Category Archives: Phillums

Agent Vinod

In which we review a movie, talk about some others and generally waste time and ticket money

Agent Vinod

For those of you who came in late (hmpfh!) or have forgotten who I am (sniffle!) — I love bad, cheesy, campy, tacky, kitschy Hindi movies. I belong to that tribe of thinglings who has watched the original 1977 Agent Vinod. Not the by-accident, innocent-kid-in-the-clutches-of-Doordarshan type of watched. But hunted and tracked down DVD and watched. Yes, we are very pro-choice, whattodo. Anyhoo, the Bollywood spy-thriller genre is very special to me. Rajesh Khanna in The Train (1970), Jeetu in Farz (1967) and Raksha (1981) (both Agent 116 movies, and the latter a hidden treasure by R D Burman), Jeetu again in Bond 303 (1985) (another undiscovered Pancham treasure) and of course, Mithun and Agent Gopi/Gunmaster-G9 in Surakksha (1979) and Wardat (1981), two movies that deserve a separate series dedicated to them. Interestingly, all of these movies, except Bond 303, are directed by Ravikant Nagaich, the God of Hindi spy movies. Ooh, that’s who I wanna write about! But as Shammi Kapoor says in Manoranjan, woh kissa phir kabhi.

Agent Vinod. Truly, madly, deeply, this is a movie that deserves a review and how! Heck, I knew I was gonna write one before I saw the film even. But alas. Such a mind-effing number has this movie done on me, that even I, with all my articulation skills (koi shaq?), cannot do justice to it. So instead all I have are bullet-point observations. (Yep, the usage of the phrase bullet-point in the review of a trigger-happy spy movie is intentional. Let’s move on now.)

For those of you who care, there are spoilers. Although, if I were you, I would not care.

  • Dr Metla. Now what is with this dude?! He punctuates the movie every 14.3 minutes to smile weirdly and say — Hello. I am here. I exist. I am the only recurring character in the movie who has absolutely no explanation for being there, but let that not even remotely lead you to believe that I am the surprise bad guy. Of course not.
  • Speaking of recurring characters — just needed to clarify something about the Farrah Fawcett babe. She was put there to a) establish that Agent-saab is not Bond and therefore doesn’t sleep around with the women he rescues and b) to have her show up at the appropriate moment at a high-profile high-security wedding and wave her dainty hand and say — ye mere saath hain, so just like that the gun-toting security guards let Saif and Kareena in with no background checks required. Yes? Good. Just making sure.
  • Did anyone keep track of the fact that Agent Vinod was captured in every single country he entered? And sometimes even twice? Some spy that. And yet, nobody ever thinks to maybe, um, kill him?
  • Movie has a camel named Zilleh whose owner is Prem Chopra no less. And yet no background song jile le jile le aayo aayo zilleh le? Talk about a missed opportunity.
  • Props for casting B P Singh, creator of the TV series CID, as Vinod’s boss. Yes, he looks like a dork in an ill-fitting suit, but considering that CID and its over-the-top ACP Pradyuman are to TV what spy movies are to Hindi cinema (well, sort of), it was a nice lil bit of inside-joke happy for me! Also for casting Ram Kapoor. I love this guy, I don’t know why. He shows up on screen and I smile. All two hundred fifty pounds of him. Sigh.
  • Doctor Kareena points to the RIGHT and says, snifflingly — yahaan LEFT mein mera ghar hua karta thha. And I thought I was the only one who got her left and right confused. I should have been a doctor too! Damn.
  • What is with that mujra? What’s Kareena wearing? Did you know they still do hand-gajras in Hindi film mujras? (I rhymed!) Is that song only in place so the audience can have some girl-on-girl action? Okay then.
  • Dude is flying helicopter with a nuke on it, so he can crash it in an unused copper mine. Calls girlfriend one last time. Girlfriend informs him that she’s gonna die as well. Why? Oh, I have been shot. What?? Yes, I have TWO bullets to the liver. Please note. Not — I have been shot. Not — I have been shot in the liver. No. I have been shot and I have precisely two bullets in my liver. Two hours, twenty two minutes, and two hundred twenty two characters later, we have suddenly decided that the beauty of the damn movie shall lie in the detail. (Booty is in the tail!)

