Category Archives: Music


The Return of Biriyani Adams

In the 7th century AD, Chinese scholar Xuanzang travelled to India along the Silk Route. In 2018, Bryan Adams embarked on his Ultimate India Tour – traveling through Ahmedabad, Hyderabad, Mumbai, Bangalore and New Delhi – in what can only be called the Biriyani Route.

At the risk of being called out as ‘uncool’, I am not a fan of attending concerts. I don’t get the point of standing in long lines, waiting for hours, going through disappointing opening acts, and then being fleeced over beer, food and water. With a Diploma Course from the Jeetendra School of Dancing, there isn’t much I can do at a concert. In this age and surrounded by this level of technology, the experience I prefer is the one in front of my screen, connected to my earphones.

But it was a free pass. I usually cannot say ‘No’ to free stuff. I got my pass, Got a free pass, jogged along my memories of Bryan Adams, and decided to attend. If I were being completely honest – there are only two songs of his that I can recognise. Please forgive me – whose lyrics I learnt to impress a crush. It’s a different matter that when I sang it, I sounded like Shankar Mahadevan at a Carnatic Concert.

Then there is Summer of 69, which I heard due to peer pressure. Mind you, this was in 2002, a good 15 years after the song had released. Since it was the third English album I was listening to – after Titanic and Spice Girls – it took me some time to get used to the lyrics. They had to be searched for on Internet Explorer, printed out at a Sify Infoway, and tucked away carefully in an Accountancy notebook.

It wasn’t my first Bryan Adams concert either. I had attended his Hyderabad concert in 2011. The Times of India reported that the event was a ‘surreal’ affair – and I remember seeing a family next to me eating biriyani through the concert. In India, we don’t do moshpits, we pass the raita and squeeze the lemon. (You can read my account of the 2011 concert here, and sample my amateurish writing from back in the day!)

Seven years down the line, I was curious to see how the 58-year old Bryan Adams had aged.

I checked out his social media. His Twitter feed is a series of one-sided updates about his shows, or pictures at different places. He rarely replies to comments, and the feel of the account is like that of a Principal’s notice board – official, routinely updated, no-nonsense.

It was on Instagram that I found something unique. He shares pictures of himself singing, doing Yoga, and promoting vegetarianism. He dedicates songs to his listeners, performs around the world, collaborates with others artists. Amidst the angry, ugly space that social media today is, his Insta feed is an oasis of people sending heartfelt messages.

I was also intrigued to find out the kind of reputation Adams enjoys today. When I asked my lady (who’s much younger – but infinitely more mature in the ways of the world – if she’d like to go to the concert, she replied ‘I’m not that gay yet’.


I have an inexplicable curiosity to know how singers have aged, and have spent hours watching live videos of 90s singers like Udit Narayan and Kumar Sanu. (If you’re interested – Abhijeet still can sing, Udit Narayan holds himself up well at 62, Sonu Nigam is still impeccable, and Kumar Sanu has lost it!). Naturally, I wanted to see how Adams had aged.

He still can sing – I’ll give him that. There was no sign of his age in his voice, and he looked like he didn’t have a shred of fat in his body. His frame hasn’t gone through an unrecognisable transformation like with someone like David Gilmour.

Perhaps it is the fact that he still looks and sounds the same – it is the illusion of youth that his fans reveled in.

For this wasn’t your typical crowd at a rock concert.

Bryan Adams’ target audience isn’t youngsters who headbang. The average age was upwards of 30, going up all the way to the 60s. These were not youngsters in black T-shirts and long hair who slammed into each other and crow-surfed at concerts. They were middle-aged people who sat at tables and ordered beer, and gently swayed when Adams sang their favourite songs.

Some of them brought kids with them, others came with their college friends, there were even a few single men who nodded to his songs with their legs crossed, like they were in the first row of The Hindu November Music Fest.

As a standup comedian, I knew that most performers leave the best for the last – in order to end on a high. I was under the impression that he would leave Summer of 69 for the end. I remember the rendition

But he probably sensed the low-energy levels of the audience and brought out the two songs I know in the middle of the concert – and sang them one after the other! As soon as the songs were done, I rushed back to the beer counter.

The other major difference was all the smartphones out in the air, recording the show. Must be a great feeling for the artist too – to see so many lights flashing in front of him! I recorded mine too. A friend called his sister in law as this song was her caller-tune.

