Source: Amar Ujala
There are moments when we come across people whose skills, talents, and achievements make us pause. Sometimes, it is admiration, sometimes inspiration, and sometimes absolute awe. Over the years, I have realised that these encounters fall into three broad categories.
Craft.
The first type is the professional. The skilled worker. The expert who has clearly put in the effort and mastered their craft. This could be a journalist, a musician, a doctor, a scientist, or any other accomplished individual. You watch them work and think to yourself that if circumstances had been slightly different, if you had taken that path, studied that discipline, or trained in that sport, you too could have reached this level. You recognise their competence, but it does not feel out of reach. There is a quiet confidence in knowing that with enough dedication, you could have been just as good.
Take songs about heartbreak. What classical literature calls “विरह रस” or the pain of separation.
A song like तड़प-तड़प के इस दिल से from Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam belongs in this category. Written by Mehboob Kotwal, a well-known lyricist with many iconic songs, it was lifted to legendary status by Ismail Darbar’s music and KK’s deeply emotional rendition. It made you weep, cry, and sympathise with Salman Khan’s character despite his rather cringey acting. It did not win Mehboob any awards, though it did get a nomination at the 2000 Filmfare Awards. It is a great song, but one you could imagine writing with some effort. Not to say that you actually could, but it is within the realm of belief. Just another professional doing a job. A great job. But still, a job. Like you do. Every day.
Genius.
Then there is the second type. The ones you hold in high regard. Their work is remarkable, but it is clear that it took more than just effort. It required the perfect blend of training, talent, opportunity, and even a bit of luck. Everything had to align for them to reach where they are. You respect them because you see the weight of their achievements. You aspire to be like them. You try to emulate their journey. They set the standard you measure yourself against.
A song like चन्ना मेरेया (अच्छा चलता हूँ दुआओं में याद रखना) from Ae Dil Hai Mushkil sits firmly in this category. Amitabh Bhattacharya’s words, combined with Arijit Singh’s haunting vocals and Ranbir Kapoor’s emotionally raw performance, created something unforgettable. You hear the song and want to pull Ranbir’s character into a tight embrace. You want to comfort him, tell him it will be all right, even though you know it will not. The song rightfully won Amitabh Bhattacharya the Best Lyricist award at the 2017 Filmfare Awards. It is brilliant. But it is still something you can aspire to. With the right training, the right experiences, and a few messy breakups under your belt, you might believe you could write something like it. Not easily. Not often. But once in a decade, maybe. Perhaps a few times in your entire career. It is rare. Not impossible.
Divinity.
And then there is the third kind. The rarest of them all. The ones who, at first glance, do not even seem extraordinary. Their work appears effortless, deceptively simple, almost obvious. You might even dismiss them. And then something shifts. You take a second look. A third. And suddenly, you realise that what they have done is beyond imitation, beyond comprehension. No amount of training, privilege, experience, or effort could ever replicate what they have created. It is not just skill, not just talent, not just hard work. It is something else entirely.
A song like चलो इक बार फिर से अजनबी बन जाएँ हम दोनों from Gumrah (1963) by Sahir Ludhianvi belongs in this category. At first, it seems like just another line, another song, another poet stringing words together. And then it hits you. That one line. That one thought. The kind that makes you stop in your tracks. You hear it again, and suddenly, you are reduced to Saif’s character from Dil Chahta Hai, stammering,
“हाँ मैं… मगर वो… सुनो तो… तुमने तो… लेकिन मैं… कब से कह…”
as you try to process what just happened.
You stare at it, trying to understand. Trying to reverse-engineer it. Until you shake your head. No. You could not have written this. Not in this life. Not in any life. You realise, with a kind of resigned admiration, that what Sahir Ludhianvi did was impossible. Only he knew how he did it. Probably.
In fact, here’s the funny thing. You could argue about the first two, whether a particular piece of art or writing or sport or surgical cut fits into the first or the second. Opinions could differ. What I think is just Work, you might want to classify as Wonder (and vice versa). But the third, there is never any doubt about it. That is pure Worship. There are no arguments. No disagreements. No dissent. Just awe.
I have met all three kinds of people in my life. The first kind is everywhere. The second kind is rare but still within reach. The third kind is almost mythical.
Have you ever met someone like that? Someone whose ability seems untouchable? Someone whose genius feels almost divine? Someone who makes you stop in your tracks and accept, without the slightest bitterness, that what they do is beyond the realm of human effort?
What did you do when you did?
