can climb up and down these stairs with agility.
He remarks “Mujhe maaloom tha aap seerrheyon ke baare main kuch kahein gi [I knew you were going to say something about the stairs].”
Altaf ‘Tafoo’ Hussain Khan’s studio, like the locale outside, is cramped. I am seated first in the recording studio where the mixing and recording takes place and served fresh orange juice in a pitcher. “Especially got the kid to get it for you,” says my host.
The studio can easily be a seedy place, it is filled only with men, who go around Tafoo in reverence, saying salaam or taking leave etc from the ustad.
Tafoo speaks very frankly and I get a little wary that he might be the sort of man with whom conversation might turn lewd any minute. He is, after all, the music director behind some of Punjabi film music’s most vulgar songs. Dark-complexioned, stocky in build, sweater stretched over his pot belly and muffler around his neck, he has wisps of jet black hair combed over to one side.
He has to go to the loo before we begin the conversation. He returns zipping his fly up and pulling his sweater down in front of me. I’m again left wondering if I should have brought my male fixer with me and not been so independent-minded as to wander into Moon Market and shady buildings alone.
The man is as casual around female company as he is frank. Showing me around the studio, he opens the door to another small room where the musicians stay the night if they have to work late. It is just unmade bedsheets spread out untidily on the carpet and some pillows.
For the interview, he leads me to a ‘bedroom’. There’s nothing but a big bed there. And a door that opens out into a small balcony.
Tafoo Khan is a phenomenon, both as a tabla player and as a composer of numerous hit Pakistani film songs. But he is also slowly fading into obscurity, though he might not want to admit it.
Icon caught up with him in his studio in Lahore to talk to him about his life and times with the legendary Madam Noor Jehan.
Tafoo goes around one side and plops down on the bed, reclining against the headboard, stretching his stocky legs, clad in jeans, out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. He asks me to sit comfortably also, “upar ho kar, tek laga lein [sit up, put your back against the headboard].”
If it gets out of hand, I’ll just cut the interview short, I think to myself.
I take the opposite corner at the foot of the bed and sit with my feet on the floor, twisting around slightly to face him.
But, really, nothing awkward takes place after that. Neither in conversation with him nor in his behaviour. The man narrates his stories to me candidly, but always peppered with the reminders that the information he has, nobody else can offer me.
A man who seems to be very comfortable giving interviews, even if he’s half-lying in bed in front of a woman who, in retrospect, didn’t give much thought to dressing appropriately for a visit to Allama Iqbal Town. Or maybe a man really looking forward to the occasion of being interviewed.
He’s a mix of strains of classical tradition overtaken by ’70s Punjabi folk and pop frenzy and that is the era he really seems to fit in. When plastic was cool and ubiquitous. And audio cassettes were all the rage, Punjabi songs blaring from trucks and qawwali and pop played on car decks. Tafoo could tie a colourful scarf around his neck retro ’60s style and pull off the look even now.
And celluloid is what affixed Tafoo’s career as a music director of Pakistani films and fame, rather than being a distinguished tabla maestro who composes music, allegedly only to carry on the tradition of classical music. “My phuppi-zaad bhai [paternal cousin] was a musician, Master Inayat Hussain. Ibtida he inhon ne ki [He is the one who began everything],” he tells me.
He was destined for great things. After a career spanning nearly 50 years, perhaps it wasn’t just self-delusion for him to repeat a prophecy made about him in his early childhood. Tafoo tells me his artistry was recognised by a powerhouse of film and music industry when he was still just a child. And in the future his career was to be closely associated with the benefactress who held him in her lap when he was a child of about eight years.