IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 143— THE NOTES BETWEEN THE NOTES Brig PS Gothra (Retd.)

"What is your favourite old song?" someone asked me recently.

It sounded like a simple question. But the more I thought about it, the more difficult it became.

When I was young, English songs fascinated me. Not because I understood them—I hardly understood a word. Songs by Boney M, ABBA and the Bee Gees sounded wonderfully foreign, and perhaps I listened to them more out of a desire to sound angrez than out of musical appreciation. Lyrics escaped me completely. The only English song I confidently remembered was Tequila, largely because it contained only one word.

Slowly, however, I discovered that music had a language of its own.

I began noticing not the words, but the tiny sounds hidden between the words.

Listen carefully to "Take the Heat Off Me." The rhythm itself begins telling a story long before the singer does. The infectious beats of "Rasputin," "Daddy Cool," "Ma Baker," "Stayin' Alive" or "Cheri Cheri Lady" can make your feet move even if you have no idea what the lyrics mean.

Then one day Hindi film music quietly took over.

The first hook was not a singer.

It was the gentle clinking of glasses at the beginning of "Chura Liya Hai Tumne Jo Dil Ko."

How could someone think of making ordinary glasses part of a melody?

That single sound made me wait for the song every time.

Then came "Mere Saamne Wali Khidki Mein." Before the words begin, a playful scraping sound appears. It lasts barely a moment, but it scratches something inside your heart and instantly prepares you for the mischief that follows.

In "Mere Sapno Ki Rani," close your eyes and ignore the lyrics. Suddenly you hear the gentle rhythm of a moving train. Rajesh Khanna may be sitting in a jeep, but somewhere the orchestra quietly reminds you that the heroine is travelling. The music itself becomes part of the story.

Then comes my personal favourite—"Lag Ja Gale."

People remember Lata Mangeshkar's divine voice. They remember Sadhana. They remember Madan Mohan's immortal composition. But what always slows my heartbeat is something else—the soft humming, the delicate pauses after the word "Shayad...", and the beautiful silence that follows. Those pauses speak as eloquently as the lyrics. Sometimes music is created not by notes, but by the courage to leave a few notes unsung.

Even Kishore Kumar could make nonsense unforgettable. His cheerful "Oodle Oodle Ooh" in "Zindagi Ek Safar Hai Suhana" adds a joy that no dictionary can explain.

Listen carefully to "Yeh Chand Sa Roshan Chehra" or "Aaiye Meherbaan." The gentle castanet-like tik-tik quietly synchronises itself with your heartbeat. Before you realise it, your foot begins tapping.

Music also taught me that emotions have no language.

Years later I heard the Tamil song "Vaa Vennila Unnaithane." I understood almost nothing. Yet the beautiful alaap and melody travelled straight to the heart without stopping at the brain. That day I realised that great music never asks which language you speak.

Perhaps that is why old songs refuse to grow old.

Modern music often tries to impress us with volume.

The old composers achieved the same magic with a train whistle, a pair of glasses, a humming voice, a pause, a clap, a drumbeat or a single unexpected sound.

Somewhere behind those immortal songs stood gifted arrangers, violinists, percussionists, flutists, guitarists and sound engineers whose names most of us never knew. They never appeared on film posters. Yet their invisible contribution still echoes every time those songs are played.

We applaud the singer.

We praise the composer.

We remember the actor.

But somewhere, an anonymous musician struck two glasses together... and unknowingly created a memory that has lasted for generations.

Perhaps that is true of life too.

The people who make the greatest difference are often not those standing in the spotlight.

They are the tiny notes between the notes.

Jai Hind.