But after all this, one must say, one had fun. Its silly, crazy, mindless and noisy, but then that’s exactly what one expects going into a movie like this. Sriram Raghavan does action well, keeping scenes tight and his love for cinema shines through (although Johnny Gaddar (2007) made that kinda obvious already.) There is also much to be said for Raghavan’s awesome use of background score in the film, which ranges from the regular to the unusual. The only romantic number in the film is interestingly picturized as a background to a shootout in a brothel. But sabse maximum happiness for me, came in seeing both my gods — R D Burman and Ilayaraaja — being paid homage to in the background score! O meri jaan maine kahaa from The Train (1970) and rakamma kaiyathattu from Thalapathi (1991). Sigh! For that alone, one is willing to forgive a lot. Oh one must not forget — special mention is to be made of Pritam’s acknowledged inspiration/lift from Boney M.’s Rasputin as being awesomely bum-shaking. But most of Boney M. is likely to get that reaction out of me.

Super-spy movies are about the infallibility of the spy. You know he’s gonna make it, no suspense there. But how he’s gonna get there and how much fun he’s gonna have getting there, is why we watch them. Agent Vinod is a movie full of people, action, locations and adventure. Also, loopholes and stupidities. None of which are deal-breakers. However, somewhere along the way, it gets too full of itself. And that’s where it falters. Taking oneself too seriously is always trouble.

True of life. Even truer of Hindi spy movies.

Why Al Gore prefers 70s Bollywood

In which we provide an illustrative tutorial on song and dance routines in Hindi films.

Alright. Gather around peoples. It’s time to get on the soapbox.

Every time I see someone use the phrase running-around-trees to refer to current Bollywood song-and-dance routines, I get annoyed. Yes, Bollywood is escapist and unreal. But news flash. We do NOT run around trees. Not anymore. They stopped doing that, circa 1992. They’ve chopped up all the trees and replaced them with ostentatious sets that resemble space-age metropolises. (Or ostentatious red and gold, stained-glass sets if you go the Bhansali way.) Even the sarson ke khet loving Yash Chopra productions have retired their gaggle of giggly sahelis and instead prefer to feature hotties on the beaches of Sydney and Rio.

Now for those of you who don’t understand words, we have a simple illustrative example of song-and-dance routines in Bollywood, then and now. First Exhibit A, from 1970.

Running around trees

As you can see above, the 70s were a time when trees served many a purpose in Hindi films —

  • To run around and sing songs.
  • To hide behind and (presumably) kiss.
  • To fill up background space when you didn’t have the budget to hire backup dancers. (Standard formula used — one banyan tree = 5.2 apsaraa girls.)
  • For hero to hide behind, while chasing the villain with a gun containing a single bullet. (The hero being twice the width of the tree is of scant significance.)
  • To sway menacingly to warn the audience of the storm (figurative and literal) that is soon to strike the hero-heroine. (A device used excessively in ghost stories just before villain puts buri nazar on heroine, kills her, and leaves her bhatakti aatmaa to torment audiences for rest of movie.)
  • To topple over onto an obviously-fake miniature house to indicate a natural calamity of choice (earthquakes and floods being most popular) thus separating the hero and his family, only to have them be united in the end, after singing the ubiquitous family song. (For all of you who scoff at the idea — exactly how many of you have a pre-determined group song as part of your family contingency plan? Hah. I thought as much.)

Bottomline, trees were important in Hindi films and their importance in romance was no less. Without the tree, the hero had nowhere to trap the heroine so he could lean into her for a kiss. Without the tree, the heroine had nowhere to back into, before coyly giving in to the kiss. Without the tree, Jaya Bhaduri couldn’t annoyingly hide from Randhir Kapoor while singing main yahaan to his tum kahaan. Without the tree, Vyjayanthimala couldn’t hang off a branch, coyly swing her ghaghraa back and forth, and sing dil tadap tadap ke keh rahaa to Dilip Kumar. Well, you get the point. Trees — important.

Now we move on to Exhibit B. This is 2008. Notice. No trees. No nature. Just oodles of symbolism. Whoever said Hindi movies cannot be subtle?

No trees no running

So now you know. Movies of the 70s and 80s were more eco-friendly. And that is the convenient truth.

Gone baby gone

Every once in a while I like to remind my readers about my Gult conscience. First there was the childhood memory of Sobhan Babu. Then it was my conjecturing about why Gult porn doesn’t exist. But today, we come back to my first love — Chiru.