More than the concert itself, the real fun was had at the beer counter. Filled with friends, beer and conversations, older people in black T-shirts nodded their heads and laughed as they sipped on beer.

We met old friends, schoolmates and laughed about concerts we had attended earlier. I heard stories of a Metallica concert in Delhi, where the band was 20 minutes late. The crowd made the stage a slosh-pit and somebody ran away with Lars Ulrich’s drums! The crowd then proceeded to break the equipment, as the crowd cheered.

Another friend mentioned the 2011 Hyderabad concert, where the organisers decided to promote the film Faltu as an opening act for Bryan Adams. Arshad Warsi came on the stage and tried to get the crowd excited by screaming FALTU FALTU FALTU! In a few moments, thousands of Hyderabadis screamed in unison – FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU.

I haven’t attended too many concerts, to be honest. My favourite ones would be one by Indian Ocean in Bhubaneswar, where the crowd asked the band to sing ‘Jai Ho’. To which Rahul Ram replied with the iconic Govinda line, ‘Agar hum Rahman ka gaana gaaenge, toh Rahman kya gaaega?’. The other favourite of mine is a Remember Shakti concert at the Chowmahalla Palace in Hyderabad, where a nearby baaraat ended up giving us a ‘One plus one free’ concert. It was surreal to hear the band, and Munni Badnaam Hui at the same time – like taking acid in a Mathematics class.

Bryan Adams doesn’t rouse the crowd too much, going about his work like a disciplined senior VP in a multinational company. He finished a song, and introduced a member of his band. The need for crowd-play never presented itself. He finished one song, smiled, and proceeded to the next. The crowd did not scream their voices hoarse; they smiled, clicked pictures, raised their tired hands, and went back to sipping on beer.

What makes Bryan Adams draw huge crowds today, is probably the fact that others from that generation have vanished. The Backstreet Boys didn’t grow into Uptown Men. Michael Never Learnt to Rock. But Bryan Adams still looks and sounds like Bryan Adams – an emotion that is frozen, that hasn’t been romanticised by sepia-coloured hashtags. He’s still singing about how everything he does, he does it for her.

The concert ended, and the disciplined, middle-aged crowd left the ground in lines. A few took pictures, while others began to walk to their cars. The next day was a Sunday, and people had to take rest before office the next day.

Unfortunately, they did not live in the summer of 69. As she stood on her mama’s porch, telling that she’d wait forever.

But they had been there briefly.


(Featured Image courtesy: The Hans India, Hyderabad Edition. )


Why the fuck is Farhan Akhtar considered a singer?

There used to be a show on Channel V called Love to Hate you, where celebrities would meet their haters and try to change their opinion. The show was mildly exciting, except for Arjun Rampal, also known in scientific circles as Saraca asoca.

In the episode starring Farhan Akhtar, his hater accused him of being a miserable singer, asking him to stick to directing. On that show, Farhan Akhtar said something really sensible – ‘There’s no particular reason why a person chooses to do something. You can’t question that choice – at that point, it seemed right to do it’. Firm logic.

Farhan Akhtar’s film Dil Chahta Hai in my opinion changed the way Hindi films are made today, turning the idea of a hero right on its head. I have lost track of the number of times I have watched the film, and learnt to mimic Saif Ali Khan just so I could say his lines from the movie. So, I have respect for the man.

I liked Lakshya and Don too, to an extent. And then, Farhan Akhtar started acting. Which again, is not a problem. He usually plays the witty South Bombay guy who writes poetry, like the coming-of-old-age film Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara. Any film where he wasn’t that guy has flopped. It is with Farhan Akhtar’s singing that I have a problem.


Ever since Rock On, with its pseudo-rock and quasi-profound lyrics came out, Farhan Akhtar has been portrayed as some sort of rockstar. Truth is, the songs in films are heavily auto-tuned. Take for example the scene from Rock On where they sing Saason ki zaroorat at a Garbha. A layman could tell the guy is missing the notes in those two lines.

I heard him live once, and it felt like two gnomes were fucking both my ears at the same time. He was off-key, managed to hold the tune for about half the songs, and left a grating feeling at the back of my head – like when the teacher would write on an old blackboard with chalk. Or when you run your nails against a wall that’s just been whitewashed.

The guy is barely what we call a ‘bathroom singer’, but nobody has told him that yet. He continues to sing songs in his raspy, friendly-pedophile voice, and does shows all over the country, while there are genuine musicians who have devoted decades to the art, and are as famous as Venkatpathy Raju.

