What’s the soundtrack of your life?

I know life tends to go past almost like a movie roll when we die — a supposition fed by countless movies and books and recently, confirmed by a study that says the part of the brain that’s associated with memory lights up when we are dying. But I wonder if we also go through our soundtrack of memories as consciousness fades.

There are the little gurgles of laughter that accompanied babyhood and that were replaced by giggles and laughter as time moved on. But then there’s also the music — the tunes that we’ve forgotten that we heard in the womb and were reintroduced in spats as ‘mum or dad’s favourite number’; those beats that accompanied by headbanging were the epitome of teenage angst. The sound of heartbreak — and of love.

When I was a teen, I could name songs for every moment, often wondering if the world would break out into song and dance if I just waited long enough; now, I know the music lies within — playing in parallel as everything goes by. What’s more — it’s a very singular reel, this. Much like a memory, the music comes from experience and taste — a favoured hand-me-down or a tragic delivery.

Some introductions mark milestone moments — my first memory of hearing Leonard Cohen was in Siliguri — where my father was posted. The lyrics were deep, the voice beautiful. But it was also a meet when I was low and finally had some one-on-one time to spend with dad. My love for Chris De Burg’s music came similarly.

When during an annual meet, my cousins and I put up a concert for the family instead of our usual (self-produced) plays, we chose music close to our hearts — and that’s where I first heard Pink Floyd’s ‘Hey You’ and ‘Comfortably Numb’, the echoes of the song sung by a dear sister still haunts me years later. (Yes, I’ve heard the originals since too — they are favourites.)

The other day when I was half-asleep mid-massage, I noticed something different about the music that enveloped me; there were wordless renditions of ‘El Condor Pasa’ — one of the first songs one of my cousins played on his guitar — ‘Sound of Silence’, ‘Lady in Red’ and even ‘God’s Great Banana Skin’. Without warning I was pushed back into days gone by, when even school was a shadow one didn’t need to think about. The comfort was immediate.

And again, it’s so singular — when my husband is trying to relax, his go-to music ranges from Led Zeppelin to old-school Hindi music (which, I’ll admit, I don’t understand). For my brother, it’s anime music or dub smash. For mum, it’s the Bee-Gees and B.B. King.

There’s something cathartic about someone belting out the feelings that are too hard to contain, that need to overflow. Whether you dance, sway, singalong or just cry as the words tumble and melodies flow, there’s no denying that the dopamine effects are noticeable. Which is perhaps why when the raging of the recorder stops, the radio’s sounds die, that’s when it’s time to pay attention to mood, head space — and happiness.

Some singles that are cherished are also, of course, introduced by particularly poignant moments in cinema or a TV series.

I recently saw a beautiful movie on Apple TV called ‘Coda’ — it centred on a girl with a stunning voice and a deaf family who could not understand her great gift. Music showed her the way to be herself, to find the words, to stick with it. Just as it does for all who really listen.

Which is why I wonder if the reel of life also has a soundtrack, something that leads you back to you.