So the news around town, in an ironic instance of life imitating art, is that Chiru’s nineteen-year old daughter eloped and got married to her boyfriend of four years. Now, please note. Nineteen. Four years. Sigh. I feel like a grandmother. So anyhoo, this news should be of no consequence to anyone except the elopees and their distraught maa-baaps. But this is Chiru. In Andhra. So let us take a deep breath, let out an even deeper sigh, stick on a big honking red nose and jump right into the media circus that has ensued.

So the plan, apparently, went something like this (Do not try this at home without parental supervision) —

  • Tell folks at home that one is visiting some aunt/grandma types.
  • Meet up boyfriend at friendly neighborhood Arya Samaj mandir.
  • Marry. Take pheraas at breakneck speed like tail was on fire.
  • Take stock photos and videos with standard-issue pimply engineering college buddies in background.
  • Give TV interview telling the parents to shove it.

Simple really. And now Chiru fans around the world are irate at the girl and her naya-navela dulha for besmirching (I love that word) the fair name of their beloved star. Never mind that this is a family matter. The whole world and their neighbor has jumped in anyway and chosen to be angry about it. The boy’s Orkut profile has scraps threatening him and his friends (in exhaustingly bad language), his parents have gone into hiding and the girl has requested police protection for her hubby. Exciting stuff indeed.

Now, admittedly Chiru is a bit of a God for his fans. But the whole ‘how can you do this to your own parents?’ seems rich, no? It could just as easily apply the other way around. Is it really that ridiculous for a kid to revolt against her dad, especially if he had her pulled out of college and placed under house arrest? All this cos the guy was of a different caste? The only part of this whole thing that bothers me is her age. Nineteen (while legal) is admittedly a bit wet behind the ears. But that one issue apart, I don’t get what the big hoo-haa is.

The official comment from the family is that the Megastar is too distraught to comment. But they add that he has brought his dotty up with utmost freedom (must have been before the house arrest?) and some bad boy has led her astray. Total WTF stuff wonly.

Of course, what is truly ridiculous, is the haircut she’s sporting at her own wedding. But nobody wants to talk about that. Tsk.

ps .. Happy Durgashtami to all! (Happy Megha’s tummy to all too. But you don’t really care, do you now?)

One hundred sixteen moonlit nights

Cross-posted on Passion For Cinema. Plot spoilers ahead. Images courtesy Google image search and YouTube. All song titles are linked to their audio files on MusicIndiaOnline and will open in a new popup window using the MIO player. If you don’t like popups, don’t click on the links.

The 80s is often associated with all the things that went wrong with Hindi films. Messy action and violence, aging superstars singing innuendo-heavy songs, has-beens trying to be wannabes, noisy music, poofy hair accessories, Jackie Shroff — you name an embarrassment and there it was staring back at you, in all its 70mm glory.

But to be fair, the 80s didn’t start out that way. Musically speaking, at least. The early years saw soundtracks like Umrao Jaan (1981) and Bazaar (1982). And Silsila (1981). Or an Utsav (1984) even. But things soon went downhill. Subhash Ghai patronized Lakshmi-Pyare who made up for their dwindling quality with larger orchestras and more noise. Bappi Lahiri, who was a somewhat decent composer otherwise, chose to be the disco-baadshah. And even before you fully recovered from that, the production houses of the south discovered Bappi. And the world was never the same again.

Hindi film-goers were introduced to beaches with chorus girls going taathaiyyaa taathaiyyaa hooo, while strategic crane shots showed us ample pots interspersed with even more ample heroines, offering pyaar ka tohfaas to their himmatwaalaa hero — a safedii kii chamkaar, dhulaaii ka bhandaar Jeetendra, in all his blinding white glory. The beginning of the end had surely arrived.

However, Kalyanji-Anandji did give us some hope with Yudh (1985) and Jaanbaaz (1986), bringing to light the synth talents of a young Viju Shah, much before he made news with Tridev (1989). And Rajesh Roshan gave us Kaash (1987). But these were, as they say, chamaks in the kadhaai. Popular film music was already brushing its toe dangerously close to the bucket, by now.

But a discussion of Hindi film music of the 80s is incomplete without the mention of one person. Throughout the decade, he gave consistent and quality music. This man had seen glory days in the 70s and early 80s. Big production houses, major hits, the default choice for any star son launch .. he’d had it all. By the mid-80s though, his popularity had dwindled. Producers who once lined up outside his door labeled him a flop and avoided him. The films he did compose for, were mostly duds. Badly made movies that tanked, taking many a wonderful soundtrack down with them.

