AS IF TO PROVE HIS DETRACTORS WRONG, as if to silence those criticisms that his music cannot be got until you listen to it over and over – like imposition, filling that blackboard in your mind with grimly repeated resolves of “The next time around, I will like this song better” – AR Rahman has composed… Wait, that’s not the word, for “composed” gives the impression of a certain rigidity of structure, of a schema, of following a premeditated thought to its predetermined conclusion, whereas the
instantly fall-in-lovable Kabhi kabhi Aditi (from the album, Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na) sounds like Rahman did nothing more than cup his ear to the chest of a college-goer in love and translate those heartbeats into notes.
After a succession of stately, senior-citizen scores, how delightful it is to see Rahman strutting about in jeans again, an iPod stuffed in the back pocket. When I heard that this notoriously non-prolific composer had two soundtracks due to hit stores at the same time – and after a quick glance westwards to assure myself that the sun wasn’t about to rise there – I thought, this week, I’d record my thoughts about Ada and Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na in this column. But that’s not going to be possible – though I’ll admit that a one-time listen of Ada has resulted in no overbearing urge to return to it anytime soon – because the endless listens to Kabhi kabhi Aditi have left me with barely any time to get to the other tracks.
How do I love this song? Let me count the ways. I love the way the rhythm kicks in like an afterthought, well into the second line, changing – in an instant – the texture of the number that you thought was going to be coloured primarily by whiny pickings on an acoustic guitar. I love the gradual buildup and explosion in the stanzas, as the everything’s-gonna-be-okay shrug from earlier is fleshed out into doggerel universalities – that the bleakness of night will once again give way to the light of day, that the flowers will bloom once more. (The actor-playwright Noël Coward once expressed his astonishment at “how potent cheap music is.” When you’re a certain age, I guess the same could be said of dime-store philosophising.) And I love the repeated pleas to Aditi to please, please, please get out of her blue funk and crack a smile: Hey Aditi, has de, has de, has de, has de, has de, has de tu zara / Nahin to bas thoda, thoda, thoda, thoda, thoda, thoda muskura.
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