If it was up to me, I would listen to Kannadasan every day on my way to work. But since the FM channels in Delhi don’t play Tamil songs, I make do with the supposedly Hindi ones. I say supposedly because the Hindi hits they play are all actually Punjabi hits. How do I know that? Well, despite knowing Hindi, I can never understand the lyrics. And these are not even one-word songs, like they used to be in the good old days.
Word count of lyrics
Those of you senior enough to have written emails on an inland letter might remember that round Punjabi singer who was big in the 1990s (people close to him say he is big even now). The consolidated word count of the lyrics of his three biggest hits was 5.5. One song was just two words, ‘Balle Balle’, which, if you think about it, is really one word said twice.
Another hit was a unique combination of two different words, ‘Tunak’ and ‘Tun’. Even I could sing it. It went like this: “Tunak Tunak Tun, Tunak Tunak Tun, Tunak Tunak Tun, Tunak Tunak Tun….” I can’t reproduce the complete lyrics here due to space constraints but you get the idea.
But the song that made him a truly global celebrity had what was then a world record for the highest number of different words in a single Punjabi song: 2.5. The first two words of this superhit were ‘Bolo’ and ‘Tararara’, followed by an endless repetition of the second part of the second word, ‘rara’. So the song was: “Bolo Tararara, Rararara, Rararara, Rararara…” I’ll stop here, if you don’t mind.
The great thing about these classic Punjabi hits was that you didn’t have to know the language to understand the lyrics. Sadly, that’s not the case any more. I agree that even today Punjabi songs use far fewer words compared to, say, an Eminem or a Vairamuthu, but they are still too many for people like me who have a limited knowledge of North Indian.
So I asked a friend who teaches Punjabi at Bharathidasan University in Tiruchirappalli to translate into English the lyrics of a song called ‘Lahore’, which is ruling the Delhi FM charts right now. I must confess it was a revelation. I had no idea that a people who spoke a language whose 50% vocabulary consisted of ‘Balle Balle’ and ‘Kudi’ could have such a complex inner life that found creative expression in their music.
From Lahore to London
So in the spirit of cultural pluralism, tolerance and vasudhaiva kutumbakam , I am thrilled to share here the English translation of Lahore’s outstanding lyrics. Till last week I used to get annoyed because all the radio stations would start playing this song as soon as I tuned in. But now I am able to fully appreciate the postmodern subtext of this song’s subaltern metanarrative, just like any other congenital Punjabi. Below are the original lyrics, followed by the English translation.
O lagdi Lahore di aa/ Jis hisaab naa’ hansdi aa/ O lagdi Punjab di aa/ Jis hisaab naa’ takdi aa.
According to my friend, ‘O’ in Punjabi is the same as the English ‘Oh’. ‘Hisaab’ means ‘accounts’, and ‘lagdi’ is a corruption of ‘ladki’, the Hindi word for ‘girl’. So, in the opening stanza, the hero expresses his love for the Punjabi girl in the Accounts department and tells her that if she clears his medical bill reimbursements quickly, he will marry her and take her on a honeymoon to Lahore (strange choice, I know).
Kudi da pata karo/ Kehde pind di aa/ Kehde shehar di aa.
But the girl takes all her PL and disappears to another city (‘shehar’) without processing the hero’s medical reimbursements. So the hero asks his friend to track her down (‘pata karo’).
Delhi da nakhra aa/ Style ohda wakhra aa/ Bombay di garmi waang/ Nature ohda athra aa/ London ton aayi lagdi aa/Jis hisaab naa’ chaldi aa.
When they establish contact with the girl, she tells them that Third World cities like Lahore, Delhi and Bombay cramp her style, besides being too hot in a wrong way (‘garmi waang’). So she will marry him only if he can guarantee a honeymoon in London, where she feels in sync with her dharmic Nature. The hero agrees but tells her she must first get Accounts to settle his medical reimbursements. (‘Jis hisaab naa’ chaldi aa’).
Chain mera le gayi aa/ Dil vich beh gayi aa/ Bulliyan te chup ohdi.
They get married in London but the girl turns out to be a chain-snatcher (‘chain mera le gayi aa’). The hero chooses to remain silent despite being bullied out of his medical reimbursements (‘Bulliyan te chup ohdi’).
Ankhiyan naa’ goli maar di aa/ Andron pyar vi kardi aa.
The last two lines are a metaphorical summary of the moral of the story: next time you fall in love with an Android phone user, don’t shoot yourself in the eye.
