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 ..

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.

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!

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!

But alas, it did not happen. The silliness took precedence, the lunacy invaded the blog, and the poor music got pushed aside. It still sits at the top of the list though, looking imposing and all-important. Saala main to saahab ban gaya it sings, thinking of itself as a Dilip Kumar in Sagina (1974). But it is more like Dilip Kumar in Devdas (1955) — all talk and no action. Its only purpose is to taunt me from time to time — Music is your passion, you claim? How many posts? Thirteen? Pfffft. Passion, it seems. Snigger.

So one has decided that enough is enough. (Why do we always say that, by the way? Why can’t someone else be enough? Why should only enough be enough? I think everyone should be given a chance to be enough. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mr Mukkavalli Sambasiva Rao. He will be enough from today on. Thank you.) So where was I? Ah yes. One has decided to start a new series.

What is it going to be about, you ask? I will pick a movie, any movie, and write about it. The focus will primarily be its music, but the movie will also get spoken about. I will not limit myself by composer, director, era or genre. Obscure movies, obscurer music, everything is welcome. Connoisseurs will find a Bandini (1963) and lovers of cheese will find a Dance Dance (1987). Or a Meera Ka Mohan (1992) even.

Oh and yes! I want you to recommend movies to write about. I hope that this series will help me (and you) discover music that we had forgotten about or never heard. Or never wanted to. Songs that fill you with déjà vu. Or soundtracks that we love to hate. But I also hope, that this series will result in discussion. Who is better? Kishore or Rafi? Should Lata stop singing? Is there a difference between inspiration and plagiarism? Is Pritam a suspect composer but an excellent arranger? In sansanikhez aur hairat-angez sawaalon ka answer, coming soon to a commentspace near you. And I’m counting on you all to make it happen. Yes, you. So stop lurking and start writing!

Finally, I will say this. Music, for me, is a matter of the heart. As it must be for a lot of you, I am sure. So while I will try to be unbiased and analytical, what I write will be subjective. It will be my opinion at the time of writing the post. It may change the next day, or it may not, but it is still just an opinion and not the gospel truth. So, if I step on your toes sometimes, it might be because you were trying to waltz while I was attempting to dhinkichiki. But it doesn’t mean that either of us doesn’t know how to dance.

Speaking of déjà vu, a little nonsense before I go —

Q: What do you call a feeling of déjà vu that also makes you very happy?
A: Déjà-woo-hoo!

Okie, now let’s talk music.

Many years ago, when I started listening to Marathi music, I came into the possession of an album of bhavgeet by Asha Bhosle sung under the baton of her brother Hridayanath Mangeshkar, a composer who often gets shortchanged when judged on the basis of his Hindi output, but who has done far brilliant-er work in Marathi.

The CD, titled Aawaz Chandanyache, is a must-have for anyone who likes Marathi music, be it a beginner feet-wetter or a connoisseur. Hridayanath, who is renowned for his complex and intricate compositions, is also known for reserving his best for his sisters. This album is no different. Be it the incredible raaga Puriya Dhanashri composition jivalagaa raahile re duur ghar maazhe, the sensual tarun aahe raatra ajunhi, or the delicate and nuanced kevhaa tarii pahaate, every song makes one marvel at the singer’s ability to traverse the complex notes with such remarkable ease and grace. There should be a law against it somewhere, methinks.

But the song from the album that makes all this babble relevant is one called kaajal raatina odhuun nela. The melody of this will be familiar to Hindi film music listeners as the Lata Mangeshkar sung khudse baatein karte rehna from the Ketan Mehta directed and Hridayanath composed Maya Memsaab (1992). The low and high notes and chord changes in this gorgeous roller-coaster number make it a joy to hear and a challenge to sing. The song is from a Marathi movie called Ha Khel Savlyancha (1976). I have no idea what the movie is about, but its intriguing name stayed with me, skulking around in the backbenches of my mind. And today, on seeing this picture, it ran up to the front of the class to the teacher handing out chocolates, waved its hand excitedly and said — Me! Me! Pick me! And so here we are.

