A love letter to R.D Burman on his 83rd birth anniversary

Pancham Da , today you would have turned 83 today, had you not left this world so early, but I console myself through the treasures that you’ve bequeathed us with. After all, not a day goes by without listening to the tunes and melodies that you’ve created. Amusingly though, on some days, it happens that I’m listening to a song that I don’t even know belongs to you, only to later find out that it does. Such is the ginormous and ever-encapsulating legacy that you leave behind. The world says that you forget people after they die, irrespective of how important they are, but not you. I’ve mourned your loss for every single day of my life, despite the fact that I wasn’t even around when you lived. It’s unfortunate, I never got to exist in this world at the same time as you, but you exist perennially across generations. You reside unfailingly in our cassettes, spotify playlists, reel audios, and of course, goes without saying hearts. You left this world almost 30 years ago, but the number of people who’ve become your fans, for whom your music has become an integral part of life (like me), are only multiplying. Even the best of the best, are forgotten with time, or remembered as an obligation on birth anniversaries, but you, spring back to life every day, as some or the other person out there, hears your music, and finds themselves to be enchanted beyond rationale. You’re an institution in yourself, the closest thing to the almighty, the very magician of music who snaps his fingers, and viola!  It’s rather surprising and sad, that in the last few years of your life, you were without work, because a few films tanked, and the industry that is infamous for being without compassion, abandoned you, only to resurrect you after your death, as the epoch of brilliance in Indian film music. It reminds you of the irony of life, and also how one must be humble, because if R.D Burman, the composer, the magician can be deserted, then us mortals really have no chance do we? Losing an artist is a very surreal thing. You’ve known them all along, and yet never truly know them. You’ve not been around in their lifetime, and yet decades after they live and die, you realize that you’ve lost a very important person. It’s personal and universal simultaneously. How do I mourn you, when I never even knew you while you were alive? But these metaphysical questions do not have the answers that the heart demands. I know it, because I’ve mourned a lot of people recently – people I didn’t know. You know, Pancham Da , we lost KK recently. He was phenomenal, and much like you, was a part of my everyday life. I wonder if you knew him, and if you did what you made of him? I want to believe that you would’ve loved him. His death reminded me of how music binds you, how it becomes a salve to your wounds, the glint of light in a room of darkness, a spark of joy and flicker of a love. It reminded me of how it stays, even if the one who has created it doesn’t. You may not be around today, but you make my day every single day. You may never realize, but you’ve been formative in what I make of life, and how I see this world around us. With Aap Ki Aankhon Mein, I learnt the ropes of love, and what it means to be simply bewitched by one’s existence. With Tujhse Naraz Nahi Zindagi, I learnt to forgive life, and to cry and laugh all at the same time, because they very well be sides of the same coin. I learnt to fall in love with the unpretentious beauty of life listening to Bade Acche Lagte Hain. In Zindagi Ke Safar, I saw how fickle human existence can be. I can go on and on, but the fact of the matter is that you are in every manner timeless, and immortal. Back in the day, music was known by the movie it came in, but today when I look back, I know that you’ve revolutionized music forever, because with songs and albums that captivate you, movies began being recognised through their songs. The very films that flopped, have songs that I’ve been listening to all my life. For instance, I didn’t even know there was a movie called, Doosri Sita, until I looked up Din Jaa Rahe Hai, to find out which film it belonged to. I’ve watched countless films for their music, because such was your sorcery when it came to tunes, beats and words. I don’t know whether or not this letter makes a whole lot of sense, but what I do know is that, in the process of writing this, I’ve come a little bit closer to explaining to you the significance of your sheer charm and genius. The child in me would tell you that, I wish you created music forever and ever, so that we’d never run out of new songs to listen to, but the adult in me knows that the best things come to end, so that they remain like that eternally, in our memories, and souls. Takshi Mehta is a freelance journalist and writer. She firmly believes that we are what we stand up for, and thus you’ll always find her wielding a pen. Read all the  Latest News ,  Trending News ,  Cricket News ,  Bollywood News ,  India News  and  Entertainment News  here. Follow us on  Facebook,  Twitter and  Instagram