Reflections on a spirit-lifting song

Essay #12

Note: in this piece, the author shares his love for a song that helps him cope in difficult times. Hope you enjoy what he has to say about this song and on music in general.

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Every art form has its uses but the form most palpably utilitarian is music. Its effects can be detected easily. That’s probably why there are specific songs meant for specific occasions. From the proclamatory zeal of patriotic songs to the intimacy of jazz, music sets the mood. Regardless of how feeble the volume or how little the attention paid to it, a change of song does something to the vibe of the room that even the most music-agnostic nut, if it’s possible to be such a thing, is able to sense it. 

A piece of music allows itself to be treated as a mood-altering pill and people don’t shy away from obliging. There are personal playlists that are supposed to perform specific functions for them. People treat the playlists as medical prescriptions. There are go-to songs for different conditions. In theory, this deterministic approach to consuming music doesn’t allow a space for exploration and serendipity. Should you not let the music come to you instead of you going to the music? Should you not let a random playlist play on and give you new songs to discover? These questions are valid until you feel down in the dumps, and are in a desperate need of something that could pull you out of it. Where to turn? Probably to poetry, definitely to music. My go-to song when I am feeling low is Moora, sung by Sneha Khanwalkar. You can listen to it here -

Of course, there are other songs I discovered before Moora that came to my help and I still enjoy listening to them. There is Zinda that says ‘if you are alive, fill the cup of life and drink the hell out of it’; there is Kandhon se milte hain kandhe that says ‘no matter what happens, we have to be the fire that melts rocks, we have to be the clouds that spread across the sky’; there is Behney Do that says ‘I am a river, let me flow’; there is Aashayein that says ‘tear off the storm and snatch away your destination’; there is Naav that says ‘brace yourself to either do or die’. These are the ones I can think of now, there would certainly be more. But Moora is different. There is much more to these songs than their lyrics, of course, but none of them, despite how good they are musically, invoke intimacy the way Moora does. If these songs forcefully drag you out of the ditch, Moora lures you out of it. 

The song doesn’t start with many instruments. There is just the bass guitar and the acoustic guitar (might as well be the banjo) playing when a mildly hoarse voice starts singing the consolatory lyrics that comprises a series of what sounds like empty instructions - don’t be nervous, don’t be frustrated, don’t be upset and so on. The voice sounds exhausted and the exhaustion seems to be coming from crying all night along with the man down in the dumps. The singer seems to know that it is a hopeless situation and the voice makes no attempts to hide it. This is what makes the instructions in the lyrics not-so-empty. There is a Ghalib sher that goes like this - 

Despite giving advice, the singer seems to be the sympathiser (not the advisor) from the Ghalib sher, simply by virtue of the way she sings, carrying the burden of the depressing moment. It becomes cheerful and upbeat later, when the instruments come together and the voice gains some energy.

But the way it is sung is not the only reason I love this song. The lyrics too are inventive and one never gets used to them. It is full of made-up words whose meanings are crystal clear. There is, of course, the stereotype of adding suffixes like ‘aao’ and ‘wa’ to English words to make them sound like Bhojpuri - nervousaao (getting nervous), frustiyao (getting frustrated), moodwa (mood), fightwa (fight) and so on. But the part that never fails to lift my mood is - nahi loojiye ji hope. Loojiye being the Bhojpuri-English khichdi of the word ‘lose’.

The song is from the cult-classic movie Gangs of Wasseypur and it cannot be seen without this context. With loojiye what comes to mind is the deadpan face of Huma Qureshi’s character (Mohsina) whose performance of serious acts invoke a million mirthful responses. And yet, the character is not a caricature by any means. In all her scenes, she probably commands the strongest presence. So does loojiye in this song. There could not be a better example of the difference between humorous and comic, whimsical and slapstick. 

Imagine a child crying after losing its prized possession - a tennis ball or something. His world is shattered and nothing makes sense. In that horrible world of his, imagine someone giving him a chocolate wrapped in a shiny wrapper he has never seen before. The tears haven’t dried in his eyes, his brows are still furrowed no longer out of despair but curiosity. He examines the chocolate and a smile returns to his wet face. Like this child, every time I listen to the song, I am dazzled by the shiny wrappers of loojiye, refujao, moodwa, chancewa and so on. These wrappers make light of the moment that is supposed to be heavy, and remind me how ridiculous seriousness can be.

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