On returning from a trip abroad sometime in the 1960s, Shammi Kapoor gave a listen to a song recorded for him by Mohd Rafi and was astounded by how the singer had captured his verve and andaaz to the last detail. “I asked him how he did it. Rafi saab smilingly said, ‘I imagined this is how Shammi would jump or roll or lift his hand or shake his leg or head, and sang accordingly,” the filmstar told TOI in 2010, a few months before he passed away.

It was this ability to infuse an extra dimension to any song – courting duets, farewell ballads, boisterous qawwalis, immersive devotionals, up-tempo folk, soft ghazals, complex classicals, naughty nightclub numbers – that made Rafi the most popular and versatile male playback singer of the 1950s and ’60s. He could even yodel; just listen to Unse rippi tippi ho gayee (film: 'Agra Road', 1957). Shringar, karuna, hasya, roudra, veera – his voice could effortlessly express each rasa (emotion).

On his 100th birth anniversary, it’s evident that Rafi’s popularity is undiminished. On every digital music platform and online video portal, Rafi playlists abound. There are adoring fans in the unlikeliest of places and a Rafi clone in every small-town orchestra.

But talking to those who shared both the recording booth and stage with him, one realises that their indelible memories are as much tied to Rafi, the singer, as Rafi, the man. And they run out of adjectives in describing his humility, nobility and gentleness. As singer Sudha Malhotra says, “He was perfect in everything.”

Singer Usha Timothy remembers how he made her relax during the recording of her first duet, Tu raat khadi thhi chhat pe (film: 'Himalay Ki God Mein', 1965). “Kalyanji [Anandji’s composer half] told me, ‘Jamm ke gaana, aapke saamne sher hai. [Sing with gusto, you are facing a tiger].’ I was a teenager, got nervous and fumbled during the recording. But when ‘saab’ (as she refers to Rafi) came to know why, he immediately put me at ease with his gentle talk.”

Other singers, too, acknowledge his human touch. Malhotra talks of Naa To Karvaan Ki Talash Hai and Yeh Ishq Ishq Hai, two iconic qawwalis from the film, ‘Barsaat Ki Raat’ (1960). “He was very encouraging and made me feel like I know everything and am singing very well,” says Malhotra. The qawwalis had multiple singers with Manna Dey, Asha Bhosle and S D Batish also joining in.

Rafi didn’t have any pretensions. Preeti Sagar remembers recording for comedian Mohan Choti’s film, ‘Dhoti, Lota aur Chaupati’ (1975), when a musician said something in English that Rafi couldn’t comprehend. “When the guy went away, he just asked me, ‘What's he saying?’. He didn't feel embarrassed asking me. He didn’t pretend to understand. Everyone knows he was an extraordinary singer. But he was also an honest soul. He never behaved big or flaunted his seniority. He was very affectionate, just wonderful.”

Another incident showcases his professional and benevolent side. In 2010, music director Khayyam told TOI that during the recording of the poignant Jaane kya dhoondti hain (film: 'Shola Aur Shabnam', 1961), Rafi had a 102-degree fever. “But he was worried about the producer’s losses and we went ahead with the recording. Despite the fever, nobody could have sung it better.”

Rafi captivated listeners home and abroad. Timothy, who toured worldwide with Rafi as part of a musical troupe, recalls a show in Tokyo for a mostly Japanese audience that didn’t know Hindi or Urdu. “We wondered how they would react. But when he started singing, Madhuban mein Radhika naache (film: 'Kohinoor', 1960), there was all-round applause. The announcer later told him, ‘We just love listening to your voice, even though we don’t understand the words. His voice had that kind of taseer [effect],” she says.

Born in Kotla Sultan Singh village, about 20km from Amritsar, Rafi left for Lahore when he was 12 to assist his elder brother, who ran a barber shop. But as Sujata Dev writes in the neatly-detailed biography, ‘Mohammed Rafi: Golden Voice of The Silver Screen’, he was obsessed with music. In a radio interview, Rafi named the peerless K L Saigal, Vidya Nath Seth and Pankaj Mullick as singers who had influenced him.

The biography also recounts how Rafi, still a teenager, was “giving a shave to a customer” and singing when he was heard by chance by Jiwan Lal Mattoo, All India Radio’s Lahore programme executive. Impressed, Mattoo offered him an audition in 1943, which he passed easily.

A year later, he left for Bombay with mentor Hameed, a friend of his brother Deen, to try his luck in films. “The ’40s tested Rafi’s tenacity and desire to become a successful singer,” writes Dev.

Male playback was a crowded place those days with Mukesh, Manna Dey, Kishore Kumar, Talat Mehmmod, Hemant Kumar – all masters in the making – jostling for space on the podium. Rafi rose to the top in the 1950s and stayed there for most of the 1960s, as Binaca Geetmala records show, when the Kishore Kumar reign began.

Rafi’s success spawned a generation of singers influenced by his voice and style to a greater or lesser degree. Anwar, Shabbir Kumar, Mohd Aziz, Jaspal Singh, Sonu Nigam being some of the notable ones. “Whatever I am, my name, my livelihood, it’s because of him. Woh mere rom rom mein baste hain. [He’s in the breath of my being],” says Baroda-born Shabbir.

“His voice made us aware of every twist in life, of every season that comes and goes. Every song he sang was complete from the adayegi to expression. He wasn’t just singing songs; if you listen carefully, he was also acting and choreographing them. Some actors are remembered only for what Rafi saab sang for them,” says Shabbir.

Jaspal says Rafi could sing in any octave and it made no difference to his voice. “His throw of words remained matchless,” says the singer, who still regrets that the only song he recorded with Rafi was for an incomplete film, ‘Sarhad’. Adds Timothy, “For him, singing wasn’t a profession, but a form of prayer.”

Rafi stormed back to prominence with ‘Laila Majnu’ (1976) and kept the momentum up in ‘Hum Kisi Se Kum Nahin’ (1977) and ‘Sargam’ (1979). The untimely end came following a heart attack in 1980. He was 55. Mukesh and Kishore Kumar, too, died in their 50s.

Over the decades, Rafi fans have carried out campaigns and online petitions demanding the Bharat Ratna for him. In his lifetime, he had only received the Padma Shri. But it’s undeniable that across the globe Mohammed Rafi remains Bharat’s Ratna.