Coming to the picture — every once in a while, the evening sun reflects off a neighbor’s porch door, streams in through my kitchen window, gets partially blocked by a wall and finally casts a spot of light on my living room’s vertical blinds, illuminating the leaves of my ficus plant. It takes a very specific set of conditions for this to occur, and when it happens, it lasts for just a minute. But while it does, it is an incredibly beautiful and moody sight to watch. The orange glow of the sun contrasting with the blue-ish light slipping through the chinks in the blinds. The fascinating play of the many hues of light. And more so, the play of shadows. Ha khel savlyancha.

A digression here — The debate about which of Lata-bai or Asha-bai truly deserves to be called the queen of Hindi film music is always a tough one to resolve. It is difficult to take sides, unless you are an RDB fan, in which case Asha rules. Lata is no doubt, an exceptional singer and has rendered masterpieces like none other. But in terms of sheer consistency, versatility and a willingness to experiment, especially in her work with Pancham, Asha rules. Then again Asha and Pancham had, in my opinion, a symbiotic relationship, creatively speaking. They each pushed the other to new heights. An implicit understanding of the other’s art, perhaps helped by the personal relationship they shared, leading to output that few other music director-singer combinations can match.

Then again, preference for one over the other, is beyond logic and debate. As Pancham diplomatically put it once — If Lata is like Don Bradman, Asha is like Gary Sobers. Or like when, at the end of a exhausting discussion with a friend, complete with examples and counter-examples, I was asked to sum up, in one sentence, why I preferred Asha over Lata, and I replied — Lata may be Lata, but Asha is *Asha*. Okay, not exactly an argument that would hold up in a court of law, but that is finally what it comes down to. A gut feeling. That and Lata’s annoying giggle. Yep, those are pretty much the only things that matter.

Another thing that amazes me about Asha, the performer, is her incredible energy on stage. The way she’s all chirpy-chirpy and wheeeee! all the time. And her wonderful sense of humor. At the start of the show, she stated rather matter-of-factly that she doesn’t know English, but since half the audience was non-Indian, she was gonna speak English anyway. And then added, with a cheeky grin — the doors are locked, so you can’t really do anything about it. Heh!

She also said a few words about how it is ‘eeshwar kii ichha aur aapkaa pyaar’ (God’s will and your love) that I am able to continue singing at this age. So please excuse any mistakes I make. Just then, an unhappy child went waaaaaaaa in the audience. (Side rant: People who bring wailing two-year olds to music concerts, assume that the audience will find the wailing adorable, and stay happily glued to their seats, while the kid howls away. Bah.) Asha-bai sweetly said — If I can listen to your kid cry, you can also listen to my mistakes, na? One could see the blur of a red-faced parent as he promptly darted out, howling kid in tow. Sweet.

Her discomfort with English (which I sometimes think could be an act) did not prevent her from subjecting Dave Harrington of the ‘Quartet to snark. She narrated a tale of how, when she initially met Dave, it was tough to explain to him, what the song meraa kuchh saamaan tumhaare paas padaa hai from Ijaazat (1987) meant. Saamaan? What’s that, Dave asked. Oh, luggage, she replied. They have poetic songs about luggage, in Bollywood?, he asked incredulously. Uff, ab main inko kya samjhaaon, she said, and proceeded to tell us — It is a song in which a girl, after breaking up with the guy she loves, tells him to return all the things that belonged to her. Her feelings, her memories, the moments shared with him — anything that is hers, she wants it back. At this point in the tale, she turned to Zakir saying — Zakir, you speak English well .. how do you explain the meaning of this song? Zakir promptly replied — Oh that’s simple .. Alimony! Heh heh. Gulzar would have been proud.