The year was 1987. Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak (1988), the movie that many credit with resurrecting Hindi film music, hadn’t arrived yet. The Tere Sar Ke Tukde Tukde Kar Ke Kutte Ko Khila Ke Uska Khoon Pee Jaoonga brand of movies were rampant. But in the middle of this mindlessness, came a tender film that brought together a sensitive filmmaker and his musician best friend, once again. Director Gulzar and music director Rahul Dev Burman who began their journey with Parichay (1972), and touched upon movies like Aandhi (1975), Khushboo (1975), Kinara (1977), Kitaab (1977), Angoor (1982) and Namkeen (1982), culminated their artistic relationship in a beautiful, complex and layered film — Ijaazat (1987).


On a rainy night, Mahen unexpectedly runs into his ex-wife Sudha at a railway station waiting room. Two people unwillingly thrown in each other’s company, compelled to revisit a part of their life they have chosen to forget. The relationship has changed, the rules have changed. And the past becomes an intangible third person in the room, much like Maya was in their life. But where is Maya now?

Using his trademark of weaving the past with the present, Gulzar takes us back and forth between the waiting room and their home in the past. (a home, that Mahen remarks, was much like a waiting room.) And the complexities start to unravel. Maya’s free-spiritedness, Sudha’s conflict between being supportive and being possessive, Mahen’s inability to get past his memories but still wanting to keep Sudha happy — the characters become relatable and their dilemmas become real. And as with most of life’s dilemmas, there are no simple answers, no easy solutions.

In a way, Ijaazat is a simple story about three people, two relationships and one night. But it derives its depth from its complex characterizations. Its strength lies in its screenplay and dialogues by Gulzar and its moody cinematography by Ashok Mehta. And in the strong performances of its three leads — Rekha, Naseeruddin Shah and Anuradha Patel.

And of course, in its music. Ijaazat is inarguably one of the finest of Pancham’s oeuvre. Four gorgeous solos, exquisitely crafted by RDB and lovingly sung by Asha with layered poetry by Gulzar that once again show the symbiotic relationship that the three shared. One realizes at such moments, that the whole sometimes is truly greater than the sum of its parts.


Chhotisii kahaanii se, baarishon ke paanii se, saarii vaadii bhar gayii .. sings Asha, as we follow a train’s journey through rain-drenched valleys and mist-covered mountains, while the titles roll. The music is so delightfully visual that one doesn’t need the lyrics to see the scene. The steady rhythm of the train, the sound of the rain slowing down to a drizzle, only to burst into a gleeful downpour once again, a waterfall that cascades grandly or a little brook that plays peek-a-boo .. the images are created by the music, but the on-screen visuals and the lyrics enhance the experience. Gulzar personifies the rain, making it dance lightly, using the clouds as stepping stones —

ruktii hai thhamtii hai, kabhii barastii hai
baadal pe paaon rakh ke, baarish machaltii hai ..


Pancham always claimed to not having an ear for poetry. Seeing the kind of magic he has created with Gulzar’s pen, one wonders if he was just being self-deprecatory. When Sudha sends back some of Maya’s belongings, Maya wants her memories back as well. A song whose lyrics Pancham jokingly described as akin to reading a newspaper. Asha’s voice languidly caresses every word, as she plaintively at times and retrospectively at other times, asks him to return the moments that they’ve shared. Meraa kuchh saamaan tumhaare paas padaa hai ..

meraa kuchh saamaan tumhaare paas padaa hai
saawan ke kuchh bheege bheege din rakhhe hain
aur mere ik khat mein liptii raat padii hai
vo raat bujhaa do
meraa vo saamaan lautaa do ..

ek sau solah chaand kii raatein, ek tumhaare kaandhe kaa til ..

What does that even mean? asked a friend. One hundred sixteen moonlit nights, and one sesame of onion, I replied. Wise friend has promised to never ask us to interpret Gulzar lyrics again. But perhaps it is a count of nights spent together? Or maybe a four month relationship? (One hundred sixteen moonlit nights would be one hundred twenty days minus the four amaavasyas?) White on black and black on white? Contrasts to indicate the gamut of emotions felt? With Gulzar, so many interpretations are possible. But whatever the intended meaning, the imagery is subtly sensual and so very beautiful.


