“Aaj agar bhar aayi hain
Boondein baras jaayengi
Kal kya pata inke liye
Aankhein taras jayengi
Jaane kab ghum hua, kahan khoya
Ek aansu chhupake rakha tha”
(Today, the eyes will shed tears
Who knows, maybe tomorrow
The eyes will long for these tears
Don’t know where and when I lost
The lone tear I had tucked away safely)
The crackling noise of the radio; a few minutes spent in tuning into the right station; and then, a song—these were the most recurrent sounds that came from Dad라이브 바카라 room, whenever he would lie in bed. At any given hour of the day, there was always a song seeping out of his room. It didn’t matter whether he understood the language—the radio must stay on. Sleeping to its sound was his daily ritual. Over the years, many such radio sets came and went. There were always extra batteries at home to ensure that the music never stopped. Sometimes, he would turn up the volume really high. The entire house would erupt in chaos then and the songs would be interspersed with my mother yelling to turn the volume down.
Dad had the habit of playing his favourite music on loop, incessantly. The familiarity with the tunes and the lyrics were seemingly a source of comfort for him. Dancing was not his forte, but a raised finger was always wagging in the air, whenever a song he liked was playing. To us, however, the endless reruns of the same cassettes were a nuisance. When we were young, we often hid his most-played cassettes, because everyone would be tired of listening to the same music over and over. The tape would become worn and torn, the voices would go off-tune, but the cassette would keep playing. Albums of S.D. Burman and Brian Silas were the most notorious choices. We knew the songs by heart; in our heads, the singing had turned into wailing.
A few days ago, Dad passed away. In a bid to remember him through his penchant for music, we decided to put together a playlist of his favourite songs. It is peculiar how memory becomes particularly treacherous in grief. As I racked my brains to recall his beloved tunes, the aural memory of him singing kept trickling in—off-key in his notes, swallowing the words he’d forgotten, he would, nevertheless, keep humming at leisure. He had a particular style of dragging each song in a slow, monotonous voice, so much so, that the original creation was perhaps lost in the process. He, however, would find himself in his music.
As the list grew longer, the extraordinary taste in music that my father had finally began to hit me. From Mohammed Rafi to Kishore Kumar, Mukesh to Jagjit Singh, Dad seemed to find resonance in melodies that perhaps articulated his melancholy. Most songs that he enjoyed had deeply philosophical lyrics and were often musings on the vagaries of life. They were crooning over lost chances; reflecting on belonging and detachment. They were songs on love that didn’t overflow, but drizzled quietly. Their rhythm didn’t numb you to your surroundings; they were gentle company on your journey. This is probably why, while listening to these songs, I would notice him quietly wiping his eyes every now and then. Penned by the likes of Gulzar, Shailendra, Yogesh and Sahir Ludhianvi, these songs were speaking from where he had fallen silent.
Dad fought a combination of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder for more than 40 years. In a world that is not equipped to address mental health, an illness that long robs you not just of opportunities, but also your desires and dreams. There were many tasks that eventually fell beyond the limits of his capabilities—as much as he loved literature as a child, he couldn’t focus long enough to read a book. Holding down a job became an uphill task, as did playing the conventional roles in a family. But what stayed with him throughout was his love for music. Perhaps, it is the only thing he understood; perhaps, it is the only thing that understood him.
My last meeting with my father was in a hospital, a few months ago. He was recovering and I was there to see him get home. Lying in the hospital bed for a prolonged period, his weak body tossed and turned in restlessness. In an attempt to calm him, I selected one of his favourite numbers on my phone and kept it by his bed. Slowly but surely, his finger danced in the air, in sync with the beats of the song.
Even as his going away is yet to sink in, his impeccable taste in music seems to be guiding us through this unfathomable loss. It is as if the poetry of these songs were meant to prepare us for this journey; as if his unspoken thoughts are finally meandering through the flow of his dearest melodies.
Apeksha Priyadarshini is Senior Copy Editor, 바카라. She writes on cinema, art, politics, gender & social justice