And then, there was the little joke that was gleefully tossed out by her on stage. Made us proud, it did. But before we tell you what it is, we have to show you a picture. Here it is, to the right. Guess who it be? Yep! It is Mousie Singh! So here’s the background —

There was a Sardarji wedding in town. But this wasn’t any ordinary wedding. This was one of Sardarji tigers. Punjab da sher and all that. So a bunch of tigers were dancing in the baraat and growling yahoon yahoon! A wee-little mouse in a tiny pheta was also dancing with them, squeaking a little yawoon yawoon! of its own. A random passerby came up to Mousie Singh and said — Oye, yeh sher ki shaadi mein chuhaa kyon naach raha hai? (This is wedding of tigers. What’s a mouse doing here?) At which the mouse replied — Arrey! So what if I am a mouse? Shaadi ke pehle main bhi sher thha! (I too was a tiger before marriage!)

Heh Heh. Ouch. Made you wince, did that not? You were not seriously expecting a post only about music, were you? But trust me, when that joke is earnestly narrated by a chirpy and twinkly Asha, accompanied by a little mouse-bhangra, it gets much much cuter.

Age has begun catching up on Asha, and there were moments where her voice faltered, gently reminding us that she is, after all, nearing seventy-three! But even then, watching her smile and sing and even dance at times, resplendent in a white and gold sari, surrounded by musicians half her age, was incredibly inspiring.

And then there was the music itself. The ‘Quartet’s song selection for their CD (and thus the show) was unusual. Rather than only going with RD’s more famous numbers which people are wont to doing, they’ve picked a number of lesser-known and interestingly arranged compositions. Will do a separate post on that, if anyone wants to listen to me ramble about RD. C’mon, be nice and say you do, will you?

The audience was about half American and half Indian, roughly divided along the lines of those who had come to hear the ‘Quartet and those who had come to watch Asha sing. It was pretty much the perfect evening, marred only by some ditzy Ghaat women who chattered next to us in the lobby, and whose scintillating conversation we had the privilege of overhearing —

DGW1: How many sisters are they in all?
DGW2: Four.
DGW1: Really? Lata .. Asha .. and?
DGW3: Usha ..
DGW2: There’s one more! There’s one more!
Me: *math genius!*
DGW2: Uh .. her name is .. uh .. her name is .. uh ..
Me: *someone put the woman out of her misery, please*
DGW2: I know it! It is .. it is ..
Me: *turning to woman* Meena ..
DGW2: Oh yes! Thank you!
Me: *phew*

A few minutes later —

DGW1: Her husband was also a music director, no?
Me: *Duh!*
DGW3: Was it Hridaynath Mangeshkar?
DGW1: No yaar, that was her brother! Chheee!
DGW3: What was his name then?
Me: *This was right after an Asha-R D Burman concert, for crying out loud!*
DGW2: Mr Bhosle, I guess? *annoying giggle giggle*
Me: *groan*
DGW4: She was married to R D Burman, yaar! Did you not read the brochure?
Me: *God bless your soul*
DGW2: But why is she Asha Bhosle then?
DGW1: That was her first husband. She divorced him.
*DGW2 and DGW3 clamping hands to mouth and collectively gasping in shock* Ohhhh really? Hawww! She’s a divorcee?! Wowww, I didn’t know that!

Sheeesh. Gah bah! But we don’t do generalizations about Maharashtrian women. Nuh-uh, we don’t.

Isn’t it amazing how some songs remain with you for years together? You never think of them during all that time. Yet one day many eons later, you hear a bit of the interlude playing somewhere, or catch someone singing it, and find yourself humming along like it was a tune from yesterday. You remember every variation, every word, every obscure little thing about it that you never heard consciously, even the first time around. And the goosebumps wash over you much like the visiting memories you never knew you had.

Like someone you thought you forgot, but instantly recognize. From the twinkle in their eyes to the crinkle in their smile. From the tum-dee-dum notes in the prelude, to the variations in the rhythm. From the distinct way they laugh to the way a certain word is sung .. all the li’l nuances that turn a forgettable song into an unforgettable memory.

And in that music you search for yourself — the you from yesterday that laid the foundations for the you of today. Breaking up the song into little pieces, you look amongst them for the life you lived — a simpler, worry-free you from the past, frozen in a few moments of a melody.

Some songs are like old friends. They bring back memories. They make you reminisce. Fondly, wistfully. And like silent friends, they stay with you for life, reminding you from time to time, of who you once were.

