Rekha Bhardwaj’s Jazbaa concert: A return to her Delhi roots
From the love-struck ache of ‘Phir Le Aaya Dil’ to the playful pulse of ‘Ghagra’, Rekha Bhardwaj’s voice is instantly recognisable to any Indian music listener. Silky yet melancholic, her distinctive low-pitched timbre has set her apart in a soundscape dominated by high-pitched romance. This National Award-winning singer has been enchanting audiences since the late ‘90s, bringing a classical finesse and emotional honesty to Bollywood and beyond.
On Sunday, she returned to her hometown of Delhi for ‘Jazbaa: Dilon Ko Dilon Se Jodne Ka’, a concert curated by Rudraksha Communication. The evening brought together a blend of Sufi melodies, Bollywood favourites like ‘Kabira’ and ‘Maula Mere Maula’ , and intimate classical tributes to her guru Pandit Amarnath. In a conversation with us, she reflects on returning to Delhi’s stages, the spiritual roots of her music, and the quiet discipline that sustains her across genres, decades, and moods.
Excerpts:
What are you most looking forward to about returning to the Delhi stage?
Delhi is my birthplace and it’s always special to go back to my roots. I remember coming to Pragati Maidan [now Bharat Mandapam] for exhibitions and this place holds deep nostalgic value for me. So, to perform here, for the second time in just a few months, brings everything full circle and is incredibly rewarding.
When you’re in Delhi, which are the places you always visit to reconnect with the city before you step on stage?
I always make time to go back to Mandi House, it holds so many memories. We stop by Nathu’s Sweets and Bengali Market, those are musts.We also try to visit India Gate. Those lawns during monsoons with jamun trees, the purple roads from the fallen fruit—that’s such a romantic memory. Vishal [husband and composer-director Vishal Bhadwaj] had a Vijaya Super scooter, and we’d ride around the city, and in winters, that ride felt magical.
Your roots are in classical music and even as a child, you preferred performing Hindustani classical songs over mainstream film music. What is it about Ghazals and classical music that continue to move you?
There’s this story that when Pandit Ravi Shankarji was at Madison Square Garden long back, he spent about 20–25 minutes just tuning his sitar. The audience thought that was the performance, and they loved it. When he finished, he said, “Now the concert begins.” That’s the impact of our classical tradition. It draws you in and leaves you in that stillness. You could sing just one line of a bandish, take two words from it, improvise, and still transport your audience to a higher realm.
Then there are ghazals—they are poetry first, and they are romantic, emotional, and full of longing. Each couplet stands on its own, open to interpretation. When you sing a ghazal, you’re not just performing a melody—you’re delivering poetry in a way that reaches every heart in the room. Even if the emotion in the poem isn’t your own lived experience, you access it through empathy or memory.
But film songs are often written for specific situations and emotions. I feel fortunate to be able to sing them, allowing me to connect with a wider audience, while still bringing depth, emotion, and honesty to the performance.
With today’s music often made for virality and for fitting the algorithm, are we losing out on music that takes time to move people emotionally?
It’s wonderful if something you make goes viral, but that should never be the goal. But if you only stick to that, it will change your relationship with music. The focus should always be on the quality of your work, not just the numbers. There are people who genuinely enjoy the quick, catchy style and that’s fine. Everyone has their preferences. But I don’t feel there’s a real imbalance. There are still people—young and old—who come to live concerts and sit patiently, fully immersed. For me, it matters that the people who do come to listen, truly love my music.
You have been vocal about your spiritual journey. What first drew you to the Osho Commune and Sufism?
Vishal (Bhardwaj) worked with R.V. Pandit’s music company. Mr Pandit was an Osho sanyasi, and he released Osho’s discourses on cassette—on jealousy, guilt, conditioning, love, creativity. Vishal would bring those home, and we’d listen.
Slowly, it all started resonating with me. Although I was happy in my life, sometimes there’s a longing, that feeling of quiet melancholy when you watch a sunset. Even in joy, there was a silent quest inside me. A spiritual restlessness. That’s what led me to the Commune and that changed my life.
For me, Sufism isn’t a religion—it’s a path of the heart. A path toward knowing yourself. In the 23 years since, I feel I’ve come so much closer to who I am. I now know what’s beautiful within me and also what I need to work on. That self-awareness is a gift.
How has that spiritual journey influenced the way you sing and live?
For me singing has always been an offering to the divine. Over the years, that sense of surrender has deepened. Sufism helped me recognise my jealousy, anger. We all grow up wearing masks. But the meditations helped me accept all of it — my flaws and strengths. I learned to celebrate myself. We carry nothing with us when we die. So, when I sing, it’s my way of expressing gratitude — for life, nature, everything. My music nourishes my inner journey, and my inner journey shapes my music.
You’ve collaborated with so many artists across different languages and musical styles. Which have been your cherished collaborations?
Everyone I’ve worked with is special to me. Whether it was Himesh Reshammiya or Pritam, who composed songs especially for me or Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy or Sachin-Jigar, who once gave me a song I was unsure about—but it ended up becoming very close to my heart. Singing for A.R. Rahman brought a different kind of joy, with songs that helped people really see me and my craft.
But if I had to name the most significant collaboration, it would be with Vishal and Gulzar Saab. Vishal and I have grown together; he understands me musically, sometimes more than I do, and he always pushes me. And Gulzar Saab—his lyrics carry such dignity and grace of writing.
If you were to become a guru yourself, what values or lessons from that journey would you most want to pass on to young singers today?
After learning the basics from my didi, I studied at Gandharva Mahavidyalaya and then I trained under Pandit Amarnath ji, who introduced me to the gayaki of the Indore Gharana. He didn’t just teach us how to sing—he gave us tools to understand why we were singing a certain way. The biggest thing he taught me was this: “Always listen to yourself”.
If I ever become a teacher, that’s what I’d want to inspire in young singers: the dedication, the quiet grind, the ability to listen to yourself, the importance of lyrics and diction, a striving for clarity, for discipline.
This article is written by Adithi Reena Ajith
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