The Worlds Inside a Song: Why Irshad Kamil’s songs remind us of home

“Some of the phrases that find their way into my songs are those that I have heard around me at various junctures in my life. Many songs come from the visuals one’s memory holds,” says Kamil. While he has written for many composers and directors, his writing seems to have found its fullest expression in his long-running collaboration with Imtiaz Ali. While it was earlier with Pritam, for the last few years, he has worked more with AR Rahman. Despite coming from very different geographies, it is intriguing how Ali, Rahman and Kamil inhabit the same emotional world. “There has been no better partnership of this sort in contemporary Hindi cinema. Irshad’s metaphors from his Punjabi viraasat are unique,” says filmmaker, lyricist and stand-up comedian Varun Grover.

The raw angst in Sadda Haq (Rockstar) drew from Punjab’s kisaan aandolans of the ’80s.

The raw angst in Sadda Haq (Rockstar, 2011), for instance, drew from Punjab’s kisaan aandolans of the ’80s, when the rallying cry ‘Sadda haq, aithe rakh’ appeared on walls and Kamil saw it his way to school. The protest anthem was also heard during the recent Jantar Mantar protests, acquiring resonance among Gen Z. A wedding song in Love Aaj Kal (2009) came from a grandmother in his working-class neighbourhood in Malerkotla, where ‘jhai’, as everyone called her, was the superstar of sangeet nights, singing titillating lyrics. Kamil drew on her for Thoda thoda pyar. If for Amar Singh Chamkila, he returned to his youth in the insurgency-ridden Punjab of the ’80s, Kamil’s more recent work includes top-tier writing for Ali’s Main Vaapas Aaunga, rooted in the Partition stories he grew up knowing through family and what he heard and read as the collective grief of the region.

What makes the Kamil-Rahman-Ali partnership work

Probably what has allowed the Kamil-Rahman-Ali collaboration to run smoothly is that the trio does not have to deal with the tyranny of numbers or compulsion to chase a hit song, despite an industry increasingly governed by streams and reels. “Besides a mutual respect for each other’s craft, there is also never any pressure to deliver a hit. Kaam karne mein maza aana chahiye. Ab uss kaam se maza lene ki khwahish mein kuch cheezein aisi ho jaati hain jo routine se alagh hoti hain. Perhaps that freedom is the secret,” says Kamil.

In the Partition saga, Kamil’s Ishq Mastana draws from Kabir’s famed line Haman hai ishq mastana. He chose it for the love story of a Sikh boy and a Muslim girl, not only because the 15th-century poet-saint straddled both Hindu and Muslim worlds without belonging to either but also because of Kabir’s directness. “If I had used a line by another poet, it probably wouldn’t have landed the same way. Also, the ease in it, aaj ki zubaan lagti hai and still has history in it gentle quiet love song, it is the last piece Kamil wrote for the film. The pain of two lovers separated by a newly drawn border, comes through; the language stays conversational, a hallmark of Kamil’s writing. Jaise paani paas pyaase tere paas main / Jaise dil ke hain dilaase, tere paas main, writes Kamil. “This song was my last attempt to sum up the film. By that time, I believe I had understood their pain well.”

Irshad Kamil with long-time collaborator, director Imtiaz Ali.

Its tenderness and Rahman’s simple, intimate melody have allowed the song to linger. In the social-media universe, seldom has a song found a life beyond a couple of weeks like this. “It is always more challenging to work with a great composition and much harder to fulfil it. Takkar ke lafz aane chahiye. Chaliye lafz bhi aa gaye, usi takkar ke emotional lafz aane chahiye…” says Kamil.

Grover once heard Issaqbaazi by Kamil in the flop that was Zero (2018), and was confused with the line: Re sahiba padhaku thi, Mirza tha tain, Tabhi toh wo English thi, desi hoon main. Kamil told him it was a historical fact in the folk tragedy, Sahiba and Mirza. “I was amazed how something from history was so deftly transported in an item song,” says Grover. “Irshad, for me, is immensely inspiring… That clarity has existed in my mind since Rockstar and Highway. Sooha saaha amma ka… how can anyone come up with that imagery, I wonder. It is brilliant,” says Grover.

Malerkotla, where it all began

To understand Kamil, one has to begin with Malerkotla, the town in Punjab’s Malwa region where he was born and raised. Malerkotla carries a distinctive history. Its Muslim rulers had a long association with the Sikh community, famously through Nawab Sher Mohammad Khan’s protest against the sentence handed to Guru Gobind Singh’s two sons by the ruler of Sirhind. Khan argued that executing children was unjust. The boys were executed nevertheless, but the Sikh community held the Nawab’s intervention in high regard. It became a story of solidarity that tied the two communities beyond their common language. To date, many Muslims frequent local gurdwaras, while community iftar meals are common during Ramzaan.

When Partition tore through Punjab in 1947, Malerkotla remained relatively calm. Its Muslim population largely decided to not leave. Kamil’s family, too, stayed back. It is this little town that Kamil identifies as home, this secular space that he absorbed before he could even think of it as an influence. “Koi khushi hamesha padi rehti hai vahan mitti mein dabi huyi (Some happiness always lies there, buried beneath the earth),” Kamil wrote of Malerkotla in his book Kaali Aurat Ka Khwaab (Vani Prakashan), which traces the stories behind his songs and the journey that led him to the ‘Black Lady’, his first Filmfare Award in 2010.

He remains deeply connected to those streets, his friends, family, neighbours. “We have some farmland there. I work there when I go. Apni jaddon ki taraf jab aap vaapis ho jaate hain, shayad thode se aur hare ho jaate hain, thode aur zinda ho jaate hain (When you return to your roots, perhaps you become a little greener, a little more alive). It is also a great leveller. I am still that same boy for them, not a film lyricist,” says Kamil.