That be a Lata-Kishore sung and R D Burman composed song from movie Samadhi (1972). This song also reminds me why I don’t like Lata’s giggle, but that is a different story. For those whose exposure to old Hindi film music comes from remixes, may you be tied to a chair and be made to listen to endless repeats of Sridevi singing. There, now that I got that out of my system, let’s continue with what I was saying. This is the same Samadhi of thorny felt, yes felt, come o king .. behind your bungalow, under the berry tree, haay re drunk, aha re drunk fame. That’s kaantaa lagaa, hayy lagaa, aajaa raajaa .. bangle ke peeche terii, berii ke neeche, haayy re piya, aha re piya for you.

Of course, the original song has Asha Parekh singing to garam-Dharam. Which leads to one of the most disturbing visuals in Hindi cinema — Asha Parekh being coy. No seriously, there are few sights worse than Ms Tanpura trying to be cute. This is a lady who cracked one of the eternal unintended jokes of Bollywood when she went to the temple in the climax of a film (any film, specifics don’t matter) and said — bhagwaan, main tumhaare dar pe badi ass leke aayi hoon. Yep, priceless moment.

But moving onto pleasanter things, Samadhi has quite a listen-worthy soundtrack. One of those wish-more-people-knew-of-it types. Has the middle-eastern influenced, Asha crooned o yaaraa yaaraa (whose second line I can never understand), another exceptionally sung Asha solo — jab tak rahe tan mein jiyaa, vaadaa rahaa o saathiyaa, the racy Kishore solo jaan-e-jaanaa jaao kal phir aanaa besides the bubbly Kishore-Lata maine dekhaa ik sapnaa and of course, the most famous of them all — Lata’s kaantaa lagaa. Whether you can blot out the accompanying visual of Shefali Jariwala’s thong or focus your attention on it depending on your preference, the song (and we are talking of the original, thank you very much) is wonderfully composed and sung and a winner through and through. Kudos to Pancham!

Samadhi also has the distinction of being one of the only TWO movies I know of with Dharam-paaji in a double role — one moochwala (not to be confused with Detective Moochwala from Target) and one without (paired with Jaya Bhaduri). The other movie being the Dharam-Rekha starrer — Ghazab (1982) where he plays a buffoon with buck teeth, one of his underrated comedic performances. Thanks to Sagnik for the Ghazab trivia. Interestingly enough, neither movie was much of a hit. Twice the usual number of doggy-abuses can be too much to sit through, I suppose.

The original point of the post was about more earth-shattering matters. I intended to tell you about a weird dream I had last night, hence the opening song and all. Ah well, will save it for the next post instead. By the way, as good readers you are all expected to head over to Musicindiaonline while reading this post, listen to the songs of Samadhi and come back and write comments full of effusive praise for R D Burman. In return, I promise not to giggle like Lata-bai. Thankoo.

The music of this movie came as a welcome relief at a time when noise still ruled the scene. And in the midst of a powerful and violent movie, soft melodies like this brought peace and calm, much like the bird that symbolizes its title — Parinda (1989). The soundtrack has the more famous and universally favorite duet — tumse milke aisa lagaa tumse milke. But this song is my pick from the album. Outstanding music by R D Burman, exceptional singing by Asha & Suresh Wadkar, and simple, beautiful lyrics by Khursheed Hallauri, a rare female lyricist for Hindi films.

The scene — near the seashore. The moment — just around sunset, surrounded by the gold and orange hues of the twilight sky. The strains of the santoor, the bass guitar, the saxophone in the interludes, and Asha’s mellifluous voice .. the way she completes the antaras and returns to the mukhda, giving it a slightly different twist each time, something extra .. something more that tugs at your heart. Pyaar ke mod pe chhodoge jo baahein merii .. tumko DhuunDhengii zamaane mein, nigaahein merii ..