In fact, so obsessed are we with Bollywood that even after nearly 70 years as an independent nation, we have no pop, rock or indie music scene in the country. Bollywood gobbled up the fledgling Indipop scene that thrived in the 90s, and all we have today is Arijit Singh covers of every song imaginable.

This obsession is the reason Pakistan’s Coke Studio sounds orgasmic whereas our version is like a semi-boner. Actors continue to sing songs without being able to tell the difference between Sa and Pa, and people go gaga over them because we can’t look beyond cricket and films in our country. Which is why you have Salman Khan singing for Fuckall Pancholi, Alia Bhatt piss over a Rahat Fateh Ali Khan song, and even Sanjay Dutt singing songs. Listen to these songs more than once, and you begin to feel you have piles in your ears.

Farhan Akhtar has featured on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine, above names like Indian Ocean and Parikrama. Are you fucking kidding me? The only time Farhan Akhtar should feature in the magazine is if people were asked not to sing like him. He has featured on MTV Unplugged, a format that has been made legendary by bands and performers like Nirvana, Clapton, Led Zeppelin, and Rahman. Why is this guy even allowed on the same stage?


And what did he sing? His Meri laundry ka ek bill, I should freeze on Tiger Hill bullshit. Where he misses half the notes so that Shankar Ehsaan Loy can catch them. The icing on the cake was the poster for NH7 Weekender Hyderabad edition this year.

Plastered across the city are two people – Nucleya and Farhan Akhtar. Nucleya, who has created a unique sound of his own. Nucleya, who has attained a cult status over the years for his ability to beautifully mix EDM with Indian folk sounds. Has to share the stage with Meri Laundry ka ek bill, where can I find sleeping pill.


This obsession with Bollywood is the reason a country of billion has about ten famous singers. It is the reason our taste in music is so limited, so cramped, so claustrophobic. But what the heck, Sindbad da sailor ek jahaaz mein nikla tha, mere yaaron sunlo sunlo.

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Mohenjo Daro Music Review

AR Rahman is generally at his best when in partnership with his friends.

His greatest works have come in collaborations with Mani Ratnam, Gautham Menon, Imtiaz Ali, Shankar and Ashutosh Gowariker. It’d be interesting to hypothesize about the success of these filmmakers without Rahman’s music, but that’s for another post.

Ashutosh Gowariker is back with his next film, and it looks like it took him six years to recover from the debacle of Khelein Hum Jee Jaan Se. He’d earlier taken a six year break after Baazi, coming back with Lagaan.

Gowariker’s earlier stints with Rahman were all major winners, and the two of them come back along with their third musketeer – Javed Akhtar. So does Mohenjo Daro live up to the filmmaker’s earlier collaborations with Rahman?


Track 1: Mohenjo Mohenjo

The first track in the album begins with Rahman’s tribal sounds, a set of gibberish accompanied by Shivamani’s thumping beats. In a few seconds, you’re looking forward to what’s coming. You see, listening to a Rahman album for the first time is almost a spiritual experience.

If the songs are good, that is. If they’re not, like Blue or Yuvvraj, you begin to question the purpose of life in the first place. It’s alright to listen to Anu Malik make bad music, but for Rahman to do it, is tragic.

The first track sounds familiar, a bit from Behne De, a bit from Ghanan Ghanan. Arijit Singh croons to Javed Akhtar’s rather simplistic lyrics, a problem I faced throughout the album. Lines like Chand aur Suraj donon ne dekha, Mohenjo Daro mein Rangon ka Mela just don’t cut it anymore. They were in vogue in the early 90s, but the analogies sound rather stale now.

Rahman manages to make Arijit sound the most un-Arijit-like, and that’s what keeps you interested through the track, which ends in a crescendo by Shivamani. All in all, the song feels like a performance in a reality shows, where Rahman seems to half-heartedly smile, like he’s itching to get back to his studio and call Hariharan about a new song idea.

Mohenjo Mohenjo leaves you gasping for more, just as the second track, titled Sindhu Ma takes off.


Track 2: Sindhu Ma

Undoubtedly the track of the album, Sindhu Ma begins with Sanah Moidutty’s sensuous overtones, and truly kicks off when Rahman comes into the picture. This is the song that plays in the trailer (though that doesn’t seem like a very bright idea in hindsight!).

Rahman makes even gibberish sound magical, and performs a ‘scat-aalap’ that only he could have. Every Rahman album has that one song that gives you goosebumps, Sindhu Ma is that track in Mohenjo Daro.  

