Tumne mujhe dekha...

Rafi Saab. Not out at 100: The voice that taught us not just how to fall in love — but how to live.

By Satya Sagar

July 31, 2025. The sun rose like it always does. However, this morning felt different. It carried a hush, a reverence, a melodic nostalgia — as if the sky itself knew that on this day, we were meant to remember a man with a quiet, eternal, beatific smile, who, though he left us too soon, never really left us at all.

It’s been 100 years since Mohammed Rafi was born in Kotla Sultan Singh, a tiny village in Punjab. One century. And, yet, as I sat on my balcony with a cup of tea, the first light filtering through the neem tree, I pressed play on:

 Teri Galiyon Mein Na Rakhenge Kadam…

And, suddenly, I wasn’t just listening to a song.

I was remembering a life.

Not just his life — though what a life it was — but the way his magical voice wove itself into mine, and yours, and every Indian and lover of ‘Rafi saab’ in the world, who has ever loved, lost, prayed, or dreamed.

Rafi Saab was a genius, yes — but never one who reminded you of it. He didn’t need to. His voice did all the talking.

That voice — so pure, so effortless, so humane — could move lucidly from a nuanced whisper to a melodic roar, from a lover’s sigh of longing, to a soldier’s cry in a battlefield, from the humility of a beggar, to the majesty of a king.

And, yet, the man behind the microphone?

He was gentle. Humble. Always please and thank you.

Never a word against a rival, never a boast, never a moment of ego.

When Talat Mahmud, the singer with a subdued, silken voice, mocked him, he showed no rancour. Listen to their friendly, philosophical duet: Gam ki andheri raat mein… dil ko na bekarar kar… subah zaroor aayegi… subah ka intezar kar.. (Film: Susheela. Music C Arjun. Lyrics: Jan Nisaar Akhtar.)

When Lataji sang her first solo, he stood aside with a smile. When Kishoreda rose like a storm, Rafi Saheb didn’t complain — he sang with him , for him, because of him.

He once said, “Main to gaata hoon, bas. Zindagi mein kuch aur nahin karta.”(I just sing. I do nothing else in life.)

But, isn’t singing the most profound thing a human can do?

Rafi Saheb didn’t just sing songs — he sang the truth of our life.

Surely, his, Man re, tu kahe na dheer dhare could turn an atheist spiritual.

His Hum bekhudi mein tum ko pukare, with Dev Anand in one of his several romantic songs, contained the tears of a million heartbreaks. And his Deewana Mujhse Nahin, with flamboyant Shammi Kapoor doing his monkey tricks, could make the heart of a dead man flutter.

He sang for the lover (Tere Mere Sapne), the rebel (Yeh Duniya Yeh Mehfil), the repentant (Kabhi khud pe, kabhi haalaat pe), the sinner (Tujhe Kya Sunaoon), and the eternal dissident poet, the discarded genius, the condemned writer (Pyaasa).

He sang the finest bhajans He sang about friendship, longing, duty, despair, joy, sacrifice. He sang songs for a drunk hero.

Against the king (Mughal-e-Azam). For the country (Haqeeqat). For brave Bhagat Singh. (Shaheed) .

In fact, if you had never read a book, never stepped into a temple, never heard a sermon — and you listened to only Rafi Saheb’s songs, from beginning to end — you would still know how to be a good human being.

You would know that love is sacred.

That pride is poison.

That forgiveness is strength.

That humility is grace.

That even in sorrow, there is beauty.

When Rafi saheb sang, Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaaye to kya hai? it wasn’t just a song. It was a warning. A meditation. A revolution in eight words.

Because Rafi Saheb didn’t just sing for entertainment. He sang the songs that come before the revolution — the ones that made us feel alive and pulsating, that recognized all living things and processes, that gave us the dream and the will to fight for change, for justice, for humanism, long before we could even name what the change is to be.

They say he recorded over 7,000 songs. But, honestly, I don’t think he ever stopped singing.

I hear him in the silence between two lovers.

I hear him in the prayer of an old woman at dawn.

I hear him in the laughter of children on a school bus.

I hear him in the quiet courage of those who stand up for what’s right, even when no one is watching.

And I hear him every time someone chooses kindness over anger, humility over pride, love over hate.

Because that’s what his music taught us.

Not just how to fall in love — but how to live.

Thank you, Rafi Saab.

Thank you for singing with your soul.

Thank you for showing us that greatness doesn’t shout — it whispers. That is so humble. Almost invisible.

Thank you for proving that a man can be immortal without ever seeking glory.

You taught us that the most powerful revolutions don’t begin with gunfire —they begin with a song.

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Satya Sagar is the Acting Chairman of the Communist Party of India (Mohammad Rafi), a party that stands for the ideology of Anarkalism (Anarchy + Anarkali) and strives to turn all of South Asia into one, big, beautiful song. On other occasions he is a traveler, writer and documentary filmmaker based in Shantiniketan, Bolpur, West Bengal.

Above: Victorious adivasi women fighting for their indigenous forest rights led by the All India Union of Forest Working People (AIUFWP). Birsa Nagar. Sonbhadra. UP. Photo: Amit Sengupta.