pyaar ke mod pe chhodoge jo baahein merii
tumko DhuunDhengii zamaane mein, nigaahein merii

zindagii mein jo kahin aur main kho jaauunga
tumse milne ke liye lauT ke phir aauunga
ae merii jaan-e-wafaa dekhnaa, raahein merii

aisaa naa ho ae sanam jaao to phir aa naa sako
merii ye tamannaa hai tum mere paas raho
kyon tumhein bhaatii nahiin aaj, panaahein merii

koii ban jaaye meraa aisii taqdiir nahiin
dil ke aaine mein ab koii tasviir nahiin
ye haqiiqat hai, asar kho chukii, aahein merii

saath main tumhaare huun, ab koi gham naa karo
khud ko tanhaa mere hote humdum naa karo
hoke maayuus naa dum tod dein, chaahein merii

Film: Parinda (1989); Singer(s): Asha Bhosle, Suresh Wadkar; Lyrics: Khursheed Hallauri; Music: R D Burman

Love, from a woman’s point of view. No red roses, no pink teddy bears, no chocolate-covered candy-hearts. Just a gentle assurance that I’ll always be there.

After Lagaan, all eyes are now on Ashutosh Gowariker’s Swades. I for one, find the basic premise of the movie, quite interesting. The living-abroad desi returns home, wants to do something to give back to his desh, and the ‘even one person can make a difference’ theme is something ex-pats can find close to heart. Listened to its music over the weekend. Seven songs and two instrumental tracks. Here’s my thoughts on them.

Disclaimer: Opinions on most ARR soundtracks change on multiple listens, and since this review is being written after just a couple of listens, I might decide to contradict myself tomorrow.

(Music links on raaga.com)

Swades (Music: A R Rahman; Lyrics: Javed Akhtar) — The first thing that struck me was that ARR is in Lagaan mode here. By that I don’t mean the tunes are similar/identical to Lagaan, but the implementation is definitely more in that direction. More folk-influenced, more melody-based and tending to rely on the strength of the voice of the singers. His arrangements continue to remain his forte, but play more of a background role in the album, in my opinion. The lyrics by Javed Akhtar are nice and go well with the music, but none stand out as truly remarkable.

• ‘Ye tara woh tara‘ — Simple lyrics about the strength in unity make this song click for me, and the music is nice although nothing exceptional. I like the way the kiddie voices of Vignesh and Pooja join in the latter half to give Udit Narayan support. This is the kind of song that one cannot help sing along with!

• ‘Saanwariya saanwariya‘ — A really beautiful melody that would have sounded much better in a voice other than Alka Yagnik’s. She sounds so disinterested with the goings on in the song. Sadhana Sargam please?

• ‘Yun hi chala chal‘ — The longest song of the album, I like the level of enthusiasm that Rahman infuses in it. Will need to listen to it some more to come to any conclusions about it. The ‘allah ke bande‘ singer Kailash Kher resurfaces in this one after a while, with Udit and Hariharan for company.

• ‘Aahista aahista‘ — Minimal use of instruments and Sadhana and Udit’s singing makes this beautiful lorii a definite winner for me. Melody-wise this song reminds me of a mix of ‘o paalanhaare‘ and ‘mitwa‘ from Lagaan.

• ‘Yeh jo des hai tera‘ — The token ARR sung song on the track, this one is about asking the expatriates to return home. The not-too-preachy lyrics and the lilting background shehnaai makes this song come together beautifully. An instrumental version of this song on the shehnai appears later in the album.

• ‘Pal pal hai bhaari‘ — Sounds like a very situational song. The use of instruments reminds me of ‘radha kaise na jale‘ (I just cannot seem to stop making the Lagaan connections!) Am guessing this has a theatre/stage setting on screen, with the end of the Aranya kanda being enacted. An instrumental version of this song on the flute appears again in the album.

  (Digression — The exchange between Sita and Ravana, when he asks her ‘If your Rama is so great, then where is he? Why don’t I see him around to come and save you?‘ and she replies ‘Rama is everywhere, he is in my heart, my soul, my breath, my life.. — is this in the end of the Aranya kanda or at the start of the Kishkindha kanda? My childhood Ramayana fundas are foggy.)