The sound doesn’t sound completely original. There are shades of ‘Tum Ho’ (Rockstar) and ‘Kaise Mujhe’ (Ghajini). The track doesn’t bother with staying true to the time period the film is set in, using violins and synthesisers, but all that’s forgiven since it’s Rahman.

Javed Akhtar’s lyrics continue to disappoint, with lines like Paas aake bhi maun hai tu, Yeh toh bata kaun hai tu. The kind of lyrics Sameer used to churn out in the 90s – Tu hai jeevan mera, Tu hai jaaneman mera.     

The song ends in classic 90s boy-band love-track manner, opting to shift to a higher scale at the end. I felt a tinge of sadness as the song came to an end, perhaps as a premonition about the rest of the album.


Track 3: Sarsariya

Crooned by newcomers Shashwat Singh and Shashaa Tirupati, Sarsariya begins on exotic footing – gibberish, flute, and drums. And yet, it has the half-hearted feel of the tracks of Asoka. I have a feeling this track will be used as the heroine’s entry song. Javed Akhtar continues to dish out lazy lyrics with lines that go – Sab hai mere sapne, rang hai sab apne.

Shashwat Singh has an interesting voice, but the track switches tracks too quickly for you to invest in it. In fact, the track is quite annoying and I couldn’t wait for it to end.


Track 4: Tu Hai

This is a rehash of Sindhu Ma, but a more sanitised version of the song. It lacks the magical beginning of the Sindhu Ma, and if the trailers are anything to go by, will be sung by the leads when they find love in each other.

There are traces of Rahman’s beauty in the track, but having heard the earlier version, this seems like yesterday’s Chicken Biriyani that’s been refrigerated and reheated. It’s Rahman nonetheless, and I gave it a full listen out of respect for the man.


Tracks 5, 6, 7 : Whispers of the Wind, The Shimmer of Sindhu and Lakh Lakh Thora

What sets Rahman apart from his contemporaries are his stunning background tracks. While most music directors lazily employ pieces from songs in the film as background music, Rahman actually composes stunning pieces of music.

Listen to Slumdog Millionaire’s Latika’s Theme, or the haunting Bombay theme, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Which is why I wanted to listen to the three tracks that come with the album.

However, these are mere rehashes of the songs on the album, and nothing to write home about. You might enjoy Whispers of the Wind if you’re smoking a joint alone in the night. The Shimmer of Sindhu is a rehash of Tu Hai, and Lakh Lakh Thora is the last track of the album.



Mohenjo Daro fails to stir up the kind of emotions that Rahman is used to when collaborating with Ashutosh Gowariker.

If my theory – Rahman Knows – is anything to go by, the album and the impending film might be headed for a disaster. But one can never be sure about these things. The soundtrack of Mohenjo Daro is strictly ordinary, and only for die-hard Rahman fans (which is probably half the nation anyway!).


(If you’re a Rahman fan, you should check out other articles on the man – Rahman on Coke Studio, and How I Knew Jab Tak Hai Jaan Would Be Crap)

Image Copyright belongs to Paul Bourdrel 

Taken from

My Favourite ‘Shakti’ Moments

Two aspects of music have rung true throughout my life.

One, that there is a right time for the right music to walk into your life. A destined time when your mind is fertile and the music makes a divine connection with you. Any sooner, and the connection is premature. There are times when people introduce you to a musician, and while a faint connection is made, the final connection is made much later.

The second aspect of music is the ability of music to transport you to another time. The oldest and most efficient Time Machine available to us yet, it’s fascinating how a few notes strung together in a particular combination have such a tectonic effect on our senses.


Shakti’s entry into my life was rather innocuous. Not the forceful manner of friends ‘Dude, you haven’t heard XYZ? Dafuq?? Play this song right now, it’ll change your life’. Not like that. It was slipped past me with just the right amount of curiosity, and I went to watch them perform in the Old City.

Organised at the beautiful Chowmahalla Palace, the performance had to face a number of interruptions. A few ministers walking in, much to the chagrin of Zakir Hussain. A baaraat in the adjacent lane throwing up My Name is Sheila as if to challenge these guys. (Read my blog about the show here)

But there was one moment from the concert that stuck with me.

Shankar Mahadevan had started a song. A slow, lilting track, that seemed to envelope the entire night in a glittering blanket of silence. It was a heavenly, haunting track; I remember looking up at the sky, and pigeons who had congregated on the Palace flew away in a cinematic moment.

