When old films and songs become timeless companions

R.D. Burman composed the music for 'Padosan' (1968). Indeed, it is a curious thing to be moved by a song from an era you never lived in. (Images via Instagram/Kirtii30)

You know those songs that sneak up on you years later, suddenly playing in your mind like a dear friend arriving unannounced? For me, 'Padosan' (1968)—starring Sunil Dutt as Bhola, Saira Banu, Kishore Kumar, and Mehmood—has always been that kind of movie. The mischief in Bhola’s smile, the laughter that bubbles up without warning, the music that has stayed long.

Hindi is not even my native tongue. Yet 'Padosan', 'Guide' or 'Pakeezah' speak to me in a way that goes beyond melodious music, lyrical dialogues, or perfectly timed comedy. These are qualities that now often feel lost to slapstick, foul words, or EDM pretending to be emotions. These films, like so many that each of us carry in our hearts, hold a warmth, a grace, a kind of artistry that tugs at us gently yet deeply.

Nargis and Sunil Dutt. (Image credit: Kajal Sharma via Wikimedia Commons 4.0)

There is a rare comfort in these old films and songs. They build small, safe spaces inside us. Like the smell of rain on hot earth or the touch of a faded photograph, they take us back to a time that felt slower and kinder. Perhaps it is the innocence of love before it became complicated, or the simple joy of a song that could make even strangers smile. These stories and melodies carry a part of us that still believes in joy and hope no matter how many years pass.

It is a curious thing to be moved by a song from an era you never lived in. You were not there when the black-and-white frames flickered on the silver screen, when crooners leaned into vintage microphones, when orchestras tuned up as the rustle of saris and the scent of jasmine filled the air. Yet somewhere between the first note and the last lingering fade, an old song can catch you unawares, making you feel as if you have stumbled upon an emotion you always knew but never named.

I do not even remember the first time I heard “Mere Samne Wali Khidki Mein”. Maybe it was on AIR radio. 'Padosan', with its tale of love, rivalry, and musical duels, revolves around a simpleton smitten with his beautiful neighbour. There is also the music teacher vying for her affections, the spirited singing guru, and a chorus of colourful characters.

The film was a hit when it released to great acclaim on 29 November 1968 - much before I was born. The movie was adapted from the Bengali film 'Pasher Bari' (1952), itself based on a short story inspired by a French tale. Kishore Kumar’s performance as the eccentric musician was unforgettable. His comic timing, facial expressions, improvisation, and energy brought the role alive so vividly that, legend has it, some scenes were cut to avoid overshadowing the leads.

There is something delightful about 'Padosan' that goes beyond being a comedy. It blends simplicity and wit with an ease that feels effortless. Bhola’s innocent attempts to impress his beloved feel like watching a child discover the world for the first time. Every pause, every glance, every misunderstanding still lands perfectly, as if the film was made yesterday.

What is it about these films that keeps us coming back? It is not only the tunes or the faces. It is the way they reach into something deep inside us—the joy, the longing, the little heartbreaks wrapped in laughter. The stories feel like warm conversations with people who know you well.

Even when these movies belong to a generation older than mine, they still speak to me. Take 'Sholay', celebrating 50 years this month. Millions across India feel sentimental about it, many of them not even forty yet.

I don’t remember the first time I saw one of these classic films. It surely was not in a fancy theatre or on a streaming app but in an old, single-screen, somewhat messy cinema hall back in the early '80s. Such movie outings were rare treats then—the crackling screen, the smell of popcorn mixed with dust and packed in plastic, and the crowd around you. I recall the packets of popcorn sold at the theatre, the loud catcalls, whistles, and cheers that erupted at every funny or dramatic moment.

Later, when movie outings became fewer, the magic found its way home through rented VHS tape players and cassettes hired by the day. Watching a film as a group in a living room became the original non-religious sarvajanik entertainment, a shared ritual where friends and family huddled, eyes glued to the flickering screen, laughing and gasping together.

Back then, showing two flowers coming closer was about as close as cinema dared to depict romantic intimacy. Tender glances, shy smiles, and gentle teasing were the language of love, delicate and restrained. It’s no surprise that the government later launched the “Hum Do Humare Do” campaign to keep those flowers—those young couples—carefully apart.

Yet within these limits, the films quietly taught us about love’s innocence and hope. They painted friendship as loyalty stitched with laughter and sacrifice. The heroes and heroines, with all their flaws and dreams, became early guides in navigating the messy, beautiful emotions of life.

If 'Padosan' were made afresh in 2025, Bhola might be a TikTok sensation, wooing Bindu with viral dance challenges. His harmonium would be replaced by an autotune app. Bindu would be a lifestyle vlogger posting yoga reels, and their banter would unfold in emojis and WhatsApp chats. Songs would be remixed into rap battles, and Kishan the music teacher would coach Bhola via glitchy Zoom calls.

Mere samne wali TikTok pe,

Dance kare har beat pe,

Filter se sajaye chehra,

Likes ki baarish kare.

Mere samne wali Insta pe,

Stories chalaye har din,

Reels mein karaye dhamal,

Followers ke sang raag hai.

There is also the paradox that songs older than us feel strangely more modern in their emotional honesty. They dared to be vulnerable without irony, romantic without cynicism, political without sloganeering. They did not need a visual spectacle to carry them—the song itself was the cinema. And perhaps in that lies the enduring spell: the sense that a part of our hearts will always prefer a black-and-white world where a love song could be the whole story.

And when I watch 'Padosan' today, I find myself laughing at the same jokes, caught by the same melodies, and sometimes noticing something new, something I missed before. These movies don’t age. Maybe that is the real magic of cinema. Holding time close, never letting it slip away.

They remind us that laughter, longing, hope, and love are not bound by age or era. They quietly link parents and children, friends and strangers, past and present. When a young person hums a tune first sung decades ago, or an older viewer chuckles at a scene from their youth, we realise that emotions are timeless and connection is universal. These films and melodies carry pieces of our shared memory, our collective heart. In a world that often rushes forward, they offer the rare comfort of pausing, of smiling, and remembering who we are and who we can still be. They are more than entertainment. They are companions, guides, and gentle keepers of our stories.