• ‘Dekho na‘ — Generic sweet romantic song, but didn’t really stand out for me, lyrically or musically. I was recently educated by a friend that Rahman reused his own tune for this track, from ‘baba kichchu tha‘ of the Rajnikanth Tamil movie Baba. Thanks Zaph!

Overall, this is a nice album that is worth multiple listens, but it has a distinct Lagaan hangover that is hard to ignore. But then again, I love Lagaan, so I guess I cannot complain.

(Music links on musicindiaonline.com)

Dhoom (Pritam Chakraborty) — This being a Yash Raj film, one might expect the heroine in a white saree, foreign locales, mist covered mountains, santoor playing in background.. *screeeech of brakes* Wait. Dhoom is kinda a desi cops-and-robbers story, The Fast and The Furious and Torque all rolled into one. This cinematic theme change is also apparent in the music. This album is about pace and general catchiness so the sarees will have to remain in the costume cupboard for this one. Three songs of this soundtrack are worth mentioning —

• ‘Dhoom machale dhoom‘ — The energy of this song and Sunidhi Chauhan’s spirited singing work in its favor, although it gets noisy in parts. It falls flat in the antaras at times, but the mukhda picks up the pace once again. Though I don’t really care for the ‘do you want more.. are you sure? oh-kayyy‘ in the middle of the song, it is fortunately short-lived so I can tune it out. Incidentally, this is the song that plays in the promos, with bikes, cars and trucks falling over each other and dutifully exploding into flames.

• ‘Shikdum‘ — A playful and catchy composition (which at times, sounds suspiciously like some other song i’ve heard, although I cannot place it) that is further enhanced by the singing chemistry that Shaan and Shreya Ghoshal share. Their voices have been altered a lil, to give it a synthesized feel. The Soca/Calypso influence is apparent throughout the song, even more so in the interludes (steel drums et al). What in the world does ‘shikdum‘ mean, you wonder? Don’t. Sameer is the lyricist. Watch the movie and figure it out.

• ‘Dilbara‘ — This song started out sounding average, but Abhijeet’s singing, a rather interesting chorus and an assortment of percussions (especially at the start of the song) have made it worthy of more listens. Sowmya Raoh joins in the latter half of the song. This song is definitely better for its music/interludes than its singing though. Nice breezy number this.

The soundtrack isn’t one to stay in your head for long, but it fits in well with the mood of the movie. The movie itself — a timepass flick that has plenty of eye-candy for all. Bad boy John Abraham on a bike. Abhishek Bachchan, period. Hmmmmmm. And for those who want to know — Rimi Sen and Esha Deol. Well, we all know what I think of the latter, so i’ll be nice and not say a word. Uday Chopra, who so far has excelled in roles that annoy you, finally seems to have found his niche as the tappori-dude-with-a-heart-of-gold. (A role Aamir Khan redefined in Rangeela but its best not to compare.) All in all, paisa vasool.

Sidenote — If you’re suffering from withdrawal symptoms from the lack of the mountains and sarson ke khet in Dhoom, not to worry. The trailer for the upcoming Yash Chopra Diwali venture Veer-Zaara, shown along with Dhoom more than makes up for it. Indo-Pak love-fest this is gonna be, it seems. Veer Pratap Singh (Shahrukh Khan playing a desi fighter pilot, good grief) falling in love with Zaara Hayaat Khan. (Preity Zinta playing a Pakistani cutie) Doomed love and all that goop. Not to fikar though. Yash Chopra has a solution to your problem is the form of Rani Mukherjee — ‘a lawyer who fights to bring the lovers together’. Hm, we’ll see. Love and justice ek saath? Bhai wah. Gotta watch out for the music though. The late maestro Madan Mohan’s unused tunes being arranged by son Sanjeev Kohli. Sounds promising.

The love and justice thing reminds me of an Utpal Dutt dialogue from Rang Birangi, in which he plays a cop (with a zabardast name like Dhurandar Bhatwadekar) and is yelling at some paploo who has just been arrested for selling movie tickets in black. He goes — Cinema ke ticket?! Woh bhi black mein?! Yaani ki paap bhi aur jurm bhi! Utpal Dutt ROCKS!