It’s 2011. You’ve just come back from a long day at school, with only half an hour to spare before heading to your dreaded math tuition. You switch on the TV to 9XM, and “Tera Hone Laga Hoon” by Atif Aslam, Alisha Chinai and Pritam from Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani is playing. You think about your crush and smile. Flash forward to 2025: you’re in a car with your friends on the way to a night out, and that same song comes on. Suddenly, everyone’s singing at the top of their lungs. Isn’t that one of the most beautiful feelings in the world—when a song can transport you back to a simpler time, even if just for a few minutes? That’s the power of Bollywood’s 2000s anthems.
In an era of viral Instagram Reels audio and algorithm-fed playlists, it’s fascinating how we continue to gravitate to music from the 1990s to the 2010s. In addition to being hits, these songs served as emotional lifelines. Songs like “Mitwa,” “Bin Tere,” and “Tune Jo Na Kaha” weren’t just bittersweet earworms; they captured the confusion, passion, and magic of growing up in an India before Instagram, where feelings were felt in all their messiness rather than refined and perfected.
The golden period from the late 1990s to the early 2010s produced more than just catchy songs. Composers such as A.R. Rahman, Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy, Pritam, and Vishal-Shekhar mastered the art of merging our Indian roots and textures with genres from the West without diluting either. “Rang De Basanti“, for example, became an anthem of young rebellion and revolt. “Dil Chahta Hai” wasn’t only about friendship; it sounded like freedom in your twenties, the thrill of new relationships, city lights, and the possibility of something greater. The music didn’t merely accompany these stories; it elevated them.
What’s surprising is that Gen Z, who were just toddlers when these songs first came out, now treat them as treasures. Scroll through Instagram Reels and you’ll see “Dooriyaan” from Love Aaj Kal used as a soft-focus dedication to a long-distance lover, or “Agar Tum Saath Ho” playing over footage of people peacefully staring out train windows. There is a term for this: “inherited nostalgia” (which is probably the same reason we’re so obsessed with things like vinyl records and wired earphones). But I believe it is more than that. These songs offer something that is not typically found in contemporary music: honesty.
I’ve seen firsthand how these songs light up every wedding I’ve attended. The moment “Mauja Hi Mauja” or “London Thumakda” comes on, the dance floor fills up. For my cousin’s sangeet last year, we spent weeks rehearsing a mashup of “Chammak Challo,” “Radha,” and “Gallan Goodiyaan.” These tracks feel essential—everyone from grandparents to Gen Z cousins joins in without hesitation. From the timeless romance of “Tujhe Dekha Toh” to the high-energy chaos of “Disco Deewane,” their vibe brings generations together.
There’s also something about the older songs—a sense of belonging that feels harder to find today. We discovered them in shared ways: from radios playing outside corner shops, on a friend’s MP3 player, or during music video countdowns on TV. Maybe it’s because our options were fewer, but the songs we did have meant more. Even now, when “Chhaiya Chhaiya” plays at a wedding or a club, everyone rushes to dance. These are the tracks that go beyond generations and time zones—they just stay with you.
Whenever life feels overwhelming, I find myself going back to the music of my childhood. It helps me pause and reset. Sure, it reminds me of who I used to be, but more importantly, it reconnects me with who I still hope to become—the version of myself that feels free to feel everything fully. The kind of person who cries without hesitation to “Tujhe Bhula Diya” or blasts “Phir Se Ud Chala” on a walk, lost in thoughts about dreams yet to be realized. These songs don’t just play in the background—they give space for our emotions to breathe.
I often think about that moment in Rockstar when Jordan sings “Kun Faya Kun.” Even now, watching it feels like a form of prayer—stripped down, honest, and deeply moving. That song gave us the permission to be sincere. And sometimes, I wonder if in today’s world of curated chaos, we’ve lost touch with that kind of authenticity.
We may never return to that particular age of Bollywood music. And maybe we don’t have to. But I’m hoping that the spirit of that time—the emotional honesty, narrative complexity, and musical richness—will continue to inspire what comes after. Because, ultimately, the music we keep with us is the music that makes us feel noticed.
So, the next time a song from your school days plays on shuffle on Spotify or at a party, don’t ignore it. Allow it to play and flood you with emotions. Because, if the music of the 1990s-2010s taught us anything, it was that it’s okay to be emotional.
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