(Junay) songs of the road

People constantly discuss the Lata-Asha binary. Not so much Rafi versus Kishore fans. Gents often seem to love Asha (because fun) and Rafi (because emotionally intense). I won’t query the significance. I am not so bold also

First, I used to take kali peelis. And that usually meant Mohammed Rafi. Somehow all cabbies seemed to have the same compilation—I mentally dubbed it The Worst Hits of Mohammed Rafi. His most most mournful duniya ne thukraya laments.

People constantly discuss the Lata-Asha binary. Not so much Rafi versus Kishore fans. Gents often seem to love Asha (because fun) and Rafi (because emotionally intense). I won’t query the significance. I am not so bold also.

Yaniki, once I was in a cab with the photographer Sanjiv Saith. The worst hits parade began and I groaned. Sanjiv sang along to all, to my consternation. Finally, I had to ask, “do you just happen to know all these songs, or do you actually like all these songs?”. He gave me a cool look. “I know them all. And I like them.” I looked out of the window in self-preservation.

Still, I always chose a cab whose rear window revealed speakers. As soon as the meter dropped I’d say “gana chalao na.” “Raah gardishon mein har dam, mere ishq ka sitara” (oh my star-crossed love, beset by storms). Rafi sa’ab would sing, and I would accept it.

But once in a while, I would get lucky. This was in cabs where the driver would say, almost embarrassed, “I only have juna gana (vintage songs)”. These were usually the most eclectic music collections—Geeta, Kishore, Asha, Rafi singing songs more playful songs, duets especially. I wonder if the driver’s embarassment was about being juna, or just less doleful. Cab driver and passenger lost in private thoughts, but joined by the silky moonthread of the song, listened together. One of the city’s many fleeting intimacies.

My friend Anil Mashruwala, who loved old Hindi film songs, once travelled from Nariman Point to Andheri in one such cab. “I reached home, but sala, I didn’t want the feeling to stop so I told him, wapas chalo,” and drove all the way back down that road made of songs.

It was same-same, but different from autorickshaws. Here, accusatory version of Rafi sa’ab was replaced by Altaf Raja, and later Himmesh Reshammiya, partly a canny marketing ploy by T-series. Drivers were younger. Their speakers were always chunky and flashy with lights. In autos, I wanted new songs but not these bewafa sanam tujhe meri kasam because of you, I am drinking-rum variety of gents. I wanted the dancy stuff—akhiyon se goli maare and bin tere sanam —and felt thrilled when I got it. The auto was the home of jhankar beats, and with rexine windows to keep out the rain, it was our own mobile disco (mein jaayein jaayein). I’ve missed those autos this rainy week.

In Ubers, we rarely ask for music as we listen to our own on headphones. Occasionally, I’ve discovered new songs via younger Uber drivers—it’s how I discovered Emiway. But unlike kali peelis, app-cabs are somehow impersonal. 

The other day, on an offchance, I asked the driver if he had music. He said hesitantly, “Junay gaane ma’am.” That phrase after years! At first it was Mika, giving me a serious age reality check. But, then, suddenly, there was Rafi sa’ab. He smiled at me apologetically in the mirror “Driving alone all day, these songs speak my heart.” I smiled back, for real. Raaste anek, gana ek.

Paromita Vohra is an award-winning Mumbai-based filmmaker, writer and curator working with fiction and non-fiction. Reach her at paromita.vohra@mid-day.com

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