— Gowri Raj Varma
Somewhere in the crevices of my memory is a song lying dusty and forgotten. I know not what the melodies are, I know not the pattern of notes strung together. But what I do know is that in the depth of my dreams, I dance to it. Languidly, with no hurry, a fluid rhythm between the world outside and the realm in my mind. It is a long-lost memory that I have never lived, but yearn to revisit.
“Woh jo adhoori si yaad baaki hai.. (that memory that remains incomplete)”
Lately, I have found myself seeking comfort in Bollywood music, a world that I had carelessly abandoned back in ninth grade because it was “cooler” to listen to English music. I fit in with my NRI classmates because I knew the words to a Selena Gomez or Demi Lovato song, because I nodded along when someone would proclaim that Bollywood was so blasé, so commonplace, so unimpressive in the face of the exciting and unexplored terrain that my fancy friends seemed so well acquainted with.
As a teenager (or, as a matter of fact, even as an adult), it is very easy to fall into the alluring trap of promised popularity and the comfort of conformity. And hence, as is the case with many who go to private city schools in India, my music taste became “anglicised”. This would continue well into the next five to six years, and I would learn to applaud mediocrity in English while criticising the same in Hindi music. The transformation was complete- I remembered about ten Bollywood songs in total, forgot all the words to my childhood favourites, and turned my back on all but Arijit Singh’s songs. In a nutshell, I was your cliché, “wannabe cool” international school girl.
Even before the pandemic, I slowly inched back to Bollywood. I don’t know if it was the after-effect of the Shankar Mahadevan concert, or if it was my friend’s Bollywood playlist (a recurring theme of my nostalgia). Or maybe it was a sense of starting afresh after tragedy, letting go of things, people, and mindsets that fettered me, and stumbling upon old troves of music that I loved, waiting to be found.
Phir Le Aaya Dil came to me on an evening that was no different than any other. I began humming softly, unwittingly, while going about my chores. I did not realise that I was murmuring the lyrics of the song until my grandmother tugged at my sleeves, surprised that I was singing again, after all this while. Not beautifully, no, I never fancied myself as anything beyond a perfectly average singer. But singing, nevertheless. Somewhere amidst all the death, unwritten messages, unreturned phone calls, and unfulfilled promises, I stopped singing and dancing about as I normally would. But that day, I was astonished. Astonished that I knew the words of a song whose name lay at the bottom of my throat, but refused to reach the tip of my tongue. But as I stood on my balcony, watering the wilting roses, I daydreamed.
Even though Indian cinema did not have colours until the late 1930s, I imagine that I am a young woman in her mid 20s living in that era. The first sound film has just been released in India, and the entirety of Bollywood, nay, India, is teeming with excitement and anticipation. This film, Alam Ara, is a historical fantasy that my neighbours cannot stop talking about. “There are actual songs! Zubeida’s voice is reminiscent of an old-world charm that renders you hooked!” I am to watch the film at the Majestic Cinema with a few other women in my colony this evening, and as a lover of cinema, I have been waiting for this moment my entire life.
I sit in front of my large mirror, trying to braid my freshly-washed hair, but even the dampness of water refuses to tame its unruliness. In the wake of several unsuccessful attempts, I decide to set them free. After all, I am known for my wild curls. As I drape my green silk saree, I hear the door of my bedroom creak open. Through the mirror’s reflection, I see my lover with his disarming smile. He has brought me fresh red roses, and he weaves them through my long tresses. Even my wild curls submit to his gentle touch. He wraps his arms around my waist and whispers, “stay with me tonight?”, and I am ever so tempted to remain with where I am, and to spend the rest of my time sipping adrak chai and exchanging beautiful words, glances, and touches until the sun rises again. Nevertheless, I refuse, and he understands. I need to be at the theatre tonight; I cannot miss this moment. So I leave his arms, wear my jhumkas, and place a big red bindi on my forehead. I am ready.
He offers to drive us in his imported car, one of the few available in the pre-independence era, but I decline. The other women do not know of him, and I value my privacy in a society where unmarried women are the constant subject of gossip. Besides, I prefer walking, revelling in the sights, sounds, and smells of a city that is both old and new, crumbling and rebuilding itself.
As I watch Alam Ara, I am transfixed. Not by the acting or cinematography, but by the miracle of sound. As Ara moves to the melody of her voice, I am metamorphosed. I become music and rhythm, sound and dance. I, in my parrot green saree, am Ara, and she, in her black-and-white clothing, is me. And at that moment, I know that my heart is with this young, magnificent woman.
The interesting thing is, Alam Ara is lost to the modern world. Legend has it that the last known copy disappeared way back in 1967. But while the film itself cannot be retrieved, its heart lives on, immortalised by the legacy that paved the way for Bollywood cinema, revived time and time again with each new movie release. Bollywood’s identity is intrinsically connected to its music, and it all began with this film that showed its audience the magic of cinema before the vividness of colour.
I can never live in the vintage India depicted through recollections, lore, and popular culture. Nor do I want to. But Phir Le Aaya Dil served to remind me once again that I grew up with A.R Rahman and Kishore Kumar, and the soundtracks of films like Bombay and Taal, Mera Naam Joker and Muqaddar Ka Sikandar. In a way (as the title of the song suggests), Rekha Bharadwaj’s soothing refrains have returned my heart to me, and music courses through my veins once again. I shall keep my Taylor Swift, but I shall hold on to my roots, and dance again to Bollywood’s beats without a care in the world.
Design by Rohit G
Edited by Samaja Penumaka
Article 19 