That moment had remained with me for four years, haunting me everytime I thought of the band. I had tried capturing the moment in any way possible, through my neanderthal Nokia phone, by trying to remember the words. But in the end, the moment, in all its essence, evaded me.

As I discovered later, the time wasn’t right. I had just about met Shakti and flirted for a few moments. The torrid love affair would come later.


Shakti was a superband that was formed in the early 70s by John McLaughlin and Zakir Hussain.

Back in the 60s, John McLaughlin was an acid-dropping, Ken-doll lookalike hippie who was introduced to Indian music and spiritualism. But unlike The Beatles who hung around for a bit, had a bad trip, and left, John McLaughlin went on to have a life-altering relationship with Indian music.

Shakti was formed by fusing together the Indian musical school of raga, the Hindustani and Carnatic schools, and garnishing it with western Blues by McLaughlin himself. The original line-up consisted of McLaughlin (Guitar), Zakir Hussain (Tabla), L. Srinivas (Violin), ‘Vikku’ Vinayakam (Ghatam).

The line-up has gone through a number of changes over the years, witnessing a second lease of life in the late 90s with extended tours around the world. While the original band was called Shakti, the later avatars adopted the name Remember Shakti. For much of the last decade, the line-up consisted of McLaughlin, Zakir Hussain, U. Srinvas (Mandolin), Shankar Mahadevan (Vocals) and Selvaganesh (Mrudangam/Ghatam/Khanjira).

If you aren’t very fond of classical music, Shakti might not be for you.

However, if you have an inclination for classical music, put your devices on Airplane mode, and join me as I take you through my favourite Shakti moments.

A: ‘INDIA’ by SHAKTI, circa 1975

This video is a throwback to the early days of Shakti. Shot in the peak of the counter-culture movement, when you could listen to great musicians while stretching on the grass after smoking some, with Lakshmi-Shiva-Durga dancing in your brain. The sound of this track is very different from the Shakti sound of today, as there was no vocalist. McLaughlin at the time wielded an acoustic guitar, and the wonderful L. Shankar accompanied him on the violin. The video is grainy, but the sound – solid as oak. Also, look closely and you find two young white girls (groupies?) behind the band, something you wouldn’t dream of finding in Shakti’s concerts today.

‘India’ is a track that is reminiscent of the golden days of world music, a time dipped in spiritualism, hope and psychedelia. The track is also a fine introduction to the sound of Shakti, the black and white images of the time adding a thin layer of exotica to the proceedings.




Among the many bootlegged videos of the band across the world, this one is my favourite. Shot on a handycam, with a man whose hand is so steady, you’d think he was Hawkeye himself.

Shakti concerts maintain no strict routine, dipping into the rich jazz tradition of improvisations and syncopation. In this particular concert, the proceedings come to an end with Vikku performing a solo on the Khanjira to a thunderous response by the Russian crowd. As someone who can play the khanjira (albeit the Western, Tambourine-like version), Vikku’s solo is a startling exposition of the gamut of sounds that the khanjira can cough up, when pushed to its boundaries. At once, Vikku transforms the khanjira into the light smattering of rain on a tin foil. And just as suddenly, it becomes a lion, roaring and ripping flesh off its prey.

And just as Vikku draws his symphony to an end, Zakir Hussain takes over on the Tabla.

I have watched Zakir Hussain perform since I was five years old, as he was a regular visitor to the ashram I grew up in. I was used to the long-winding, cocaine-crazed taals he pulled off with aplomb. A much younger, more hirsute Zakir Hussain was accompanied by his father the late Allah Rakha and brother Taufiq Qureshi.

And yet, it is when I see the performance through the eyes (lens) of the foreigner, when I hear the raptures of surprise and the moans of joy, that the real relevance of Shakti struck me. They were taking Indian music beyond the niche, connoisseurs of Arts. They were taking it to universities and colleges, introducing impressionable young minds from across the world to the enigmatic world of Indian classical music.

Zakir begins slowly, his fingers skirting the surface of the tabla in soft, measured steps. And then they slowly grow. One moment, they are anklets tied to dainty feet, and in the next, they are the feet of Shiva in the midst of the Taandav, trampling the earth under them. The hands holding the camera begin to shake, the hands playing the Tabla begin to blur, but the beats keep going, like a million tiny beads stringing together a gigantic necklace, until the end, when every member of the family pitches in to make the flame grow higher.

