News Desk
This article is part 6 of our series on the evolution of Indian design, exploring how creativity and tradition shape the country’s everyday objects and global influence.
MUMBAI, India — In a cramped studio overlooking Marine Drive, A.R. Rahman taps a tabla, layering its thump over a synth riff. He’s crafting a song for a Shah Rukh Khan romance, a three-minute burst that’ll cost $150,000 and spark a million pirated downloads. This is Bollywood’s musical engine—chaotic, costly, ceaseless. Songs aren’t just soundtracks here; they’re the pulse of a film, a $200 million industry within an industry. From hand-cranked harmoniums to Oscar-winning anthems, Bollywood’s composers and their art have turned notes into narratives, coloring India’s cinema with a sound all its own.
The roots run deep. In 1931, Alam Ara, India’s first talkie, packed seven songs into 124 minutes, a gamble by director Ardeshir Irani to lure crowds. It worked—tickets sold out, and a formula was born. By the 1940s, playback singing took hold: stars lip-synced to voices like Lata Mangeshkar’s, who sang 25,000 tracks across seven decades.
A trivia gem: her first hit, “Aayega Aayega” from Mahal (1949), was so pitch-perfect that sound engineers feared it’d shatter their gear. Songs became the hook—films lived or died by them.
Composition is a craft of collision. Take R.D. Burman, the 1970s maestro. For Amar Prem’s “Raina Beeti Jaye” (1972), he miked a glass rubbed with a spoon to mimic raindrops—a trick he’d stumbled on during a monsoon. His toolkit? Tabla, sitar, dholak, plus Western flutes and guitars. Today’s composers like Rahman or Pritam juggle more: Dilwale’s “Gerua” (2015) fused orchestral swells with Punjabi beats, recorded across Chennai, London, and Budapest.
A stat: a big-budget song uses 40 musicians, triple Hollywood’s average.
The process is grueling. Vishal-Shekhar, a duo behind Om Shanti Om (2007), once spent 72 hours straight on “Dhoom Taana,” tweaking a flute solo until dawn. Lyrics matter too—Javed Akhtar’s “Kal Ho Naa Ho” (2003) took a month, its wistful lines—“Har pal yahan jee bhar jiyo”—etched in India’s memory.
A lesser-known twist: Akhtar wrote it in a Delhi hotel, inspired by a dying friend’s note.
Playback singers, paid $5,000 per track, rehearse for days; Asha Bhosle, Lata’s sister, once sang “Piya Tu” (1971) in one take, a feat still marveled at.
Artwork amplifies the sound. Vinyl sleeves of the 1960s—like Aradhana’s (1969), with Rajesh Khanna crooning under a pine—were hand-drawn, all bold fonts and starlit eyes. By the 1990s, cassette covers ruled, Hum Aapke Hain Koun’s (1994) pastel wedding shot selling 10 million copies.
Today, YouTube thumbnails dominate: Badtameez Dil (2013) racked up 1.5 billion views, its neon dance still a clickbait king.
A quirky detail: Dil Se’s “Chaiyya Chaiyya” (1998) sleeve showed Shah Rukh atop a train—shot in Ooty, not CGI, with Rahman’s crew dodging real steam.
Dance ties it together. Choreographers like Saroj Khan turned songs into spectacles—Ek Do Teen (1988) took 14 days, 20 dancers, and a counting beat that hit 100 million radios. Farah Khan’s Sheila Ki Jawani (2010) cost $500,000, its belly-dance moves aped worldwide.
A hidden gem: Lagaan’s “O Rey Chhori” (2001) used folk steps from Gujarat’s Garba, taught to Aamir Khan in a village barn. Songs don’t just play—they perform, their art a visual feast.
Money flows fast. T-Series, India’s music giant, pumps out 200 tracks yearly, earning $100 million—half from streaming. A single, like La La La (2023), might drop $200,000 on studio time, dancers, and a Kashmir shoot. Piracy bites—90% of downloads are illegal, says IFPI—but fans still pay.
Fun fact: Baahubali’s “Saahore” (2015) vinyl sold for $50 apiece in 2022, a collector’s nod to its Telugu roar. Abroad, “Jai Ho” (2008) won Rahman two Oscars, its Mumbai slum beat a global earworm.
Influence spreads wide. Michael Jackson tapped Burman’s “Mehbooba Mehbooba” (1975) for a riff; Beyoncé mimicked Dola Re’s (2002) twirls in a 2007 video.
A stat: Bollywood’s 3,000 annual songs outpace Nashville’s output, per ASCAP. Yet cracks show—item numbers, like Munni Badnaam (2010), draw flak for sexism, though composers like Sneha Khanwalkar (Gangs of Wasseypur, 2012) push raw folk instead. At Rahman’s KM Conservatory, students fuse qawwali with EDM, hinting at tomorrow.
In Andheri’s studios, a mixer hums as Pritam lays down a hook. Outside, hawkers sell Tees Maar Khan CDs for $1, their art faded but fierce. Bollywood’s songs don’t just score films—they score lives, their melodies a thread from Mumbai’s bustle to the world’s playlists.
