Music of the sun

Music of the sun
Krishnakali’s warm songs bask in the sun, voyage to the earth and caress our hearts and souls, writes Faizul Khan Tanim photos by Andrew Biraj

What are intimate songs? By definition they are tunes, voices, and words that your very soul recognizes and that you can identify with your own self. In a sense, all songs are intimate and personal. There is a song for every mood and moment of your life; each strikes a different chord and expresses a particular thought or emotion to the world.

And then there are songs like those of Krishnakali’s, which are purely, insanely, intensely intimate. Songs that are truly candid efforts to objectify those thoughts. There is no embarrassment or shyness in representing oneself, just pure honesty, as honest as sunlight.

Krishnakali is quite a bold and outspoken person, but also camera shy. She titled her album Shurje Badhi Basha (nesting in the sun) and it is a very personal album. She says, ‘It speaks of personal experiences from the different phases of my life and as well as things that girls like me went through’.

To me, this album deserves a 10 out of 10 album, a compilation of songs that only comes along once in a blue moon. The songs are very simple and easy to listen to, but added to the uncomplicated words, tunes and vocals and a hundred and ten percent effort of, ‘simplicity’ takes on a new meaning and becomes an ode of magnificence.

Although simple, the compositions have pleasantly surprising instrumental elements, for example the opening of Ichheymoton or the finish of Hotath Rod. Ornob has done a magnificent job arranging all the tracks.

Her usual deep, atmospheric, calm and often wild-appeal vocals captured the very essence of rivers of rhythm — a fulfilling ambience where her singing compliments the instrumental arrangement rather than vice versa. It seems that one layer of her vocal work became a harmonised performance — a sense of filling and completeness in each song.

The lyrics, written by Krishnakali, draw from her own life experiences and are enormously uplifting. Though some were induced by severe depression, they seem to dwell in a utopian realm and each song tells a tale of its own.

When she performed her first track, ‘Dubi Dubi’ live at the album launch, she said it was for her daughter. However, the first verse of that song goes, ‘Aaj jhor bhalobasha, anande bheshe jawa...Dubi Dubi, bheshe uthi’ for many who lives on full-of-atmosphere songs, it was that sinking and rising feeling!

Again, while listening to ‘Hotath Rodh’, try thinking of your beloved. The song is not only very humble but the lyrics are so moving that it literally brings on goose bumps from ecstatic feelings. The words boldly declare, ‘Hotath ekta rodh hoye jao, ekta rodh hoye jao…amar gaa chuye jao.’

It isn’t just Krishnakali’s efforts on this album that ought to be complimented — her six-year-old daughter Amritanjoli Sreshtheshori did the artwork displayed on the cover of the album. Ever since the release of this compilation on April 15, the songs have not left my play list and I do not know when they will!

======================A profile by Sanam Amin===========================

Sunlight and soulful singing

Singing newcomer Krishnakali, whose first album, ‘Shurje Badhi Basha’ came out on Pahela Baishakh, talks to Sanam Amin about her music, being a carefree tomboy in Khulna and who the best singer she knows is

Though her mother was a government college teacher, and her childhood home in Khulna was filled with books, singer Krishnakali claims to be ‘completely uneducated.’

‘My only good quality is that I’m honest,’ she says. ‘I don’t lie. Apart from that, I only have bad qualities.’ This, of course, is despite the influence of her mother, who in her old age became a pathological flower thief.

Sitting in her compact apartment, dressed in the same vibrant orange used for the cover artwork of ‘Shurje Badhi Basha’, she shares her earliest memory of her mother.

‘Every morning at dawn, for as long as I can remember, my mother went for a walk outdoors and plucked fresh flowers. It didn’t matter what kind of flowers as long as they were fragrant. She’d pick a few of whatever she could find and bring them home. We invariably find them on the table after we got up.

‘In later years, after moving to Dhaka in 2000, my mother continued taking morning walks and bringing home flowers. The only difference was she was stealing them from the science laboratory nursery. I couldn’t talk her into stopping.’

