Scrolling through my Instagram feed a few days ago, I noticed that somebody, whom I was following, had shared a post from a certain Rizwan ul Haque Official. Clicking on it to see where I would be led, took me to a tribute for Tere Liye Hai Mera Dil (originally performed by the acclaimed Vital Signs), by Rizwan ul Haque. Rizwan ul Haque used to be the lead guitarist of Pakistan's blockbuster band, Vital Signs.
While viewing the Instagram post, I initially felt that I was part of a dying breed who still listens to melodies and ballads from the 90s. The 90s, having seemingly passed several light years ago, makes this sentiment particularly poignant and true when I revisit music from that era and come back feeling a palpable sense of dissonance – as if there is somehow little to no connection between the present and what I believe was the most happening musical decade ever in Pakistan. Nostalgia? Reminiscence? Or longing for something that "was" and/or "can / will not ever be again"? I really don't know.
Music is an integral part of my daily routine; while engaging in domestic chores, cleaning and/or de-cluttering, or while needing to focus on tasks at hand, or (even) just wanting to erase the background noise, my go-to music is the one that I grew up listening to. I take a chance in sounding blasphemous when I say may God bless the melodies of Vital Signs as Junaid Jamshed croons away:
“Aapney aghaz sey aaj tuk zindagi
Teri hee soch mein gum rahee
Phir bhee janey mujhey kyoun yeh ehsaas hai
Jaisey chahat meri kum rahee hooo”
As I mentioned earlier, either or all of the nostalgia, reminiscing, and a longing for times gone by.
Let's take a drive into memory lane. Released in 1991, Tere Liye Hai Mera Dil was a part of Vital Sign's second album. After sharing this post to my own Instagram stories, I started following Rizwan ul Haque and immediately (and very blatantly) engaged in a quick question-answer session with him.
The song was recorded in Karachi, with EMI as the label involved and recordings being done in their industrial area office. A favourite of the band itself – the song was a hit with fans, too, and was regularly requested at gigs. I recall that Nusrat Hussain was a part of the Vital Signs —before Rizwan ul Haque joined — and (fun fact) he was the one who had started writing the lyrics to Tere Liye. The band first came up with the melody and later started penning the lyrics. And the "Tere liye hai mera dil, meri jaan" was originally intended for Pakistan – making it a patriotic song and a follow-up to their hit anthem Dil Dil Pakistan. But Nusrat Hussain had left the group before completing this song, and Shoaib Mansoor eventually finished writing the song – converting it from its original patriotic premise to the romantic ballad that we know it today.
I guess different people, places, and eras bring different perspectives, which is a universal concept. But despite this song being over three decades old as we speak, notice that the lyrics are entirely platonic yet eternally deep. Maybe this is exactly how Shoaib Mansoor envisioned this song – making him the creative genius he is known to be.
Coming back to the present day, I shared the YouTube link to this song with friends, and the insights they shared were brilliant. One friend mentioned that he had dedicated this song to his future wife at some school event when they were "only just dating". On a personal note, I can very easily listen to this track on a loop and not get tired of it. A colleague at work said that his daughter loved the "implied aesthetics" of the lyrics, and a neighbour (residing in the same building as me) said that her son found the "vibe" to this song eerily comforting.
While such comments coming from my own generation were very much expected, hearing Gen Alpha's views was simultaneously endearing and unsettling. Does this mean there is still a "breed" (read: love and/or yearning) for such music? But did that make me old? Or somewhat unyielding to changing tastes, moods, trends and yes, music — that I find little to very little (if any) pleasure in a lot of the stuff being churned out in the name of music these days?
When I was growing up, we learned about new songs at Mehndis and Mayouns. NTM and STN were there with the famous Music Channel Charts, and having a personal video player was a distant dream for many of us. A cousin's wedding in the early '90s introduced me to Pardesiya Yeh Such Hai Piya and Dafli Wale, and it would be several years later that I would actually get to see videos of these songs on some cable channel. Most likely the "dish antennas", if you remember what these are. During the same era, go-to dholki songs included the likes of Alamgir's Main Ne Tumhari Gagar Se Kabhi Paani Piya Tha and Dekha Na Tha and Nazia Hassan's Taali De Thallay Bayke. And why wouldn't they be? Even the newer pop singers introduced us to music that was captivating enough to catch onto our elders.
As soon as the umpteenth song was over, I made my way across to the centre of this "happening" crowd and asked, "What about Goray Rung Ka Zamana?" Of the 30-odd youngsters I was addressing, only one recognised the song I was talking about, and the rest exchanged rather puzzled looks.
Indeed, it was a huge feat that everyone back then (toddlers to our elders) sang Dil Dil Pakistan together. We later entered the very happening HAHK and DDLJ revolution (read: Hum Aapke Hain Kaun and Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge), and more songs entered the mehndi playlists of that time – including Mehndi Laga Ke Rakhna and Didi, Tera Dewar Deewana.
But a big shocker jolted me during the 2023 edition of Decemberistan, through a series of ultra-fashionable mehndis, mayouns and dholkis that I attended.
Seated around the dholak, dafli in hand, I was all set to start off with the age-old Je Je Shive Shankar, Ye Ladka Haye Allah and Jawad Ahmed's Mahendi when I suddenly saw myself at the receiving end of a very pervasive and collective revolted look – obviously from the aforementioned Gen Alpha. And so the first song that spilt forth from this crowd came from a completely unchartered territory: alien, if possible. All I can recall is lots of chantings of "thag le, thag le" that had very few references to a bonafide romance, an actual wedding or even a Dulhaniya – for that matter. By the end of it all, "Chaleya, Chaleya" and "My Joona, My Joona" were at the tip of my tongue and the top of my mind. And I all but lost my patience as I watched these youngsters raise their "air-frothed" coffee cups in the air and pretend to swoon in a pseudo-drunken stupor to the lyrics of these songs.
As soon as the umpteenth song was over, I made my way across to the centre of this "happening" crowd and asked, "What about Goray Rung Ka Zamana?" Of the 30-odd youngsters I was addressing, only one recognised the song I was talking about, and the rest exchanged rather puzzled looks. They thrust a paper and a pen into my face and suggested, "Why don't you write the lyrics here and then we might sing it later?" But before I could respond, the dhol was already thumping away to yet another round of Chaleya, Chaleya!
As the coffee cups rose to the sky once again amidst cheers and a trance-like swooning, I very literally and actually felt my brain freeze as I started realising that hardly anyone there knew Goray Rung Ka Zamana. And the one that did, would rather sing the Thag Le song.
Sighing, I stood up. It was time to indulge in some food therapy; the prospect of halwa puri, kebab paratha and kachori appeared rather enticing. And a coffee cup would do just fine with it, if not the Kashmiri chai that tradition dictated. Because, after all:
"Aayey gee eik baar
khogayee jo bahar
Mein isee aaas mein jeeyoun ga"