Mumbai, an enigmatic city of endless narratives, often finds its stories woven into the fabric of music. Capturing the city’s essence in a single playlist is an ambitious endeavor, yet here are eleven tracks that serve as snapshots, each reflecting a unique moment or aspect of Mumbai’s vibrant journey. The heart of this collection beats with Bollywood’s rhythm, the Hindi film industry that has mirrored and molded the city’s exuberant vibe for decades. Among these musical gems, the transformation of the melancholic ‘Oh, My Darling Clementine’ into a jubilant celebration of urban dreams in the 1956 movie CID stands out. Crafted by the legendary Majrooh Sultanpuri and OP Nayyar, “Yeh hai Bombay meri jaan” (This is Bombay, my love) has emerged as an unofficial anthem, encapsulating the city’s indomitable spirit, its magnetic allure, and the perpetual promise of dreams, even in the face of disillusionment.
I am Mum-bhai, Bombay Boys (1998)
Mumbai: A Tale of Rains, the Sea, Bollywood, and the Underworld
Mumbai is a city of contrasts, where the charm of monsoon rains, the endless sea, the glitz of Bollywood, and the simple pleasures of bun-maska, brun, and bhel coexist with a darker narrative. This other side of Mumbai is synonymous with ‘bhai’—a term meaning ‘big brother’ but colloquially used to refer to the formidable underworld dons who have, over the decades, orchestrated their domains within the city’s shadows. Since the 1960s, figures like Haji Mastan, Varadarajan Mudaliar, Dawood Ibrahim, Chhota Rajan, and Arun Gawli have loomed large over Mumbai, their influence so profound that a single phone call could unsettle the city’s most powerful.
The 1990s marked a peak in underworld activity, transforming Mumbai into a stage for extortion-driven violence that spared no one, from high-profile businessmen and Bollywood producers to ordinary citizens aspiring to middle-class symbols of success. This era, however, has given way to a new kind of dominance by multinational corporations and banks in the wake of India’s economic liberalization.
Amidst this complex backdrop, Javed Jaffrey’s ‘I am Mum-bhai’ from the 1998 film Bombay Boys captures the quintessence of Mumbai’s gangster culture with wit and irony. The song, a clever play on the city’s name and its underworld rulers, remains a poignant reminder of a time when the whims of ‘bhai’ could indeed bring Mumbai to a standstill. The lyrics, “People cower before him in fear / If he loses his patience, the entire Mumbai comes to a halt,” encapsulate the formidable sway these figures held over the city, echoing a chapter in Mumbai’s history characterized by fear, power, and an indelible impact on its collective psyche.
I am Mum-bhai
The 1950s Mumbai Film Industry and the Voice of Progressive Urdu Literature
The Mumbai film scene of the 1950s was significantly enriched by the contributions of several Urdu writers, poets, and intellectuals, whose progressive ideals helped shape the narrative of Indian cinema during that era. Esteemed figures like K.A. Abbas, Rajinder Singh Bedi, Ismat Chughtai, Sahir Ludhianvi, and Shailendra lent their voices to iconic films such as “Awara” (1951) featuring Raj Kapoor, and “Pyasa” (1957) by Guru Dutt. Their involvement heralded a wave of films that not only critiqued the emerging nation-state but also tackled pressing social issues like the exploitation of rural migrants in “Shree 420” (1955), and the effects of industrialization in “Naya Daur” (1957), aligning with the ideals of Nehruvian socialism.
Their work often challenged societal norms and critiqued the status quo, sparing no one, including the city of Mumbai itself. In the 1958 film “Phir Subah Hogi,” directed by Ramesh Saigal and inspired by Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s “Crime and Punishment,” the celebrated Urdu poet and lyricist Sahir Ludhianvi delivered a poignant critique of Bombay through the song “Cheen-o-Arab Humaara.” This song parodied the nationalist anthem “Tarana-e-Hind” by Allama Iqbal, flipping its patriotic pride to highlight the irony of homelessness amidst abundance. Raj Kapoor’s rendition of the lines “Cheen-o-Arab humaara, Hindustan humaara / Rehne ko ghar nahin hai saara jahaan humaara” (China and Arabia are ours, Hindustan is ours / We don’t have a home to stay, yet the whole world is ours) lamented the plight of those without shelter, sleeping on footpaths while the city was carved up by commercial interests
Cheen-o-Arab Humaara
Mere Gully Mein” by DIVINE featuring Naezy: A Mumbai Hip-Hop Anthem
The emergence of “Mere Gully Mein,” a track by DIVINE (Vivian Fernandez) and Naezy (Naved Sheikh), marks a pivotal moment in Mumbai’s music scene, where the gritty reality of life in the chawls (tenements) finds a powerful voice through hip-hop. This genre, inspired by its American counterpart, has become a medium for the disenfranchised of Mumbai’s slums to express their aspirations and grievances with boldness and authenticity.