Mahen and Sudha go on their honeymoon, to make a fresh start. Which sets the scene for the next song. Katraa katraa miltii hai, katraa katraa jeene do .. Pancham uses the twin track recording effect beautifully in this number, overlapping Asha’s highs and lows. The locales of Kudremukh form a gorgeous backdrop as Asha’s silken voice hit the high notes of pyaasii hoon main pyaasii rehne do. Her thirst for more is not a complaint. She knows she cannot have Mahen completely, but in her very longing for him, she tries to find happiness.

tumne to aakaash bichaayaa
mere nange pairon mein zameen hai
paake bhii tumhaarii aarzuu ho
shaayad aise zindagii haseen hai
aarzuu mein behne do
pyaasii hoon main pyaasii rehne do ..


But Sudha’s longing remains unfulfilled. Mahen is unable to remove Maya from his life and Sudha is tired of being patient. In these moments of despair, comes the fourth and final song of the movie, a ghazal. Khaalii haath shaam aayii hai, khaalii haath jayegii, aaj bhi na aaya koii, khaalii laut jayegii .. The pain in Asha’s voice is palpable as Sudha sits waiting in the darkness, watching the light come in through the slightly ajar door, a constant reminder that Mahen is not back ..

aaj bhii na aaye aansuu, aaj bhii na bhiige nainaa
aaj bhii ye korii rainaa, korii laut jaayegii ..

Memories are heavy baggage and burying them is the healthy thing to do. But will denying the existence of memories make them go away? Or is it better to embrace them? As Sudha remarks to Mahen, looking at the rain that refuses to stop — baras jaayegii to apne aap thham jayegii. Perhaps memories too are like that. They flood you for a while, but with time, they cease. Then again, memories get their well-deserved burial only at the end of one’s life. As Maya requests Mahen at the end of her letter —

ek ijaazat de do bas, jab isko dafnaauungi
main bhii vahii so jauungii .. main bhii vahii so jauungii ..

Debonair detectives and seductive Bharatanatyam dancers

Potential spoilers ahead. Images courtesy Google image search. All song titles are linked to their audio files on MusicIndiaOnline and will open in a new popup window using the MIO player. If you don’t like popups, don’t click on the links.

A boy and a girl are sharing a sweet, mushy moment. Let’s call them Dev and Gina for the sake of the story. He holds her hand, she blushes and pulls her hand away, giggling. This goes on for a while, seeing as neither of them is in a rush for the moment to end. Eventually, the girl overcomes her shyness and looks at him. Their eyes meet, and without the need for words, they signal their feelings to each other. But alas. At that instant, a giant gust of wind throws them into a spin, and when the dust settles, the boy finds himself in the middle of a vast expanse of desert. There’s no girl in sight. Just him and lots and lots of sand.

If this cinematic moment had to be captured in song, which one would it be? Aakhon hi aakhon mein ishaara ho gaya, baiThe baiThe Gine ka Sahara ho gaya .. Yes, all the gushing and blushing was just a distractionary tactic. I know, I know. I deserve to have heavy objects thrown at me. But to be fair, I did not make that one up. No really, I promise. Laung ke tel waala. It is an old-favorite that I learnt in my college days. (No, believe it or not, I did not go to school to learn PJs.) But it has withstood the test of time and continues to pull in the groans like few others can. Our movie today is much like that. An old favorite. But without the groans.


While Guru Dutt’s musical collaboration with S D Burman is unforgettable in Baazi (1951), Pyaasa (1957) and Kaagaz Ke Phool (1959), the trio of classics that came out of Dutt’s association with O P Nayyar, are no less memorable — as actor, producer and director in Aar Paar (1954) and Mr and Mrs 55 (1955) and as producer in CID (1956).

CID is often mentioned amongst the best of the black-and-whites of Bollywood. Produced by Dutt for his protegé and assistant Raj Khosla, CID came from a period of Hindi cinema that was heavily influenced by film noir of Hollywood. Shades of Dutt can surely be found in Khosla’s CID. The focus on the actor’s eyes, dramatic chiaroscuro lighting, wet roads at night, backlighting characters as they smoked .. all noir-isms that were Dutt trademarks. Another factor common to Dutt was V K Murthy, the brilliant cinematographer who was working with Dutt for the fifth film here and went on to film classics like Pyaasa (1957), Kaagaz Ke Phool (1959) and Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam (1962).

