I first heard about Shillong Chamber Choir in 2007. I got a call from the Ministry of External Affairs, who wanted me to make a documentary on them. So, I started listening to their music and went there to figure out the film and the man, Neil Nongkynrih. Because it wasn’t the choir it became post-2010 – when they won India’s Got Talent – and even though they had performed around the world, in Poland, Switzerland and Austria, they were not on the national scene. They were a boutique choir, and they only had an audio tape. What I found in Shillong was a very interesting man who – when he came to India after being a concert pianist in Europe for 13 years – had gotten so tired that he returned to almost heal.
He started giving tuitions – on one end there were elite kids and on the other, there were children whose fathers were alcoholics or drug addicts, or were poor or disabled, and they started getting attracted to his music. That was music for Neil when I met him: it can help everybody, it can make a difference in people’s lives. There was a mix of reasons for why he was doing what he was doing. At one level, there was the perfectionist Neil – who had been around the world; knew what was right, what was wrong; knew how to present yourself – and on the other, there was a guy whose work had a deep religious tone. I found these reasons striking; they painted the picture of a thinking, suffering, searching artist.
Neil Nongkynrih with members of the Shillong Chamber Choir. Photo: Special arrangement
When I met Neil – and this is my conjecture – his focus was much more on music than religion, even though he was deeply religious. Music not in some abstract sense but music that was performed. Music that people liked singing, music that people liked listening to. If it was a good song, they would sing, and it didn’t matter if it was in Khasi or Mozart or Pehla Nasha. There were three pianos in the house, and any kid could walk in and start practicing. Parents would come with their children and say, “Keep him with you.” And the rule was that if you were visiting him, you had to carry food for everybody. Because Neil wasn’t working in a day job and even though he was performing, there was no big money coming in. The most charming part was that everyone came, and everyone brought food. People sent rations; they came with cakes and cookies.
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He also brought performance rules to the choir. These were kids from Shillong, who had not been exposed to the outer world. In 2007, there was one TV in the house that nobody watched. But he would make them line up and tell them the international rules of performance: from where they stood to how they looked. I remember Neil once saying, “I can’t just wear a black coat, it needs to have some shine, otherwise I’ll just look like a blob of black on screen.” He had a strong control over the image of his music. When I was making the documentary, for instance, Neil was so worried that I’d get it all wrong – as it’s difficult to shoot live music with two cameras and then match it – that he insisted on watching the edit before the film was out.
There were individuals within the government who listened to his music. The Ministry of External Affairs probably came to know about the group through visas and invitations. A choir not just singing religious hymns but also singing Mozart, a choir that was secular. They found it interesting and important – that this is also an India we must project.
I also remember him as an amazing storyteller. In the evening, he’d tell ghost stories to the kids with all the sound effects – modulating his voice from soft to loud, from facial expressions to stretching a moment; he was an unbelievable performer. If you looked at Neil you wouldn’t get the impression that he was someone so clued into the dynamics, the mechanics, of the performance. I remember him talking about some places not letting him perform: Why are you singing Mozart? Mozart is not what a choir sings.
And he was guarded. As I understood at the time, he was going through a grieving period. I don’t know why, but he did mention it a couple of times. I met him when he was trying to make sense of it all; it was a pause time. He was poised to do something more, to push it forward, but he didn’t know at that time how he would go, because he was completely against doing television appearances. Neil was in a certain sense, like almost every artist, guarded to not talk about specific personal issues, but using and acknowledging his own state of mind into his art.
He was very confident about his music, and what he could do with it. Especially in a place like Shillong, where kids had the feeling that ‘we’re not from the city’ – or from a small town in the central provinces of the country. Neil would tell them, “Don’t think we’re not good enough because we’re from the northeast. Stand proud, don’t look at the window and sing. We’re talented; we make good music.” He inculcated in them the perfection of performance he had learnt himself. He wanted to be a part of the conversation. Yet he was extremely cautious to not make little heroes and stars out of them, because he wanted the choir to matter.
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We also need to understand that Neil, or his choir, wasn’t a fluke. He must have created a system that would carry his legacy. Because at a later stage it couldn’t just have been Neil doing everything. More people had participated; many kids had grown up. When I met him last before the lockdown, his fundamental relationship with children, a mix of a mentor and an elder brother, hadn’t changed. I’m sure what Neil has taught them has seeped in, and the kids will continue to make a big name for themselves even after he has gone.
Urmi Juvekar has written films including Oye Lucky, Lucky Oye and I AM, both winners of The National Award for best films, and has made documentaries. Her documentary, Shillong Chamber Choir and the Little Home School, was shown at IDFA (Amsterdam) in 2008.
As told to Tanul Thakur.