DIVINE and Naezy, young hip-hop artists who hail from the city’s slum areas, have redefined protest music for a new generation. Unlike the leftist anthems of yesteryears sung by traveling troubadours, their music is a direct claim for equality, reflecting the aspirations for a better life and the luxuries enjoyed by the more affluent. “Mere Gully Mein” is not just a song; it’s a statement of identity, an assertion of dignity by Mumbai’s slum youth who are no longer content to be pacified by the escapist narratives of mainstream cinema. They demand to be heard, using the vernacular of their upbringing and addressing their societal critiques head-on, as evidenced by lyrics that boldly call out corruption and inequality.
Their approach to music has struck a chord with many, offering inspiration and empowerment to those who see their own lives reflected in the lyrics. The impact of DIVINE and Naezy has even captured Bollywood’s attention, with a film inspired by their journey to stardom, featuring actor Ranveer Singh, signaling the mainstream’s recognition of their influence and the broader socio-cultural shifts they represent. Through “Mere Gully Mein,” DIVINE and Naezy have not only carved out a space for themselves in the music industry but have also spotlighted the broader narrative of struggle, resilience, and the desire for change among Mumbai’s marginalized communities.
Mere Gully Mein
Baaton Baaton Mein, Baaton Baaton Mein (1979)
I suppose one could go with the absolutely zany My name is Anthony Gonsalves to represent Mumbai’s spirited Catholic community, a conspicuous cultural presence in neighborhoods like Mahim, Bandra, Santacruz, and Malad. Instead, I submit this lovely ditty from Baaton Baaton Mein (1979), the fine Basu Chatterjee rom-com that gives us a ringside view of the matchmaking foibles involving a young Catholic couple and their enthusiastic families. The Baaton Baaton Mein song captures the unironic devotion that so many felt (and feel) for Aamchi Mumbai (our Mumbai). On screen, it offers an intimate view of quintessential city scenes: the Bandstand promenade, sea waves serenading the rocks, the once-ubiquitous red-colored, double-deckered BEST (Bombay Electric Supply and Transport) buses. More importantly, the song showcases middle-class Bombay through one of the city’s most important lifelines: its suburban train network, a legacy of the British Raj. Millions of people pack themselves in on a daily basis. Once on board, they strike up friendships, read, play cards or hang on for dear life (this is no joke: thousands of people die each year on the tracks of the Mumbai locals). This being Bombay, sometimes romance blossoms between a young couple – in this case Nancy Perreira (played by Tina Munim) and Tony Braganza (Amol Palekar) – on their everyday commute, even under the avuncular watch of those pressed up against them. It’s the essence of Mumbai, a city to fall in love with despite its hardships.
Baaton Baaton Mein
Colwad March, Colwad Union
Imagine Jawaharlal Nehru, renowned freedom fighter and the first prime minister of independent India, wearing a fisherman’s cap, a tika adorning his forehead, and dancing to a traditional tune from the Koli fishing community (the original inhabitants of Mumbai’s islands), whose refrain went “Sonaiachi kaulla gharawarti” (golden tiles on top of the house). This is exactly what happened when the fisherfolk from the Colwad hamlet, in Mumbai’s Bandra neighborhood, greeted Nehru during a visit to Delhi on January 23, 1961. The Kolis had been called to the national capital as the first-ever representatives of the newly formed state of Maharashtra at the Republic Day parade. Koli men still fish the hideously polluted waters off the city’s coast (and farther down the shoreline where the sea is comparatively clean), while their wives sell the catch in the koliwadas – or Koli hamlets (Colwad is a contraction of the term) – that still dot neighborhoods like Sion and Versova. Colwad March by the Colwad Musical and Dramatic Union, which was founded in 1914 by Lawrence D’Mello to promote social welfare through music, picks up on the tune of the “gharawarti” refrain. It’s a suitable homage to the indigenous inhabitants of Bombay, whose patron goddess, Mumba Devi, gave the city its new name.
