Songs as time machines, our memory bookmarks

Purvanchal’s migrants carry the music of 1990s with them to this day. HT Archive

The year is 1996. It’s a cold December morning, you are riding pillion with your hands wrapped around your dad’s waist, as he rides his Rajdoot motorcycle to drop you at school because you missed the bus. Missed buses are a mini-calamity for middle-class households, as if they are the first domino falling which will lead to a failed career and, eventually, a distress-sale of the ancestral house. Your father is furious, and how your lack of morning discipline will lead to loss of shareholder value you create in life and other such rebukes come your way. You are a 10-year-old.

“Jaldi subah nahi uthoge to yahi reh jaaoge (If you don’t rise early, you will have to stay here),” you are warned — desi parents’ worst nightmare is their kids not being able to emigrate. You swallow it all, immobile with guilt with your ear stuck to his back which allows you to sense the words ringing from inside him. You wait patiently for things to cool down.

And they do. You are in the last stretch of the ride, which he has eased into — probably a bit guilty about all the harsh words said, but conditioned by society to not apologise.........

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