Old Bollywood songs are a treasure trove for every mood, every occasion, every relationship

When the going gets tough, we turn to our favourite guilty pleasures. But when entertainment is concerned, is there even any guilt to what gives one pleasure? In our new series Pleasure Without Guilt, we look at pop offerings that have been dissed by the culture police but continue to endure as beacons of unadulterated pleasure. * The one lullaby that my mother crooned me to sleep when I was an infant was ‘Mere Ghar Aayi Ek Nanhi Pari,’ a song from Yash Chopra’s 1976 film Kabhi Kabhie. Years later, when I left home for college and couldn’t sleep in the strange new surroundings for the first few nights, I’d listen to the  Lata Mangeshkar  song on earphones and in no time, would be snoring peacefully. We are a family of five. We are as different as the members of any family are. The only thing that unites us all is music. Albeit in our different ways, we all seek refuge in it, get inspired from it, find answers and joy in it. Our personal taste in music differs but we all love old Bollywood songs. My siblings and I have grown up listening to them endlessly, thanks to our parents, who are ardent admirers. For us children, first came the songs. The films followed much later. Whether it’s raining or a family get-together or a weekend or we are traveling or killing time during a power-cut, we always invariably find ourselves turning to old Hindi movie songs. To date, we, as a family, are invincible at antaksharis.

I remember, even when I was as young as five years old, I could sing word for word several of Mangeshkar, Mohammad Rafi, Kishore Kumar, RD Burman, and Asha Bhosle songs. I didn’t know what they meant, which movies they were from, or who acted in them, but I knew them by heart.

Old Bollywood music is how I communicate — it is how I laugh, cry, live, and love. It forms the backdrop of most of my fondest memories, friendships, and relationships.

I can never forget a cousin’s pre-wedding celebration. We were on the terrace sitting around a bonfire and playing pass-the-parcel. When I got out, I was asked to tell how I felt about the person sitting to my right through a song. To my right sat a distant, much older cousin brother, someone I had a reverential attachment for. We shared a formal but close bond. Growing up, he’d nurtured me in his quiet, unassuming ways. He always made himself available and extended support whenever I needed it, even when it was difficult or inconvenient for him. But I never got a chance to thank him for his many kindnesses. So that cold January night three years ago, I looked at him and sang, “Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koi, yu hi nahi dil lubhaata koi. Jaane tu ya jaane na, maane tu, yaa maane naa.” When I was done, I saw his eyes moisten. Everybody around us fell silent. He got up, and did something he had never done before — he hugged me.

When I was in Delhi during my early journalistic career, I was often put on late-night shifts. Everyone who left the office after 11 PM got a cab ride home. Often, during the long commute, the cab would fill with melodies from an era long gone, courtesy late-night radio. One time, a senior illustrator, a known connoisseur of old Bollywood music, was sitting in the front. Madhubala’s ‘Aaiye Meherbaan’ was playing on the radio. Listening to it, he lamented how the younger generation knew little about our viraasat, and what a tragedy it was. To drive home his point, he next asked if anyone in the cab knew which film the iconic song was from. No one said anything. He was about to launch into another tirade when I, sitting right behind him, said, “Howrah Bridge.” He turned around. And smiled. He asked me my name and the team I was from. The next afternoon, he came to my desk and said hello. From then on, it became a ritual. If we were in the same cab, he would ask me about a song playing on the FM. That would launch us into a spirited, nostalgic conversation. We would discuss unheard stories, trivia, our favourites, and whatnot. Those midnight chats with him, coupled with the heartwarming melodies that played in the background, made those rides back home a tad less dreary and a lot more fun.

When I had just started dating my boyfriend, the energy between us was electrifying. We were about a month into the relationship, and we’d barely held hands. I knew he was waiting for a cue from me but I didn’t know how to go about it. So I made a playlist. The next time we went on a drive, after about half an hour, I put it on. First played ‘Dekha Ek Khwaab’ from Yash Chopra’s 1981 film Silsila. Next followed ‘Kya Ghazab Karte Ho Ji’ from Kumar Gaurav’s 1981 film Love Story. By the time ‘Bahon Mein Chale Aao’ from  Jaya Bachchan’ s 1973 film Anamika came on, he’d stopped the car and was grinning from ear to ear. I know countless people who, much like Rahul Khanna’s character in  Wake Up Sid , look down upon old Bollywood songs and the people who listen to them. They find it too massy, too populist. However, I, much like Konkona Sensharma’s character, love them, not just because they are easy to sing and relatable, but also because they are incredibly therapeutic and poetic. Jazz and The Beatles are all great but nothing compares to playing Lamhe’s ‘Megha Re Megha’ every time it rains or Julie’s ‘Ye Raatein Nayi Purani’ in the weeks leading up to the new year. Read more from the Pleasure Without Guilt series  here . When not reading books or watching films, Sneha Bengani writes about them. She tweets at @benganiwrites.