A Stage in Symphony: The Alchemy of QALA’s Music
How the music from Qala (2022)—produced by Amit Trivedi—diverged from the flow of mainstream formulas in the Hindi film industry, and succeeded in inhabiting a rare sweet spot of commercial and critical appeal
By the time Urmila (Swastika Mukherjee) manages to lay eyes on her ailing daughter, Qala (Tripti Dimri)—the eponymous lead of the movie—has succumbed to her agony and illness, each seeming to conspire with the other. Urmila stands wretched amidst the scene, distressed over not being able to heal her daughter’s agony in due time. A song unfurls in the backdrop as she grasps Qala. Lifeless. Voiceless.
The song, titled “Amma Puchdi”, is the last to appear in the couple of hours of run-time of the movie. It’s s staunch marker of the narrative turn. Or rather, a culmination of the narrative. Mournful and aggrieving, “Amma Puchdi” encircles the sadness of the mother, and her remembrances of the daughter.
Qala—Anvita Dutt’s 2022 film—eventually departs with the departure of the song. Quite fittingly for a movie that uses music to suffuse itself not just with rhythmic overtones, but as melodies of meaning.
“Amma Puchdi” is a strict outlier, inspired as it is by a Himachali folk song. It is not a part of Qala’s publicly-released music album, and wasn’t released as a standalone track hence, even as it can be found in cut-outs from the movie on different YouTube channels. Like every other song in the film, “Amma Puchdi” boasts of brilliant composition and an unmissable gravity of thought. Its absence from the soundtrack—produced by Amit Trivedi—is a loss, perhaps. A fraction of how much the entire album is a gain in totality, a gem of an addition.
The album broke newer grounds. If it was elementally singular—with each song a carefully polished pearl—there would be hordes of takers for every pearl in the market, too. A rare sweet spot.
In her essay framing the spate of popular tracks to have come out from mainstream cinema in recent times, Shephali Bhatt identified the spurt of a template-esque attitude in developing a song, all in the hope of virality, ‘likes’, and ultimately, monetary rewards. In Bhatt’s piece, artists like Shekhar Ravijani and Anuv Jain confirmed the brewing of this trend in the music industry, wherein a song was to be compositionally and lyrically programmed to win the algorithm, and supposedly, the hearts of the listeners. The hack, Bhatt writes, necessitated the inclusion of “enough peaks and troughs and transitional turns in the audio to help them tell a story in a dramatic way.”
The ‘trick’ has worked in most cases, courtesy the predominance of algorithms vis a vis the human consciousness. Songs that don’t follow these rules might carve a niche audience for themselves (at best), or run the risk of falling into the pit of obscurity (at worst). They may be greeted by critical appraisal, even if the popular approval became tougher.
The music from film’s released directly on streaming platforms have begun to inhabit this space more and more, in what could also be termed as an extension of their divergent flow to the mainstream (and mainstream Hindi cinema in particular). Case-in-point: films like Ludo, Darlings, Monica O My Darling, or Gehraiyaan, all featuring soundtracks that have earned plaudits from some corners, but haven’t been able to, colloquially, break the internet.
Qala’s phenomenal success thence lay in its garnering of both: a critical and popular vote. Sireesha Bhagavatula, with four songs in the movie to her credit, termed the movie a blessing, saying she was out of words for the terrific response one of the songs had received. The album broke newer grounds. If it was elementally singular—with each song a carefully polished pearl—there would be hordes of takers for every pearl in the market, too. A rare sweet spot.
The Qala soundtrack enjoyed—and continues to enjoy—a run typically seen by some of the big-budgeted theatrical releases. That had also, of late, begun to resort to cheat codes to win the game. Qala played with self-assured defiance amidst this deference, and yet, emerged a winner nonetheless. The songs, one and all, uniquely and consistently melded the trinity of poetic tenor, precise music, and mellifluous singing, altogether to evoke the true sentiment of the moment to underscore the forward movement of the film’s narrative.
