Shailendra: The People’s Poet

In the history of Indian cinema, few lyricists have touched people’s hearts as deeply as Shailendra. Raj Kapoor’s “Kaviraj” and “Pushkin”, began his journey with Raj Kapoor’s Aag (1948) and Barsaat (1949) and, in a moving coincidence, ended with Raj Kapoor’s Mera Naam Joker with the unforgettable line “Jeena Yahan, Marna Yahan” even though he passed away before the release.

Shailendra entered Hindi cinema at a time when India itself was learning to live with freedom. The wounds of Partition were still raw, livelihoods uncertain, and hope fragile. Cinema halls of the 1950s and early 60s were not merely places of escape; they were sanctuaries where ordinary people arrived carrying loss, worry, and longing. Shailendra became the man who quietly absorbed all of it — and returned it as song.

Born Shankardas Kesarilal in 1923, he grew up close to hardship and far from comfort. Long before films claimed him, poetry had. He wrote not for applause, but from empathy. When he entered cinema, literature did not leave him — it followed him. And in his hands, poetry performed a rare miracle: it became public property.

His language disarmed by its simplicity. In “Kisi ki muskurahaton pe ho nisaar” (Anari, 1959), he transformed Gandhian idealism into song, urging a wounded nation to believe that moral wealth mattered more than material gain.

In “Suhana Safar Aur Yeh Mausam Haseen” (Madhumati, 1958), the “journey” in the song is not merely physical — it is emotional and spiritual. In Poochho Na Kaise Maine Rain Bitaayi from Meri Soorat Teri Aankhen (1963), he embodies a man wounded by rejection—judged for his appearance, shunned by society, and yearning quietly for dignity and acceptance. In It was this rare balance — deep sorrow rendered through gentle words — that made Shailendra singular. Gulzar, reflecting on him in Ganesh Anantharaman’s National Award-winning book Bollywood Melodies: A History of the Hindi Film Song, wrote: “In my view he was the lyricist who understood films as a medium distinct from poetry and theatre perfectly… For his ability to know the medium, understand the situation, get into the characters, and write in a language suiting the character, he was without peer… among all lyricists of Hindi cinema, only Shailendra truly became part of the film medium.”

Javed Akhtar, tracing his lineage much further back, observed:

“Shailendra comes from the tradition of Kabir, Meera, Khusro. You get that same simplicity of folk poets in Shailendra’s lyrics.”

With Shankar–Jaikishan and Raj Kapoor, he gave the “common man” his language. In “Awara hoon” (Awara, 1951), the tramp became Everyman — punched down by class, bruised by fate, but unbowed. In “Mera joota hai Japani” (Shree 420, 1955), he taught nationalism without noise — a young country wearing borrowed clothes but keeping its soul.

In love songs, he avoided spectacle. In “Yeh raat bheegi bheegi” (Chori Chori, 1956), confession travelled through silence. In “Khoya Khoya Chand” (Kala Bazar, 1960), longing becomes soft and lyrical. Love feels distant yet alive, like a half-remembered dream — present in the air, but just beyond reach. In “Ajeeb Dastan Hai Yeh” (Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai, 1960), Shailendra captured life’s quiet irony — how love arrives unannounced, alters everything, and leaves. There is no protest in the song, only acceptance, as if fate were being observed rather than questioned.

With S. D. Burman, his work grew quieter, deeper. In “Tere mere sapne” (Guide, 1965), dreams fought despair. In “O re majhi mere sajan hai us paar” (Bandini, 1963), life itself became a river — uncertain, unpromising, yet irresistible.

Even celebration carried conscience. In “Ramaiya Vastavaiya” (Shree 420, 1955), joy concealed warning — that imitation must never replace identity.

Ultimately, it was death that he sometimes seemed to seek comfort in. In “Aye mere dil kahin aur chal, gham ki duniya se dil bhar gaya” (Daag, 1952), the soul openly begged for escape. Again and again, mortality entered his songs — not as terror, but as tenderness.

In “Khud hi mar mitne ki yeh zid hai hamaari” (Anari, 1959), longing flirted with surrender.In “Dost dost na raha, pyaar pyaar na raha, zindagi humein tera aitbaar na raha” (Sangam, 1964), trust unravelled into dust.And in “Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai, aaj phir marne ka iraada hai” (Guide, 1965), life itself stood trembling — one foot forward, one toward oblivion.

He turned producer with Teesri Kasam, 1966, a film that took nearly four years to complete. When it finally released, it failed at the box office and the setback weighed heavily on him. On 14 December 1966, Shailendra passed away, leaving behind work unfinished and songs still waiting to be written. When Teesri Kasam, 1966 later won the President’s Gold Medal for Best Film, he was no longer there to receive it.

He passed away in 1966, just as cinema began to grow louder. The shift was immediate. Words sharpened. Wisdom thinned. Simplicity, once sacred, became unnecessary. Yet his lyrics survived revolutions and reruns, technology and tastes. From radio crackle to digital clarity, his words never aged.

In the words of Nitishwar Kumar, IAS, a seasoned civil servant and quintessential poet, when a poet gives meaning to how people live and feel, the words become timeless — and Shailendra was just that: a People’s Poet.

Shailendra was not merely a lyricist. He was sorrow made bearable. He was love, taught softly. He did not make cinema louder. He taught it how to listen.

Dr Arun Manhas, Director Industries & Commerce, Jammu