Ronnie’s salute to Ramesh Hassan
Ronnie Govender, the recipient of the Order of Ikhamanga, the highest national honour in the arts, penned a tribute to his friend, popular entertainer Ramesh Hassan, who died recently.
IFIRST came upon Ramesh Hassan quite by accident at a wedding of a friend’s daughter. A brash, smartly dressed, hip young man stepped up to the mic with a Colgate smile guaranteed to have the young ladies swooning. “OMG,” I told myself, “not another Bollywood wannabe!”
I was in for a pleasant surprise – the voice was silky smooth, but his handling wrought new life from the syrupy lyrics and, if you will pardon the “Americanese”, “he soon had the joint jumpin’ ”.
I told myself this is the guy I want for the role of the narrator in my musical take-off of apartheid’s collaborators – Rajbansi, Poovalingum, Reverend Hendrickse and the rest of that pathetic bunch.
Ramesh’s immediate reaction was to baulk at my offer, not because he was scared of the Security Police given the political nature of the script.
He had a mind of his own and did not give a hoot for “these mutha fx&#*@%!”
“But Mr Govender, I’m a singer not an actor,” he said.
“That’s precisely why I want you for the role.”
He looked at me querulously. No time for long discussions – both of us were in a hurry, so I said: “Tell you what, pal, I’ll drop off a script. You read it and we’ll have a chat. No compulsions.”
The long and the short of it was that I convinced him to consider the offer, pointing out the factors that were in his favour, his stage presence acquired from many appearances at concerts and weddings, his great voice, the exciting way he handled staid lyrics and a natural sense of timing.
What was missing in the stuff he had been doing were the elements that lift entertainment, no matter how slick, from mere titillation to the genuinely artistic – originality, context and empathy – which were among the things we had set out, as the aims of the Shah Theatre Academy, two decades before.
The state had poured lots of cash into air-time, posters and breyani to market their sham elections for the Tricameral Parliament, which were aimed at drawing Indians and coloureds into the increasingly besieged white laager. The spoof took its title Off-Side! from the fact that Rajbansi had been a professional soccer referee.
Students went house to house in concerted NIC campaigning, with some singing the chorus from the spoof. The show was structured so that it was even staged in tents and in the open, playing to thousands. The cast comprised Ramesh, Solly Pillay, Essop Khan, Mohamed Ali and Bashnee Naidoo.
Despite his initial hesitancy, Ramesh was a quick, enthusiastic learner who would call me late into the night to explain parts of the script.
The script required singing the narration and the chorus in English, to the tune of the vibrant quawali, Damathem Mustikalander.
Playing the baja and backed by the throbbing, enervating rhythm of the dholak, by his pal Ossie, and not withstanding the seriousness of the topic, Ramesh soon had the joint jumpin’, with the audience clapping and singing along, They are the ones/ The moment’s men/Who believe, would have us believe/ That they are the men of the moment.
The upshot after NIC campaigning with students going house to house, was that while the breyani was whacked, the Indian community returned a poll of under 4%, the lowest for any such Bantustan poll. Ramesh called me after the poll results were announced, saying: “Ron, I’m so glad that no matter how small, we were part of showing the middle finger to these ous. Thanks for giving me the chance.”
Sometime down the line, after his devoted first wife, Kay, passed on, Ramesh and his charming second wife, Razia, who also backed him solidly, set up a clothing shop in Lesotho.
Ramesh continued to call me just to “shoot the breeze” and to ask me for assistance with the lyrics for new songs he was composing.
I was then CEO of the Playhouse and couldn’t respond to his many invites to visit him. One day he phoned me, saying: “Ron, there’s a ticket to Lesotho in your name at the airport. You can either use it or tear it up!” Typical Ramesh Hassan.
The upshot was that I didn’t tear it up and, despite my busy schedule, I hopped on the plane. Over a cup of coffee in his case, and a shot of scotch in mine, at the Lesotho Sun Hotel, he said: “You know, Ron, the arts don’t pay the rent, that’s why I am in business. There’s a saying in Urdu, if you haven’t got money your own dog won’t bite you!”
I told myself that’s it! And that’s how the musical comedy by that name was born, with Ramesh writing and orchestrating the musical score.
The show was a knock out but I noticed that the lyrics are constantly being played over the radio. I told him once, over dinner after Razia had served us some of her terrific lamb curry and roti at their Chatsworth home: “Ramesh you know I own the copyright on the show’s lyrics. I don’t mind not receiving royalties or even the courtesy of mentioning the show for which they were written, but I do mind that you aren’t receiving the royalties for these and other songs of yours.”
Ramesh’s reaction was: “Ron I’m just happy my music is bringing happiness to so many people! That’s what I live for.”
Typical Ramesh Hassan. An artist till the end.
Go well into that great blue yonder my buddy, I shall miss your phone calls and, together with your huge fan base, that charming ready smile and your foot-tapping compositions.