When Music Wasn’t Just Sound, It Was Memory
Growing up in Bahundangi, my relationship with music wasn’t casual. It was sacred. Songs weren’t just playing in the background, they were part of the family. Like I said in my earlier blogs, it used to be our alarm, from 5am it used to start playing at dad’s room and entire house used to listen old, retro or classic Hindi movie songs.
I still remember our cassette collection, stacked carefully inside a cartoon box next to our National Panasonic player. Labels in half-faded posters of old hindo movies: Most of them were originals, some of them were mix tapes, but all of them had a story.
And yes, rewinding with a pencil? Total pro skill. “Please Google” it is the same feeling when you say “Boomer” 😂
The near cassette shop from Bahundangi was Naxalbari at that time, and I used to visit with dad once in a while to see what new albums dad’d bought. Buying new cassettes felt like bringing home treasure.
There was time when my ender sister used to write lyrics of songs straight from Radio Nepal, I mean this needs skills, speed and very sharp memory power.
It Wasn’t Just Music. It Was Us.
I used to danced on I am a Disco Dancer, Kaise Bani (Lahore Bina Chatani Kaise Bani, Jhilele Jhiele and many more on my childhood. I once danced on Aisa Pelli Baar Hua Satraa Athraa Saalon mein, with one of the best friends Raju on wedding, We didn’t care about perfect moves, the song itself was magic. It gave confidence. It gave identity.
These songs weren’t composed for virality. They were born to stay. That’s why they still sit somewhere deep, in our childhood, in our quiet evenings, in our long drives.
Even now, when I drive alone, I often play RD Burman, Kishore Kumar, Mohd Rafi, Lata, Asha and what not. I don’t skip. I don’t shuffle. I just drive, listen, and feel. Because these songs… they still listen to me. The lyrics still feels relatable, most of all the lyrics are still in memory word by word.
We Appreciated Upgrades, Until They Broke the Feeling
Let me be clear, I’m not against change. As an 80s kid, I witnessed how upgrades made our experience better.
I remember when Walkmans evolved. The newer versions could detect silence between songs. You pressed fast forward, and it stopped exactly at the next track. That wasn’t just a feature, it was thoughtfulness. It respected our experience. It made things better without touching the soul of the song.
But then came the remix era. Instead of enhancing, it started distorting. They didn’t detect any emotional gap, they just crammed bass, added rap verses, changed tempos and claimed “it’s better.”
And for people like me, huge music lovers who grew up soaking every line, every tune, every pause, these “upgrades” felt like noise.
We didn’t feel connected. Not because we’re stuck in time. But because feelings don’t trend. They stay. And most remakes simply don’t stay.
It’s Not Just Sound That Hurts, It’s What Gets Lost
When I first heard the remixed “Tere Liye” from Veer Zaara, and worst of all Tere Bina Zindagi from Aaandhi, I actually paused. Not because of awe, but because of pain. I died little that day.
When I heard Tip Tip Barsha Paani remake for the first time. That song was something I had once watched secretly on TV (different story, we will talk later). It had mystery, charm, and a softness that felt forbidden and magical. The remake? It felt like an Instagram reel trying to trend. No depth. No goosebumps.
It’s like someone rewrote an old love letter using emojis and hashtags.
I’m not angry. I’m just disconnected.
Let the Originals Be. Let New Songs Be Born.
We don’t mind that the new generation has their own music. In fact, they deserve their own legends, their own playlists, their own mixtapes of memories.
But don’t erase ours in the process. Don’t repaint our songs in neon when they were made to be pastel and sepia.
Let the originals be what they are. They’ve already done their job, held our hands through breakups, given us courage on stage, made us cry in buses, and helped us fall in love.
We Still Listen. Because They Still Feel New.
For us 80s kids, music wasn’t background. It was foreground. It was never just a track. It was a time machine.
But here’s where the frustration kicks in.
Someone once came to me and said:
“Bro, Lag Jaa Gale is so good. Have you heard that song?”
I smiled and said, “Oh yes, that song is classic. Who hasn’t?”
And then came the reply: “Yeah, Sanam is so good.”
Com’n bro… Sanam? Really?
It’s Lata Mangeshkar. I was talking about the original.
After that, the rest of the conversation… well, you can imagine 😂
And even now, decades later, when we close our eyes and Pehla Nasha starts playing, I am not in 2025. I am at my rented room, or on the college ground, or walking alone with a crush on our mind.
So no matter how trendy the remix, it will never hit me the way the original did.
And that’s not hate.
That’s loyalty.
One Last Thing, Dear Spotify (and others)…
Here’s the most frustrating part. When I ask Spotify or any music platform, “Play old classic Hindi songs,” it starts playing Sanam’s version or some remake I never asked for. Yes, Sanam again.
I FLUFFING hate that.
Then I have to say “Next song,” then “Next,” then “Skip,” until it finally finds the actual old classic. Why?
You already have my birthdate on file. You know I’m from the 80s. You should know I’m not looking for a digitally polished heartbreak song in a café version. I’m looking for that raw, slightly noisy original, with Lata or Kishore, or Mukesh echoing out of a mono speaker.
If you need our birthdate so bad for your algorithms, please understand, we equally need our old classics played properly. No covers. No recreations. Just real, warm, dusty originals.
Give us my music back.