Khosla however, soon grew out of Dutt’s shadow and went on to be a versatile moviemaker of his times. He touched upon a variety of genres — romantic musicals like Ek Musafir Ek Hasina (1962), crime thrillers like Kaala Pani (1958), dacoit dramas like Mera Gaon Mera Desh (1971) and the unforgettable trilogy-of-sorts with Sadhna — Woh Kaun Thi (1964), Mera Saaya (1966) and Anita (1967). But CID remains what Khosla is most remembered for.

Waheeda Rehman in CID

While Aar Paar (1954) had Shyama as the heroine, Shakila is more remembered for her smaller vamp role. With CID, Shakila graduated to a heroine, but history repeated itself. A flamboyant Dev Anand, a glamorous Shakila, a sinister K N Singh, and Johnny Walker in fine comedic form, but the person who outshone them all in a brilliant debut as a vamp, was Waheeda Rehman. Singing kahin pe nigaahen kahin pe nishaana in Shamshad Begum‘s voice, she dances with her eyes and her feet as she seduces the audience and villain both, warning the hero of the impending danger and hinting at his escape route. In the room hangs a painting of a woman with long hair, behind which is a lever for a trap door. Through song, she tells him —

aaya shikaarii o panchhii tu sambhal jaa
ek jaal hai zulfon kaa tu chupke se nikal jaa
ud jaa O panchhi, shikaarii hai deewaanaa ..

The classically trained Waheeda started out in Telugu films (remember eruvaakaa saagaaloyi from Rojulu Marayi (1955)?), but after CID there was no looking back for her in Hindi cinema. CID also has the brilliant and incomparable Mehmood in his first role of significant length. As Sher Singh, the killer hired to bump off the newspaper editor, which in turn starts up the investigation that forms the plot of the film, Mehmood was finally noticed. And lastly, here’s a bit of fun trivia — most movie watchers are familiar with Jagdish Raj, the resident police inspector of more than a hundred movies. CID happens to be the *first* movie he played inspector in. Neat, eh?

By the time CID came around, O P Nayyar was a known name. First with Aar Paar (1954) and then Mr and Mrs 55 (1955), this ‘westernized’ composer had established that he was here to stay. He was a colorful personality outside of his music, as well. Obstinate about doing things his way and willing to make enemies for it.

CID is arguably one of OPN’s best, every song a memorable gem and a huge hit. Besides kahin pe nigahein, there is the perpetual Chitrahaar favorite, leke pehla pehla pyaar, a whopping six-antara song, that appears in two places in the movie. Asha Bhosle sings the first three antaras, picturized on a boo-hoo Shakila missing her Dev. But the last three antaras are the high point. Sung by Shamshad and Mohd Rafi and picturized on some street singers, with Dev walking behind Shakila with the express purpose of annoying her. She realizes of course, like every heroine before and after her, the futility of rebuffing the advances of a Hindi movie hero and breaks into a smile in the end. Just then Shamshad’s infectiously playful voice sings —

sun sun baatein terii gorii muskaaii re
aaii aaii dekho dekho aaii hansii aaii re ..

A much more charming version of the hansii to phansii concept, methinks. Then there’s the effervescent Geeta Dutt-Rafi duet aankhon hi aankhon mein ishaara ho gaya (and thus the perfect chance to reminisce about the PJ). Both songs have the OPN trademark of using identical interludes between the antaras. Shamshad’s chirpy boojh mera kya naam re starts off with a slow violin solo but breaks into glee soon after. And there’s the sensual Geeta sung jaata kahaan hai deewane, which doesn’t make an appearance in the movie, since the censor board found its lyrics to be too risqué!

Johnny Walker in ae dil hai mushkil

But think CID and the song that comes to mind more than any other, is the quintessential ode to Bombay immortalized by Johnny Walker on screen ae dil hai mushkil jeena yahaan, (nicely channeling O my darling Clementine) with Majrooh‘s words that still echo true —

kahiin building kahiin traamein, kahiin motor kahiin mill
miltaa hai yahaan sab kuchh ik miltaa nahiin dil
insaan kaa nahiin kahiin naam-o-nishaan
zara hatke, zara bachke, ye hai Bambai meri jaan!