Her six-year-old daughter, Amritanjali, hardly improved matters but rather encouraged her grandmother’s flower-stealing habits by making floral necklaces every day.

Dedicated to her mother, Krishnakali’s debut album, ‘Shurje Badhi Basha,’ was launched on Pahela Baishakh. The songs are written and composed by her as well, with the musical arrangement being done by musician and Bengal Music Company CEO Ornob. She described Ornob as ‘talented and communicative’ and appreciates that he did not try change around her songs too much, though most people who heard them thought they were too depressing and needed to be more upbeat.

She jokingly says that ‘had I known what would have come out of launching an album, I wouldn’t have done it. Cameras and pens look like weapons to me now.’ Though a self-claimed former tomboy, she is extremely uncomfortable in front of cameras. ‘I just don’t know what to do, how to look. I stiffen up.’

She says that depression did contribute to her music, and making her songs more cheerful would be unnatural and untrue to what she feels and who she is. ‘Hot-hath rode,’ one of the songs on this album, was written as an effort to jar herself out of severe depression. ‘It’s like when you have mud or dirt stuck to something,’ Krishnakali explains. ‘You just try to shake the dirt off. That song was the act of shaking, freeing myself of those negative feelings.’

The title of the album comes from Krishnakali’s mother Meherun Nessa’s explanation of what happens after death. ‘She told me that when people die, they become stars. And when I asked her what would happen to her when she died, she said she would become the sun.’


‘We were a broken family, and so, growing up, me and my brother were extremely sensitive. Bangali social values are stupid, they centre on saris, jewellery, land—material things. School life was hard for me in the sense that children in my own class would ask demeaning questions about my home life and why my parents didn’t live together, why I knew little of my father.’

‘My mother was an introvert, and she had a painful life. I wanted to do this album for her. When she died last December I stopped singing, I couldn’t go on. But then I realised that I should try end this self-destructive cycle, because it can only do damage, not just to me, but to my daughter as well. If I don’t end it here she will only learn it from me and it’ll keep going.’

‘Parents always make sacrifices for their children. It’s God’s commandment. Although, when my daughter turns eighteen, it ends there. We can go our own separate ways, she can choose her path and I’ll finally follow my own.’

She says she had no female friends while growing up in Khulna, quite simply because there weren’t any. She had all male friends and had a lot of freedom as far as spending time outside home was concerned. When she moved to Dhaka in 1996 in high-spirited protest, she found it difficult to adjust and learn how to deal with the mundane details of everyday life. ‘Renting a house, dealing with the landlord, dealing with the neighbour of the opposite house—these things were new to me, and I wasn’t sure how to behave.’

‘We’ve got a shortage of glasses in this house,’ Krishnakali laughed, ‘because I keep throwing and breaking things when I’m angry. Anything I can find, I break to pieces. It’s a bad habit; I admire people with self-control who can contain their anger instead of being so destructive.’

Although her contract with Bengal Music Company is for three albums, Krishnakali says she has no idea when her next one will appear. ‘If it happens, it happens,’ she says humorously. ‘Maybe it will, maybe it won’t.’

She is fond of classical music, old Bangla songs as well as some Bryan Adams, Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan and the Beatles, whom she describes as ‘revolutionary’. She finds Bangla cinema songs to be irritating though, and sees much of contemporary Bangla music as rather formulaic. Her mother taught her to sing at the age of three, but Krishnakali says it would have been better to start later, because the voice is not really developed enough to sing until the age of seven or so. Her daughter Amritanjali is the best singer she knows. ‘She’s a much better singer than her mother,’ she laughs, pulling her daughter into her lap and hugging her hard.

Amritanjali is not just a precocious singer but an artist as well. The sun image on the album cover was her work. Asked what inspired her to draw the picture, she has a very simple answer. ‘My mother told me to. And I used orange and yellow and light yellow.’

*This article was first published on the Glitz magazine of Daily New Age April 26 2007