Perhaps the greatest proof of the performance can be seen in the reactions of U. Srinivas, who was quite close to his death at the time. He sits slouched and lifeless throughout the performance, but can’t resist claps and sighs when Zakir Hussain launches into the tirade of taal and theka.


C. GIRIRAJ SUTA by composed by Thyagaraja, sung by Shankar Mahadevan 

Another of Shakti’s staples, Giriraj Suta (wrongly spelt as Giriraj ‘Sudha’ in all Shakti albums for some reason) was composed by Thyagaraja, in praise of Ganesha. This version was adapted and written by Zakir Hussain. While the band prefers to open their performances with this number these days, my favourite rendition of the song is from the same performance in Russia.

In the video, John and Srinivas have just finished a powerful song, when Zakir Hussain welcomes Shankar Mahadevan on to the stage. In slow, halting English and using his hands to draw symbols and shapes, Zakir Hussain proceeds to explain to the largely Russian crowd about Guru Poornima, and the relevance of the festival.

What follows is one of the sparkiest renditions of the song I’ve seen. The audience is shocked and exasperated at the same time. And everytime they assume the song has ended, they launch into a thunderous applause…only to have Shankar switch gears and take it one notch higher. It happens again and again; Mahadevan slows down, teasing the audience – and quickly shoots out another magazine of sargam to the bedazzled crowd. When the song finally ends in a crescendo, the audience is too stunned to react!


D. ‘SAKHI’, traditional Thumri rearranged and rewritten by Zakir Hussain

‘Thumri’ is a form of vocals in Hindustani music, in which the singer extols the virtues of a lover. The lyrics most often denote love and pining; the form finding its origins in the Hindustani culture of Uttar Pradesh.

‘Sakhi’ is a beautiful thumri that sings about a lover waiting for her beloved. It has begun raining, she says, but you aren’t here yet. The song is stirring, sensual, and utterly captivating.

Shakti has performed the song numerous times, and there are a variety of versions on the internet. It is a tribute to the beauty of classical music,that no two renditions are similar. There is a version where Srinivas’ mandolin holds Mahadevan’s vocals and takes the song firmly into the domain of the Qawwali, and another where he turns it into a Carnatic keerthana, only to smile and let it flow onto Jazz later. In another version, there is a thin, unrecognisable voice that is just about holding the fort with the vocals.

And yet, it is not the song itself that fascinates me.

Remember ‘the moment’ I was talking about in the beginning of the post?

I had a small recording of the aalap on my phone, and would listen to it on and off. But the old phone vanished in the quick, untraceable manner that all Nokia phones began to vanish a few years ago, and soon, the tune was lost to me forever.

It was only years later, when I watched a clip of the Shakti concert at Hyderabad, that the moment came rushing back to me. The beginning of the song, the pigeons fluttering away in an asynchronous symphony. In the magical manner that only music can, I was transported back to the time. When the heart was lighter, the lungs clearer, when dreams were more lucid, and the soul less ridden with guilt.


This version of Sakhi is probably not the best version, musically. There are better versions of this song, but there is something about the video.

This particular performance was held in France, and a fantastic crew of French filmmakers captured the concert in the beautiful aesthetic style that seems to come naturally to the French.

Using montages, slow-motions, and weaving the audio with the video in the most symmetric, congruent manner possible, they create an output that gives me goosebumps every single time. It is a beautiful amalgamation of the rich musical traditions of North and South India, mixed with Western Jazz, seen through the prism of French cinematic aesthetics.

The other versions of the song do not capture the intricate, spiritual rapport that the musicians share among themselves. They way John smiles at Srinivas when he extends Shankar’s aalap. The minor frown that Shankar wears when John ventures into the deep jazzy solo. The racy interlude between the percussionists, like two friends running for their lives inside a hilly tunnel. The slow, assured beauty of the vocals that seem to sew everything up, like  ambrosia after a heavenly meal.

Sakhi for me is music at its most perfect, most sublime state.

They say that Time is a healer, but I doubt Time could ever compete with Music as a healer.

Sakhi, this particular song, helped me to wash myself of albatrosses around my neck. It taught me to let go, to smile and reminisce. May be life is like classical music. There is no single, perfect version, no ideal. That the joy lies in stringing together newer versions. Sakhi taught me to close my eyes. To listen. To take in a deep breath and blow out.


 (Featured Image Courtesy of Paul Bourdrel. Taken from