H wakes up and feels around for his glasses. With an eye-power somewhere around minus eight, he can barely locate his own face. With his other hand, he grabs his headphones. Then comes the phone. A few taps and the music begins to play. Only then does he get out of bed and head to the washroom.
This, to me, remains strange behaviour despite watching him do it every single day for years.
‘Gooood morning,’ I sing out, ‘Chai?’
No response.
Because, headphones!
Music for this generation is a solitary affair.
Growing up, for us music was a shared space. Our house had one radio – one large contraption the size of a microwave with a battery as large as a building brick. When Bekarar karke humein came on or the starting notes of Aaj kal tere mere pyar ke charche started to play the entire house listened. The day I learnt to distinguish Mukesh’s voice (the easiest to identify) it was celebrated like a minor achievement.
Vividh Barti remained our constant companion for years – one single channel, listened to faithfully.
Someone would identify the song at the first line, someone else trumped them by identifying it right by the opening bars while someone simply hummed along from wherever they were. Music belonged to the entire household.
When Chitrahaar came on, even the neighbours tuned in.
‘Has it started yet?’
‘Move aside give me space,’
We’d all gather in the living room. And we’d watch – no personal playlists, no algorithms.
My sister and I took it to a whole different level. Armed with blank cassettes, we would sit near the recorder and tape the entire show.
‘Nobody talk,’ we’d warn the family.
And they’d comply, even though as the youngest members of our joint family we barely had any authority. But this warning was heeded. At least they tried.
Not always successfully, though.
A cough, a giggle, a random comment, everything found its way to the recording. We listened to the songs over and over again and every interruption became a part of the song – every cough, every sneeze. Even now, when I hear those songs, the phantom interruptions play in my head.
Music feels far more private these days.
When I watch the children moving through the house with headphones attached like permanent body parts, I feel as though there is an entire section of their lives to which I have no access.
I know this is what growing up is all about. I know I should to be okay with it.
Yet, a small part of me struggles.
‘Put your playlist on Google Home,’ I invite them.
What I mean is, ‘Share your music with me. Let me be a part of your world for a little while longer.’
‘I’ll make you a playlist with the ones I think you’ll like,’ N offers generously, completely missing the point.
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time, when they were younger, we listened together. While I introduced them to Few of My Favourite Things and Dancing Queen they got me singing to One Direction and Taylor Swift. Their favourites became mine too.
While they moved on to newer discoveries, I stubbornly refused to do so. Perhaps because it’s a part of their childhood I cannot let go just yet.
The children find this hilarious.
One day they discovered me singing along to Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off.
‘Maaa!’, protests H.
What?’ I say, ‘I like it.’
‘I’m so done with Taylor Swift. Listen to Lana Del Ray,’ advises N.
‘Or the Weeknd,’ H pipes up.
‘What kind of a name is The Weeknd?’ I ask, ‘Is it a man or a band?’
‘It’s one person,’ H replies with the exaggerated patience he reserves for explaining things to me.
‘Why is it spelled wrong?’ The editor in me can’t quite absorb this.
‘Because he left home and started making music on a weekend and he wanted to be different. He’s a brand, ma,’ H explains.
I try to wrap my head around this. How leaving home can become a person’s whole identity. How leaving home implies freedom and creativity.
I am overthinking, I know.
Perhaps, that is why the headphones bother me a little. Because they remind me that one day the twins too will walk out into lives entirely their own.
That said, the music will remain. I take comfort in that.
Whether it is Rafi or Swift, whether I’m happy or thoughtful, the children are home or not, music is what I turn to.
When the chores stare at me like an insurmountable task, when my thoughts are so noisy an audio book cannot make sense. I put on music. And when Kishore Kumar’s melodious Kya yahi pyar hai fills the home, the chaos begins to settle.
Then there are the lonely days. The chores are done, the children are away. The silence stretches. But when One Direction come on with What Makes You Beautiful I am immediately uplifted.
Perhaps music has changed. It is no longer a shared family experience it once was. It belongs to individuals rather than households.
And yet, at its heart, it still does what it used to. It keeps us company. And sometimes, when the people we love are growing away from us, it helps us hold on a little longer.
(Picture created by AI).
This post is a part of ‘Mixtape Mood Blog Hop’ hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters blog hop series.