Jubin Nautiyal’s ‘Eeja’ is a whispered ode to the hills and home

Jubin Nautiyal’s new Pahadi track Eeja is less a song and more a quiet conversation — one that travels gently between memory, landscape, and loss. Sung in the language of his native Uttarakhand, Eeja (a tender term for “mother” in the hills) unfolds with minimal instrumentation, allowing the raw emotion of the piece to breathe on its own terms.

Jubin, who reunites here with lyricist and storyteller Neelesh Misra, describes the song as “more like a memory than a performance.” Composed in a simple 4/4 time signature, the track deliberately eschews dramatic crescendos or heavy percussion. “We kept the arrangement acoustic — soft textures, silences between lines. It flows slowly, like a conversation with my mother,” he says.

The approach is one of restraint — the kind of restraint that comes not from lack but from intent. “There’s a fragility to the way the song is built,” Jubin explains. “It doesn’t demand attention. It invites you in.”

Through quiet harmonies and gentle pauses, Eeja evokes more than personal nostalgia. It becomes a layered reflection on what’s vanishing — not just from individual memory, but from collective experience: language, forests, cultural markers, and an older rhythm of life tied to the mountains.

Shot amidst the striking landscapes of Uttarakhand, the music video deepens the song’s emotional resonance. It features lyrical references to rarely heard Pahadi words — Bawala (home), Harele (a mountain festival), Pichoda (bridal attire), and Burans (a scarlet blossom native to the region). These terms are more than picturesque additions; they are linguistic fragments of a world slowly receding.

Yet amidst themes of loss — environmental degradation, cultural erosion, disconnection — there is also hope. Eeja ends not with lament but with quiet resilience, echoing the enduring spirit of a people and place still fighting to be seen, remembered, and heard.

Now available across major streaming platforms and YouTube, Eeja stands out not for its volume, but for its vulnerability — a song that asks listeners not to listen louder, but more closely.