Sample this: Jagan (Babil Khan), a prodigious singer, first appears on the stage at a musical fiesta. He is surrounded by a group of instrumentalists, all of whom await to unveil the music. Jagan croons verses and notes, sans any music for the first minute, exhibiting the versatility of his vocal cords. The audience in the hall—and on the other side of the screen—come to know that his is a voice capable of scaling musical altitudes without losing its balance. The music begins to unravel right after this peerless show. The stringing is acknowledged by a nod from Jagan. The chief architects now are the accompanying instruments: table, harmonium, and rabab. They move with stillness, string with calm, almost as if to pre-ordain the nature of the song to flow peaceably. A few seconds later, after lone sounds give way to the lyrical, the fuller song is unveiled. The stage is in symphony.
The song—titled “Nirbhau Nirvair”—is in service of the higher figure, a call to love all (nirvair), and be fearless (nirbhay). Jagan’s voice is a highlight. He was born in a Gurdwara, where he was raised and trained. Akin to a Gurbani then—a hymn traditionally sung in Sikh places of worship—“Nirbhau Nirvair”—both in its verse and music—reeks of a gentle piety. A devotional spirit that Jagan’s voice brings to life, after having brought up on the same. The song and its performance ties together perfectly, making for a well-rounded characterization.
Jagan’s voice is courtesy Shahid Mallya, who manoeuvres the melodies in his customary husky vocals to give the song a refined and rustic flavour at the same time. The rest of the songs attributed to Jagan in the film fall in line with this stylistic, as well as the larger character outline. A bhajan by Kabir follows in the track “Uddh Jaayega”, as if to reassert Jagan’s devotional facet. The element of devotion, however, in Jagan’s case, is also artistic, in that it is directed parallelly towards his musical practice.
Jagan is devoted to his music as much if not more than he is devoted to any figure or ideal. The devotion could be the mere conduit which has allowed him to practise and perfect his music in turn, and thus, become a medium for his melodious sing-song. It’s instilled in him the lessons inherent to the music in Gurudwara, over and above the Gurudwara’s sacred songs.
The remaining of Jagan’s share in the album diverts from this one tract, however. He sings other kinds of songs, too, like “Shauq”, a song credited to an eminent singer in the movie. “Shauq” embosses Jagan’s sheer skill, as he replicates the work of a veteran of the art tradition at the drop of a hat—almost like a worthy protege. The final song under his name—“Rubaaiyan”—doesn’t surface in the movie as such, and is unveiled only after the curtains are drawn.
The duo of “Shauq” and “Rubaaiyan” encapsulate a different, hapless way of the heart’s being, pre-empting the inescapable turmoil of love. If the hymns performed by Jagan earlier are rooted in, and ooze of, the character’s devotional spirit (besides his elan), these two later songs are telling of his singing prowess, enlivened by Mallya—the cradle of Jagan’s voice.
The song, in that sense, becomes both a marker and a remover, of the meekness inflicted by her mother. In essence, it’s the first step Qala takes to overcome, almost like the first step a tender child takes up the stairs. And like the tepid child, Qala, too, can defeat her demons—even as she fears them.
In a discussion on the lyrics of Qala’s songs, Swanand Kirkire—one of the five lyricists to have penned the verses—recounted how “Rubaaiyan” borrowed from Amrita Pritam’s “Tidke Ghare Da Pani”, a poem that had been on his mind for a prolonged duration. The reason behind the album’s flavour, he declared, was the licence that director Dutt allowed to the lyricists, all of whom worked to execute their brief to perfection. Another lyricist, Kausar Munir, echoed the sentiment, adding that “their work was to only follow the characters’ truth,” as Dutt had written.
The songs under the belt of Qala—the character—unleash her truth, too. In stark contrast to Jagan’s unshakable command, she is made out to be the underconfident one in the beginning, following the demoralization by her own mother, who ploys to supplant Qala by Jagan. A clash of heredity (albeit subliminal) ensues. Qala persistently tries to leave an imprint, only to be met with reproach from her mother at every step of the way.
