By Suvir Saran
New Delhi [India], April 12 (ANI): “Kab mili thi, kahaan bichhdi thi, humein yaad nahin… zindagi roz naye rang badalti kyun hai?”
(When did we meet, where did we part–I don’t remember. Why does life keep changing its colors every day?)
These lines from Umrao Jaan aren’t just poetry–they are a mirror. A mirror to the human condition, to our quiet searching, our blurred memories, and our endless need to feel rooted. And for some of us, they’re more than that. They’re an anchor that holds us when life threatens to drift us into despair.
I first heard this ghazal when I was a child. Nine, maybe ten. The world hadn’t explained itself to me yet. I didn’t know what grief fully meant or what it meant to lose things you couldn’t name. But somehow, Umrao Jaan did. Somehow, this film, with its muted elegance and aching restraint, gave language to emotions I hadn’t yet learned to articulate.
The way Rekha moved–more than an actress, she became memory itself. The way Asha Bhosle sang–like the wind had learned heartbreak. The way Khayyam composed–not as music, but as feeling. And then there was Muzaffar Ali. The mind that held it all together. The master who painted not just scenes, but silences. He didn’t just direct Umrao Jaan–he understood it. And in doing so, he understood people like me. Outsiders. Floaters. Those of us who didn’t know where we belonged.
The Poetry of the Unmoored
“Kab mili thi, kahaan bichhdi thi…”
That’s not just about a lost lover. That’s about you–the person you used to be. The version of yourself you vaguely remember and occasionally miss. Life doesn’t warn us when we change. We grow up, we bend, we adjust, we adapt–and one day, we wake up and don’t recognize who we’ve become. That verse captures that quiet, aching confusion. The kind of confusion that isn’t loud, but lifelong.
When I was standing at the edge–metaphorically, emotionally, dangerously–it was Umrao Jaan that whispered, “You belong. Even if you don’t know where. You belong in the ache. You belong in the in-between.” That saved me. Art does that. When the world fails to explain itself, art steps in and says, “You don’t need answers. You just need a feeling that understands you.”
For some, that salvation comes through music. For others, it’s a book, or a photograph, or a single sentence spoken in a foreign city. For me, it was a film with Urdu couplets and broken dreams. That was the first time I felt seen. And belonging, I’ve learned, isn’t always about a place or a person. Sometimes, it’s about a moment. A moment when you feel less alone.
Life as a Moving Canvas
“Zindagi roz naye rang badalti kyun hai?”
Because that’s the only way it knows how to survive.
Life isn’t consistent. It never has been. One day, you’re nine years old, clinging to songs and stories for meaning. The next, you’re writing columns about the very lines that once held you afloat. In between those two versions of you, there are a hundred rebirths. You lose friends. You make strangers family. You chase dreams. You let them go. You find love. You misunderstand it. You build things. You watch them fall apart. And still, the colors change. Sometimes soft. Sometimes violent.
This isn’t chaos. This is design. The constant shifting is not a flaw in life–it is life.
And perhaps that’s why anchors are so vital. Because if you don’t have something to hold onto–some memory, some verse, some person–this constant transformation can make you feel like a ghost in your own life. Like you’re watching everything happen, but not really living it.
The Mystery and Mercy of the Unknown
There’s a strange comfort in not knowing. In not remembering exactly when you lost something. In not having perfect clarity. That ambiguity gives us room to breathe. To not have the burden of precision. You don’t need to remember the exact moment you stopped being that wide-eyed version of yourself. You just need to honor that you were them once. And perhaps, you still are.
The mystery of life is part of its mercy. If we knew everything–why someone left, why something failed, why a path didn’t open–it would break us. But life softens the edges of memory for a reason. So we can continue. So we can romanticize the pain just enough to survive it.
I used to think life was a puzzle I needed to solve. Now I understand it’s a painting I’m still learning to appreciate. Messy, abstract, often confusing. But occasionally–if you’re lucky–it’s also beautiful.
The Global Language of Belonging
Everyone, everywhere, is searching. For identity. For understanding. For home.
A man in Lagos listening to jazz. A woman in Tokyo writing haikus. A boy in Karachi watching Bollywood. A girl in Sao Paulo dancing to samba. All of them are, in their own way, asking the same thing: Do I matter? Do I belong? That’s why a film like Umrao Jaan–rooted in a very specific time, language, and culture–can still feel universal. Because it touches the part of us that transcends language: longing.
When Rekha sings “In aankhon ki masti ke…” she’s not just being Umrao, the courtesan. She’s every person who’s ever had to wear a mask to survive. Every artist who’s turned pain into performance. Every soul who’s tried to seduce dignity out of despair.
And that’s what I carry with me, as I move through this unpredictable thing called life. That even when I don’t have answers, I have art. I have that verse. I have that ghazal. I have that memory of a ten-year-old boy who didn’t know why the tears came, but trusted that they meant something.
Conclusion: Hold On to What Holds You
So here’s what I’ve learned–and what I offer to anyone, anywhere, feeling untethered:
You don’t need to know exactly when you lost your way.
You don’t need to have all the answers.
You just need to find the anchors that remind you who you are.
For me, that was a film, a ghazal, a moment of quiet recognition. For you, it could be anything. A piece of music. A late-night conversation. A city you’ve never been to but feel at home in.
Hold on to what holds you.
Because yes, life will keep changing its colors. That’s its job.
But if you can find one verse, one truth, one memory that reminds you that you belong–you’ll be okay.
Even when you don’t remember when it began.
Even when you don’t know where it end. (ANI/Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.
Disclaimer: This story is auto-generated from a syndicated feed of ANI; only the image & headline may have been reworked by News Services Division of World News Network Inc Ltd and Palghar News and Pune News and World News
HINDI, MARATHI, GUJARATI, TAMIL, TELUGU, BENGALI, KANNADA, ORIYA, PUNJABI, URDU, MALAYALAM
For more details and packages
