Tulsi and Mihir are back.
Come July 29th, Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi (KSBKBT) returns to our screens. And for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I’m oddly thrilled about it. So much so, a friend quipped, “You must have been a die-hard fan once.”
Honestly, I wasn’t. At least, I don’t think I was. I don’t remember watching even a single episode of the 1,833 that aired. Or maybe I did catch a few, and don’t remember anymore. Memory is a slippery thing, and as Julian Barnes writes in Changing My Mind: “A single person’s memory, uncorroborated and unsubstantiated by other evidence, is a feeble guide to the past.” Still, this isn’t a murder trial or a political memoir. I’ll go with what I remember – or think I do.
If I were the kind who turned everything into a life lesson on LinkedIn, I’d probably use the return of KSBKBT to say something profound: that life gives second chances. Look at Amar Upadhyay. He left the show at his peak to chase cinema. The movies didn’t love him back, but now he’s back to what made millions of homemakers fall in love with him.
Or I’d say, always have a Plan B. Look at Smriti Irani – who moved from Tulsi to Parliament, from sanskaar to Sansad, and now returns to what perhaps she does best.
Or, if I was in the business of managing other people’s money (OPM), I’d say: diversify your career like your investments. Don’t put all your dreams in one TRP basket.
But thankfully, I don’t write motivational posts on LinkedIn.
What I do remember, even without watching the show, is the song. The title track. And for those who’ve never heard it, here’s how it went:
Rishton ke bhi roop badalte hain,
naye naye saanche main dhalte hain,
ik peedhi aati hai, ik peedhi jaati hai,
banti kahani nayi,
kyunki saas bhi kabhi bahu thi.
It was perhaps the last thing that ever truly entered my ears – and stayed. It reminds me of a slower world, when sounds weren’t just background noise, but memories waiting to be etched.
I remember a voice announcing: “Yeh Akashvani hai; ab aap Devaki Nandan Pandey se Samachar suniye.”
I remember another voice – Ameen Sayani, the only hero I’ve ever had – beginning the Binaca Geetmala with, “Behno aur Bhaiyyon” (and never Bhaiyyon aur Behno).
I remember the Doordarshan signature tune, composed by Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Ali Ahmed Hussain Khan, playing before the broadcast started.
I remember All India Radio’s signature tune that would even sneak in before sunrise.
I remember Sholay’s dialogues blaring from paan shops, Gabbar Singh’s gravelly voice cutting through traffic with “Arre O Sambha…”
I remember Chitrahaar, broadcast from Delhi on Wednesdays and Fridays at 8 pm, regularly playing Nanha Munna Rahi Hoon / Desh ka Sipahi Hoon. A song from a forgotten 1962 release, Son of India, but one a generation grew up with.
One line from that song still echoes in my mind:
Naya hai zamana, nayi hai dagar / Desh ko banaoonga machino ka nagar. Roughly: “This is a new world, we’ll build a land of machines and factories.” Sixty-three years later, in 2025, we’re still waiting.
I remember, the music director, Vedpal’s most famous composition: “Nirma, Nirma, Washing Powder Nirma.”
I remember Bajaj bulbs, “Ab main bilkul budha hoon, goli khaakar jeeta hoon.”
I remember Javed Jaffrey – one of India’s greatest dancers who the country hasn’t seen enough of – featuring in an advertisement of Hamdard’s Cinkara: “Yeh bechara kaam ke bojh ka maara, inhe chahiye Hamdard ka tonic Cinkara.”
I remember Sushil Doshi trying to make cricket commentary sound literary: “Dudhiya roshni mein nahaya hua Mohali ka ye stadium.”
I remember Sudesh Bhosale singing Jumma Chumma De De in Bachchan’s voice – despite Vividh Bharti banning the song, because we Indians apparently don’t kiss, we only tell.
I remember Choli ke peeche kya hai. I remember Guttar guttar.
I remember Amrish Puri in DDLJ telling Kajol: “Ja Simran, ja jee le apni zindagi.”
I remember Altaf Raja’s anthem – tum to thehre pardesi, saath kya nibhaoge – that had both young men and truck drivers, equally heartbroken.
I remember Shah Rukh Khan in Dil To Pagal Hai: “Rahul… naam to suna hoga?”
And through it all, I remember the Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi song.
And then things changed: Life happened.
I had to go out and make a living in a world I hadn’t entered of my own volition: a world I still haven’t made sense of. Like Bill Watterson’s Calvin once said, “How old do you have to be before you know what’s going on?”
I don’t know the answer. But now, a little closer to fifty, I know this: very few things survive time. Even fewer people do.
But the KSBKBT song has. It has endured.
Though its creators haven’t.
Hardly anyone remembers Priya Bhattacharya, who sang it. Or Nawab Arzoo, who wrote the lyrics. Or Lalit Sen, who composed it.
I wonder what became of them. I really do.