The song “Phero Na Najar se Najariya” materializes amidst this push and pull. After a performance by Jagan is stopped mid-way, the onus is put on Qala to carry the show forward. She doesn’t exactly seize upon this opportunity—but holds it just tight enough to not let it slip. Tensely, tentatively.
The lyrics here are reflective of Qala’s strain, her reaffirmation to submit, a literal plea to not turn away. Sireesha Bhagavatula sings in her honeyed voice with more than a hint of coyness. Qala is, thus, making an impression, even as the music and the lyrics and the voice altogether contain her lack of confidence. The song, in that sense, becomes both a marker and a remover, of the meekness inflicted by her mother. In essence, it’s the first step Qala takes to overcome, almost like the first step a tender child takes up the stairs. And like the tepid child, Qala, too, can defeat her demons—even as she fears them.
The second song to come out of Qala’s voice undergoes a similar ordeal, in a more outward display. Qala’s attempts to playback in the recording studio repeatedly fall flat, as do the musical notes she strikes. Her pushback in this situation, as in the previous one, ultimately comes from within. She coups her demons yet again. to regather her melodious flow. The voice is much less tentative, now, and more stylised. Partly because Qala has come-of-age, in that studio, and in her musical journey. And partly because the narrative elicits a song to match the mood. Sajaniya ke man main abhi inkaar hai, Jaane Balma ghode pe kyun sawaar hai. As for the bridge a singer takes to evolve, Qala has crossed it, with marvel.
Qala’s story is the story of its songs, the turn of events embedded in their turn of verse. The character arcs of Jagan and Qala in turn can be traced via the performances in their stable. There’s Jagan’s rearing and radiation of a devotional spirit, and there are Qala’s inhibitions. There’s Jagan’s singing par excellence, and there’s Qala’s outgrowth of her own fear. The narrative sheen of the film is only brightened in the process, as every song deepens a development, outlining the portrait on the screen in clear colours. As a corollary, every song is like a ripened fruit from a field thoroughly ploughed—each one enriching the context of the film, as much as it is enriched by the same.
Therefore, the songs, even outside and away from the frame of the movie, stand out due to their singular qualities, which are a product of their unique and specific settings. Qala is a musical of the highest quality in that sense; not because of how its narrative is bound by the music, but how well the music absorbs the narrative.
The narrative time-period of Qala is never outrightly specified, although the film seems to be set in 1940s. Music in its case then becomes crucial, not merely because it forms the narrative marrow, but how it recreates the period Qala seeks to showcase. Qala’s album, in that regard, does a near-perfect job—akin to that of Sudhir Mishra’s Khoya Khoya Chand (2007), a movie set in the Hindi cinema of the 1950s, which accurately captured the filaments of the cinema from yesteryear.
Seen with respect to their pace, the music of Qala imbibes a characteristic of the songs from the epoch of 1940s, when Hindi Cinema had only just begun its foray into playback singing. A cause and consequence of this was the stress put on syllables, where each word was said and sung to the hilt, as if it existed in isolation, with time abound in singer’s pocket. The accompanying music flew both parallel and independently to the verse, wrapping the words in a rhythmic envelope. The songs in Qala follow this practice well, giving share enough to their musical score. Qala doesn’t miss the trick in the featured instruments, including the extensively-used tablas, string instruments, and harmonium, much as they were featured back in the 1940s.
Every song in the soundtrack is chiselled piecemeal, leading to a refreshingly beautiful music album. Trivedi, the composer behind Qala’s genius, labelled this a “hipster-catchet,” alluding to the unconventional approach of Qala songs and the musical practices of the present. “When something very new comes, it will click, like biryani between endless days of daal-chawal,” he said, in reference to the popularity of the album.
And this biryani prepared by Trivedi and co. is truly delectable. It will stand the test of time and continue to be served—with shauq.
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Raunaq Saraswat is a freelance journalist and writer. He recently completed an undergraduate degree from IIT Delhi, and will be at the Young India Fellowship at the Ashoka University. You can find him on Twitter: @raunaqsa and Instagram: @raunaq_s_.