Colwad March
Mumbai Nagariya, Taxi No. 9211 (2006)
Bombay has many names. Mumbai. Maximum City. The City of Dreams. People, thousands of them, come here everyday from all corners of the country, filled with hope and ambition. They arrive wide-eyed, greeted by billboards of the latest commercial blockbuster, a reminder that, at last, they’re sharing soil with their favorite Bollywood superstars. What they aren’t prepared for is the brutal, unforgiving, impersonal reality of city life. For every success story, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of others with tragic endings. This ghazal – a poetic form involving love, loss and longing – from the 1978 film Gaman, poignantly captures that daily struggle through the experience of a migrant ‘kaali-peeli’ – black-and-yellow – taxi driver. Mumbai Nagariya, (Mumbai City) sung by 1980s disco king Bappi Lahri, also gives a glimpse of the seductive charm and carnal pulse of the city’s bustling nightlife, of the frenetic pace at which the city operates day in and day out, a rate of movement that makes New York look calm and Paris catatonic. The city is a heady intoxicant, as the song tells us; people live and die by the rush.
Mumbai Nagariya
The Bombay Theme, Bombay (1995)
Mumbai is famously India’s great melting pot, populated by the Hindus, Jains, Bohra Muslims, Goan Catholics, Parsis, Jews, and Sikhs; by speakers of Marathi, Gujarati, Tamil, Malayalam, Kannada, Hindi, Urdu, and virtually any other language you might hear in South Asia. For the most part, they coexist quite wonderfully, sharing breakfasts at the city’s iconic Irani cafes, perhaps a Maharashtrian misal pav for lunch, or a Parsi sali-boti for dinner. But the ghastly Mumbai riots of December 1992 and January 1993, which led to the bomb blasts of March 1993, changed the city forever. Many say Bombay hasn’t healed since those days. Oscar-winning composer AR Rahman’s haunting composition for Mani Ratnam’s 1995 Tamil film, Bombay, brilliantly captures that moment in the city’s collective consciousness. Based on Raag Jaijaiwanti, one of the sweeter musical modes in the Indian classical music tradition, The Bombay Theme is cathartic, searing, spiritual. It is a lingering reminder of the fault lines that continue to divide the city even as so many of its citizens search for the lasting peace that sadly remains elusive. The tune is so intoxicating that it has turned up in four separate films: first in Bombay, followed by Deepa Mehta’s Fire, then again in Palestinian director Elia Suleiman’s Divine Intervention, and finally in Julian Schnabel’s Miral.
The Bombay Theme
Deva Shree Ganesha, Agneepath (2012)
Ganesha Chaturthi is probably modern Mumbai’s biggest, most raucous festival. Taking place over 10 days near the end of the monsoon season, the celebration of Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, brings the city as close to a complete halt as possible, with giant temporary temples built along (and sometimes on top of) the city’s already congested roads, and processions of deities blocking traffic, sometimes for hours at a time. Though the Ganesh festival has long been big on the city’s calendar, the revelry in the last few decades has gone up several notches as rising disposable incomes and growing economic confidence have, together, produced ever-more-elaborate forms of cultural self-assertion. In recent decades, the festival has become a brazen display of money and power (one and the same here at the heart of India’s capitalist revolution), with local politicians pulling out all stops to ensure that their Ganesha mandal (association) walks away with the biggest cash and jewelry collections from offerings made by zealous devotees. The rampant commercialization of the festival has also brought with it environmental concerns and related safety hazards. The change in how Ganesha is celebrated in Mumbai is also reflective of the growing role of religion in India today. It is more brash and in-your-face than ever before, certainly more than it was 20 years ago when I first moved to Mumbai. For many, the festival’s new, more disruptive avatar is a way for the city’s labor class to assert its presence and fundamental importance in a city that seems increasingly intent to leave it behind. For others, it’s a boisterous expression of the strong community ties that hold this improbable city together. Bollywood, as ever, has responded to the zeitgeist with nearly a half dozen Ganesh Chaturthi-inspired chartbusters, starring everyone from Shah Rukh Khan to Varun Dhawan. None has been more extravagant than Deva Shree Ganesha, starring one of the industry’s most popular modern-day heartthrobs, Hrithik Roshan.
