It’s amazing how the same songs can carry entirely different meanings in different settings.
A melody that once felt like a simple love song can suddenly become a memory. A lyric you barely noticed before can hit you deeply years later. The rhythm remains unchanged, the voice is the same, yet somehow, the song transforms because you have changed.
The place matters. The people around you matter. The season of your life matters. A track playing softly in the background of a crowded room feels different when heard alone at night. A song once associated with celebration can later echo with nostalgia. The notes stay the same, but the heart that hears them does not.
Perhaps songs don’t really change at all. Perhaps they simply wait for us to grow into their meanings.
It all began in a quiet hospital corridor, my newborn daughter cradled awkwardly in my arms. My wife was resting after a gruelling C-section, and like every new father, I was overwhelmed, unsure of what to do, what to say, what to sing.
“Sing her a lullaby,” the nurse suggested gently, noticing my clumsy attempts to soothe her first cries as I walked through the corridor outside the room.
A lullaby had never been part of my playlist. I hadn’t done the homework, hadn’t thought to learn one before she arrived. So, in a moment of nervous improvisation, I sang Babuji Zara Dheere Chalo. An Indian nurse standing at the nurse’s station burst into laughter. There I was, serenading my hours-old daughter with the least appropriate song imaginable.
But something shifted in that absurd, tender moment. It was the first song I ever sang to her, and many more followed. She taught me how to sing. Not perfectly, not confidently, but wholeheartedly. I sing now in a way I never did before, and only for her.
When we brought her home, I made it a point to learn nursery rhymes and lullabies properly. I studied them the way I once memorised lyrics to my favourite classics.
Before I knew it, my car had turned into a rolling concert hall of nursery rhymes. Even when she drifted off to sleep, the poems kept playing softly in the background, long after we’d stopped noticing them.
There was a time when my playlist belonged entirely to me, songs chosen for long drives, quiet evenings, or moments of nostalgia. But somewhere along the way, something changed. It didn’t happen all at once. It happened quietly, in between endless loops of Skidamarink a Dink a Dink and the ever-unstoppable Baby Shark.
Between those cheerful, repetitive tunes, something unexpected found its way in.
I don’t know exactly when grown-up songs became our thing.
It started with Mera Joota Hai Japani, no, wait, Mera Mun Tera Pyasa by Mohammad Rafi, the one I’ve always loved for its depth and old-world charm. I used to hear it simply as a romantic song, rich with feeling of longing. But singing it with my daughter transformed it. She didn’t understand every word, yet she felt the rhythm, the rise and fall, the way the melody lingers in the air. She would hum along, sometimes missing the lyrics entirely, but never missing the joy.
Somewhere along this musical journey, another unexpected song found its way into our world, Prem Ke Ras Mein by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. Originally written as a devotional piece, steeped in spiritual longing, and then turned into a qawwali by the maestro, rich, powerful, soaring with surrender.
Now, I play it to my daughter.
What was once a song of divine love has become, for me, a father’s prayer wrapped in melody. The intensity has gentled, the crescendos softened, but the devotion remains. When I sing it to her, it no longer feels like it belongs to a shrine or a stage, it belongs to our living room, to bedtime, to the quiet space between her laughter and sleep.
And then there’s the line I find myself returning to again and again: Tu hai toh dil dhadakta hai.
A love ballad, perhaps. But in fatherhood, it feels devotional. Her presence has transformed romance into reverence. If I had to describe what becoming her father has done to me, I would say this: she turned love songs into hymns.
Then came Ek Ladki Bheegi Bhagi Si by Kishore Kumar. Its playful, mischievous energy made it impossible not to smile. What was once just a charming old classic became a shared burst of laughter, especially when she splashed about in the tub, turning each lyric into her own dramatic performance. She would exaggerate every expression, transforming each line into a mini show, and I would find myself doing the same. It stopped being just a song; it became a shared joke, a little world we created together.
And then, woven gently into these moments, came songs I never expected to share with her so soon. A Bryan Adams love song, (Everything I Do) I Do It for You, soft, emotional, timeless in an entirely different way. I would sing it half-seriously, half-playfully, and she would listen with surprising focus, as if she sensed that this one carried a different weight.
And then there was Can’t Help Falling in Love with You, an Elvis Presley classic filled with tenderness. Singing it with her felt different, quieter, almost like a lullaby. Sometimes she would rest her head against me, and the song would slow, stretching into something deeper than melody alone.
In between all of this, Hum Tum Alag Hai by Suzonn found its place too, a newer tune weaving fresh memories into the fabric of old classics. Incidentally, it’s the song my daughter loves to dance to. What began as just another melody has become our little father–daughter ritual, a ballad we return to almost every day, complete with twirls, laughter, and her improvised dance moves.
That’s when I realised something had changed.
Between Skidamarink, Do you know the Muffin man, Old McDonald and Baby Shark, between giggles and off-key singing, love songs had quietly become our favourite father-daughter pastime.
It wasn’t about perfect lyrics or understanding every word. It wasn’t even about the songs themselves anymore.
It was about the way she looked at me while we sang.
The way she joined in without hesitation.
The way music became something we shared, rather than something I just listened to.
These songs, old and new, playful and profound, became bridges. Between generations. Between meanings. Between the person I used to be and the father I am now.
Sometimes we sing perfectly in tune. Most times we don’t. Sometimes we remember all the words. Often we make them up as we go.
But none of that matters.
Because somewhere along the way, without me even noticing, love songs stopped being just songs.
They became memories, and moments.
They became ours.
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