Pal and Yaaron gave KK a legacy of its own by becoming anthems for life and friendship

How is a singer usually remembered? Through the quality of his voice? The many melodies he or she has been part of? The distance and languages their music travelled? It’s an open-ended question really because how we remember artistes is subjective, almost a function of how we embraced them within the context of our shared lives. Krishnakumar Kunnath, or KK as most of us knew him, is probably remembered not for the audacity of his vocal repertoire, the science-defying technicalities of his vocal cords, but purely for the moment in history that he represents. For a post-globalization India that had begun to familiarise itself with western culture and by extension some of the most iconic western music, KK, who died tragically at the age of 53 yesterday, possibly represented the moment when India’s music scene, truly came-of-age in a modern sense. Both Pal and Yaaron, embody that cultural shift when at least the Hindi-speaking audience of this country began to believe that ‘anthems’ weren’t just a foreign concept.

There are so many memories attached to KK’s voice, his collaboration with an emerging Emraan Hashmi , “Dus Bahane Karke” that was perhaps modern India’s first true Hindi party ballad and yet KK would be remembered at least by the generation that grew up in the 90s, for giving meaning to everything we wanted say and sing, but couldn’t. Of course, there are countless listicles, nostalgia pieces that look back at the late 90s through the tint of warmth. KK didn’t exactly nurse the 90s but arrived at the end of them, at a time when the country was at war with their neighbour. It wasn’t perhaps the time for angst or existentialism but the kind of music that breathed significance into ordinary lives. It’s exactly what ‘Pal’ and ‘Yaaron’ did for an entire generation.

Who hasn’t grown up through the 90s and not sung Yaaron on one of those getaway picnics you get to by the school bus or that awkward freshers’ parties where vows are made for life. All my travels and treks during the days of college, when we were restless young men seeking some sort of truth on mountains and inside jungles, are punctuated by these timeless songs. From listening to them at secretive parties at a friend’s house to belting them together through the many treks we undertook as young but penniless kids, to the hilariously sentimental moments when a friend has had a few too many, and therefore thought the world of you and your relationship.

Think of these two songs in the shadow of the Kargil and you kind of understand why an entire generation connected with them, the simple yet emotional depth of these songs. These are neither poetic or profoundly written verses, but it is the simplicity of the elocution that helped KK arrive on the scene, not like a superstar but as the seamless thread that help band us all together. Which is where KK’s influence on Indian music probably dwarfs his cultural impact on the socio-political fallout of an India at war. Cinema and culture, in general, would of course respond to the war with patriotism, but while our spirits gravitated towards the borders, in an attempt to solidify them, our souls remained at home. They did ordinary things, like live at 12 Kmph, pursue modest careers and commit to uncertain futures.

At times like these, if someone can say the obvious, in an obvious way, it can attain the importance of profundity. It’s exactly what KK did through Pal and Yaaron, celebrate the significance of memory and the importance of friendship. It’s what kids like me have grown up singing, believing and wholesomely dedicating their lives too. KK didn’t exactly revolutionise music, push genres or enthral with otherworldly bio-mechanics that allows singers and performers do all sorts of things. He instead strung together two songs, sung without the haste of pop or the obscurity of alternate music at a time when Indians, it’s young especially wanted to express, say things out loud, but couldn’t really do so. Internet jargon would come later, but KK’s Yaaron, would perhaps be India’s first SOL (sing out loud) moment. It’s an anthem, without the ferocity or the stubbornness of an anthem. It’s beautiful without the weight of carrying that beauty.

There is really no right age for an artist to pass on, but in context of this unexpected death, KK leaves a legacy that despite two decades, worth of memorable music had been coined in the beginning itself. Our friendships may not have lasted, because life is cruel and we are flawed, but in KK’s Pal and Yaaron, there are etched moments that all of us will always look back upon as the moment where we truly felt pulled towards something, convinced that it would indeed last. And even though nothing, like life, does, it is worthwhile being in that moment and singing, as if, with a dubious assumption of immortality.

Manik Sharma writes on art and culture, cinema, books, and everything in between.

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