Irshad Kamil during his college days

The youngest of seven siblings, Kamil grew up in a modest home in a neighbourhood largely inhabited by masons, carpenters and painters. His father worked in the chemistry department at the local government college and his plan for his children was clear: an education, followed by a job and then raising a family. While poetry was appreciated, it was never a career option.

Kamil studied at Sanatan Dharam Prem Pracharak High School, an all-boys school, that introduced him to theatre. After his Class 10 exams, he one day heard a ghazal programme titled Aabshaar on All India Radio’s Urdu service and was drawn by the world it opened up. “I was captivated by the way two lines could hold something so much larger within them,” says Kamil.

From love letters to film lyrics

His experiments with writing, however, were steeped in the ordinary anxieties of first love. Boys from the boys’ school went to co-ed college, met girls and “began falling in love”. Kamil began writing love letters for them, finding phrases that others were struggling to articulate.

While Kamil was enrolled as a science student “because my parents wanted me to be an engineer”, he found little affinity with the subjects. After failing to clear his Maths and Physics exams, he went to Shimla with his friends for a jaunt with Rs 500 before preparing for supplementary exams. He couldn’t tell his parents, so he decided not to return. The eight months there became his training ground. He joined Himachal Theatre and did a few plays, including Tagore’s Kabuliwala. He came back on the condition that he would study Hindi literature. He also began writing poetry for the college magazine — a start to his original writing.

Around this time, Kamil, who was born Mohammad Irshad, decided to course-correct another issue. Even though it is central to poetic customs, Kamil disliked his given name. “I thought a name needed to carry some weight, like Amitabh Bachchan,” he says. His mother and he scoured a dictionary and zeroed in on Kamil (meaning complete). “It fit better,” he says.

After a Master’s in Hindi followed by a diploma in journalism, Kamil did a PhD in contemporary Hindi poetry from Punjab University in Chandigarh. “Its open atmosphere was a period of mental adjustment,” says Kamil. Since being a poet was not going to pay much and he did not want to teach, Kamil worked as a journalist, initially for The Tribune and then for Loksatta. One of his assignments was to interview director Lekh Tandon, who was shooting the show Daraar in the city. Tandon wanted a local writer as he was tired of waiting for the screenplay to reach him via courier from Mumbai. He turned to Kamal Tiwari, Chairman of Chandigarh Sangeet Natak Akademi, who recommended Kamil on the phone while he sat with Tandon in his hotel room for his interview. “Tandon saab turned to me and said, ‘Kaka, tera na ki hai? (Child, what is your name?) He got back to the phone and said, ‘He is sitting right here’,” recalls Kamil. He subsequently worked extensively on Tandon’s screenplays and found much appreciation.

But as weekly, well-made shows turned into daily soaps, with quality dwindling and writers’ credits lost, Kamil lost interest. He began writing Punjabi songs for friends and left his job, deciding to move to Mumbai with Rs 9,000. “Institutions will not teach you life. Only life will teach you life,” says Kamil, who returned soon after as he couldn’t take to Mumbai.

The Struggle Years in Mumbai

The first song one heard from Irshad Kamil was “Bhaage re man” from Chameli.

It wasn’t very long before Kamil collected some more courage and money and returned to Mumbai. The money got over again and so did the courage. With the last Rs 500, one could either return home or use it for food. Kamil returned home again. “These things are important. You don’t value it if you haven’t endured enough for it. Stories of struggle are not just stories. It is not about someone being hungry in Bombay. Dimaag mein kya chala hoga, haunsla kaise toota hoga? Kya usne apne hunar pe shaq kiya hoga? The way that inner turmoil can change a person, it cannot be expressed in words,” says Kamil. He called a few composers and felt insulted when they would either not meet or were unavailable. One of his friends asked him to call composer Sandesh Shandilya, who agreed to meet and was impressed by Kamil’s recitation.

Around the same time, Ali was looking for a writer for his debut, Socha Na Tha (2005). Shandilya recommended Kamil. This would become a significant creative partnership. Kamil’s words found an easy kinship with Ali’s world of love, longing and the search for oneself. He finally won the Filmfare for Ajj din chadheya (Love Aaj Kal, 2009) and Nadaan parindey (Rockstar, 2011). He has never won a National Award. However, the first song one heard from Kamil was Bhaage re man (Chameli, 2003), which put him on the music map of Hindi films.
What has also really worked in Kamil’s writing is a unique mix of Urdu, Hindi and often Punjabi. His command over all three has resulted in an authentic blend. Patakha guddi, Nagada nagada, Ajj din chadheya are a few examples. “I disliked the use of bad Punjabi in Hindi songs that often meant nothing. I wanted respectful use of literary Punjabi. I also wanted to exalt the idea of love in songs,” says Kamil. What worked for the industry was that he could write Kun faya kun, Tumse hi din hota hai and also Tune maari entriyaan.

Barring Rahman, who gives enough liberty to Kamil to write and even adjusts lyrics (unheard of these days), the lyricist continues to fight for words in a common tussle with composers and producers. “No one wants to change an approved composition. Sometimes they want a certain syllable/sound in the end. That specificity is problematic,” says Kamil.

These days, he is also collaborating with Papon for Mehfilz with Papon — Irshad, where the singer sings Kamil’s ghazals, poetry that often does not find an opportunity in films.

After three decades, Kamil’s songs may have travelled much farther than the lanes where they began and even acquired a universality. The resonance to much of the writing, perhaps comes from the fact that he still hasn’t left the simpler world that made him. He keeps returning to the same soil, where people say ordinary things that become special in a song.

At a time when the Hindi film song increasingly feels like fast fashion, it is the unrushed quality of Kamil’s songs, their stubbornness to stay in one’s head, that continues to make old feelings feel new again.