I was thirteen, sitting on the swing in the veranda of our house back in Pune. My grandmother, often nearby with a book in hand, had a deep love for poetry. That day, she opened Dushyant Kumar’s Saaye Mein Dhoop and read aloud, “Tu kisi rail si guzarti hai, main kisi pul sa thar-tharata hoon,” which translates to “You pass like a train, and I tremble like a bridge. You may not hear me at all, but still, I murmur your name.” I didn’t fully grasp the meaning back then, but the words stayed with me.
Years later, watching Masaan, the same line returned. Spoken by Shweta Tripathi’s character, it felt like a memory being handed back. The lyric, as it turned out, was sung by Swanand Kirkire. After that, I began noticing his name more and more—in the end credits, in YouTube descriptions, beside songs that had already left a mark. “Monta Re” sung by Kirkire surfaced and it all connected. One artist, quietly shaping the emotional vocabulary of a generation.
Kirkire was trained in direction at the National School of Drama after leaving behind a degree in engineering. NSD didn’t just teach him to perform, but also taught him to observe. There, he discovered Brecht, Bhakti poetry, the silences between notes, and how art could challenge power and comfort grief. It shaped not just his craft but also his compass. “The stage never really leaves you,” he told Rolling Stone India. “It’s like an old friend. You may part ways, but the bond remains.”
His parents were classical singers, and music surrounded him, though he never trained formally. He learned by being around it, by listening. His entry into films wasn’t planned either. “I came to Mumbai to direct,” he said, “but the city had other plans. Or maybe, it had a wider mirror.” He assisted filmmaker Sudhir Mishra, and one train ride changed everything. He wrote “Bavra Mann” while in transit. “At the time, I didn’t think much of it,” he admitted. But the song travelled. “It found its place in people’s lives. It gave me one, too.”
Over the years, Kirkire’s lyrics have resonated far beyond Hindi cinema. While lyricists like Shreya Ghoshal, Kailash Kher, Mohit Chauhan, and Shankar Mahadevan brought his words to life in films such as Barfi!, 3 Idiots, and Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi, his reach extended into regional cinema as well. In Marathi, he penned the bhajan “Aaj Mhare Ghar Pavana” for the biopic Balgandharva (2011). Meanwhile, his iconic tracks followed the rising wave of social media in the early 2020s: “Monta Re” from Lootera and “Tu Kisi Rail Si” from Masaan frequently reappear in Instagram reels and YouTube Shorts, introducing his voice to younger audiences. Still, he observes, “When you write for others, your voice disappears by design. You wonder sometimes, do people hear me? Not just the words, but the person behind them.”
That wondering gave rise to Baawra, a show where Kirkire doesn’t just write the script but also lives it. “The desire to return to the stage was always there,” he said. “I was carrying it for years, tucked between scripts and songs.” A conversation with the show’s production team at Tamboo Entertainment led to Baawra, a hybrid of music, storytelling, poetry, and memory. I want to create an experience which feels alive and something you can’t replicate on a screen.”, he said.
Baawra is a live stage show that blends music, poetry, and personal storytelling. It’s not a typical concert or play, but a format where Kirkire performs songs from his body of work like Ala Barfi, Piyu Bole, Bavra Mann, O Ri Chiraiyya, and All Izz Well—alongside unreleased material. Between songs, he shares the stories and moments that shaped them. He responds to the mood of the room, occasionally inviting the audience to sing along or request songs. “It’s the first time I’m not stepping into a role, but stepping out as I truly am,” he said. “Baawra lets me bring all of myself to the stage—unfiltered and unmasked. The silences between the notes, the chaos behind the craft.”
To describe that space, Kirkire turns to a couplet by Kabir—the 15th-century Indian mystic poet and saint known for his deeply philosophical verses that bridge the spiritual with the everyday. The line goes:
“Had had taipay so auliya, aur behad taipay so peer. Had-anhad dono taipay, so wako naam faqeer.”
“The fakir is the one who walks between limits and limitlessness.” That’s the space Kirkire moves in—where discipline and surrender aren’t opposites, but often collaborators.
Even after all these years, he says the fear hasn’t left him. “It just changes shape. What scares me now is the idea of repeating myself and of creating something that feels safe instead of something that feels true.” Earlier, the creative block filled him with anxiety. “I used to push, push, push until something came. Now, I’ve learned to rest. To give my mind a break. Sometimes silence is what gives you the next idea.”
He writes only what feels necessary. When asked what makes a line travel across generations, he said simply, “If you write from the heart, it reaches hearts.” Baawra is his way of reclaiming his presence. “If they’ve come all the way to the room, I owe them something more,” he said. “They can stream my music anytime. But this is for those who show up.” The show is deeply personal, not just in form but also in feeling. “There’s a quiet kind of anonymity in being a writer,” he concludes. “Maybe that’s why Baawra matters so much to me.”
For someone whose words have lived in so many voices, this is a moment to use his own. Because sometimes, the clearest sound is not what you write but what you’re finally ready to say aloud.
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