Deva Shree Ganesha
Mumbai, Tula BMC War Bharosa Nai Ka, RJ Malishka (2017)
RJ Malishka, a popular radio jockey on a local Mumbai FM channel, released this stinging number in July 2017 blaming (accurately) the Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) for the woeful condition of the city’s roads during the monsoon season. The common man has to bear the brunt of the corporation’s lackadaisical attitude for the annual weather event, rapped Malishka, tongue firmly in cheek, as she called out the potholes that routinely leave bikers dead and jam the city’s already-packed streets as the rains pour down from June through September. Instead of taking her criticism in the spirit intended – a humorous but deadly serious manifestation of the frustration Mumbaikars feel at the neglect of local administrators – the BMC sent her a notice for breeding, albeit inadvertently, dengue-transmitting mosquitoes at her Bandra home. The local political brass wanted her sued for five billion rupees ($75 million). It was Malishka, they claimed, with tone-deafness that bordered on the farcical, who had tarnished the image of Mumbai, not the damaged roads. Fortunately, netizens, celebrities, and political opponents rallied behind Malishka and saved her from the BMC’s humorless wrath. This viral, sixty-second video – and the mayhem that ensued – remains a biting commentary on Mumbai’s dismal civic administration.
Mumbai, Tula BMC War Bharosa Nai Ka
Do Deewane Shehar Mein, Gharonda (1977)
Gharonda, meaning ‘The Nest,’ is book-ended by two songs that speak of its protagonists’ ambition to buy a house in Mumbai. The second song, Ek Akela Is Shehar Mein, (A lonely soul in the city) appears after their fragile dream is shattered, while Do Deewane Shehar Mein (Two lovers in the city), from early in the film, is as clear-eyed a portrayal of the aspirations of Mumbai’s salaried class as Bollywood has ever produced. Be it a tiny room in a crowded chawl or a small flat in a far-flung corner of the city, the desire to own a space is what drives people in this desperately cramped city, sometimes to the point of tragedy. Even when they manage to put their meager savings together, the vast majority end up compromising on their choice of home, given the outrageously inflated price of real estate. The debt albatross soon turns into a noose, forcing people to make unsavory conciliations. But that rarely deters them from taking the gamble. As the film journalist Nandini Ramnath noted incisively of Gharonda, “The real enemy here is Mumbai, the city that is forever forcing its residents to take hard decisions, lower their expectations and discount their dreams… [Mumbai] involves making do, never winning completely, and somehow always surviving.”
Do Deewane Shehar Mein
Bombay Meri Hai” by Mina Kava & Uma Pocha: The Anthem of Mumbai’s Spirit
“Bombay Meri Hai,” crafted by the talented Parsi musician Mina Kava in collaboration with his wife Naju Kava for the lyrics, became the inaugural hit of the Indo-pop genre in Bombay’s vibrant party scene during the 1970s. Mina Kava, known for his work as a percussionist in the Hindi film industry during the 1960s, was approached by the music label HMV to compose a song that would showcase his beloved city to international tourists. Although Kava had previously composed catchy tunes like “An Evening in Gay Maharashtra,” it was “Bombay Meri Hai” that truly captured the hearts of the public.
The song set a precedent for the Indo-pop explosion of the mid-1990s, blending Western musical instruments with traditional Indian sounds. Uma Pocha’s unique vocal delivery invited listeners from across the globe to indulge in Mumbai’s culinary delights with lyrics that evoke the city’s diverse and delicious street food offerings. “Bombay Meri Hai” not only celebrated the city’s cultural richness but also its welcoming spirit, encouraging visitors to experience the flavors of Mumbai firsthand.
Years later, the song was revived in a poignant version by Usha Uthup, Uma Pocha’s younger sister, as a tribute to Mumbai’s resilience in the face of the devastating floods of 2005. This version of “Bombay Meri Hai” underscored the city’s ability to withstand adversity and rebound with even greater strength, embodying the indomitable spirit of Mumbai and its inhabitants. Through its various renditions, “Bombay Meri Hai” remains a testament to the city’s enduring charm, its capacity for renewal, and its warm embrace of all who wander its streets.