In this first-person account facilitated by Nishtha Kawrani and narrated to The Better IndiaShubhangi Bajpai remembers her father, whose greatest passion in life was music and how he sacrificed his own dreams to support the family but never allowed his passion to die.
For most people, my father, Ashok Bajpai, was a government employee. To me, he was the person behind many of my earliest memories of music.
Before responsibilities took over, my father was part of a local orchestra in Varanasi. Along with a group of friends, he performed at local events and functions. One of his close friends played the banjo, and music brought them together for years. He loved singing and looked forward to every opportunity he got to perform.
After my grandfather passed away, things changed for him.
As the only one eligible, my father took up a government job to support the family at the age of 24, as my uncle was still studying. He never got the chance to continue his studies the way he wanted to, and whatever plans he may have had for music had to take a back seat.
Even after that, music remained a part of his life.
The dream that stayed, even when life moved on
I grew up listening to old Hindi songs at home. Mohammed Rafi, Mukesh and Manna Dey were among his favourites. Songs like The prayer of ‘Barbad-e-Mohabbat’, I forced myself and that moment came many times.were always playing somewhere in the background. Even today, hearing any of them reminds me of him instantly.
He sang with an audience and in everyday moments at home. He sang because he genuinely loved music, and that love found its way into almost every part of his life.
Whether it was a family function, an office gathering or a wedding, someone would eventually ask him to sing. He especially loved qawwalis. What usually began with him singing would soon turn into a group performance, with relatives and friends joining in. He had a way of bringing people together through music.
One of my strongest memories is of my brother preparing for a singing competition in Varanasi when he was just 12 years old. I was very young at the time, but I still remember my father coming home from work and sitting with him every day to practise.
Songs like Meri Bheegi Bheegi Si and O Re Taal Mile Nadi Ke Jal Mein would play over and over again in our house.
The lessons were meant for my brother, but after listening to those practice sessions every day, I learned the songs too. Looking back, it was one of the many ways my father’s love for music quietly became a part of me.
A childhood shaped by old Hindi songs
Looking back, I realise music wasn’t something my father deliberately taught us. It was simply always there, woven into everyday life.
He also had a playful side. When we were younger, he would often make up songs on the spot. Sometimes, while putting us to sleep, he would change his voice and sing random songs he created himself.
We never knew what the next line would be, and that was part of the fun. Years later, it is still one of the things I remember most clearly about him.
As I grew older, I heard more stories about his orchestra days. He had travelled to different places for performances, including a show at Bokaro Steel Plant.
There was also an incident during a programme in Bihar where members of the orchestra got into an argument after they weren’t paid what they had been promised. Stories like these helped me understand that music had once been much more than a hobby for him.
Some of my favourite memories are from the COVID lockdown. We were all at home together, which meant more conversations, more music and more time with each other.
In the evenings, we would often sit together and play antakshari (a song-based word game). Back then, it felt like a simple way to pass the time. Today, those evenings are some of the memories I hold closest.
In later years, health issues affected his voice. Singing became more difficult, but his love for music never changed.
We lost him in November 2025.
After losing him, I began to see the man behind ‘Papa’
His absence made me think about him in a different way — not just as Papa, but as a person with dreams, passions and a life of his own.
Growing up, I never really thought about what my father might have wanted for himself. To me, he was simply the person who went to work every day, took care of the family and was always there when we needed him.
It was only later that I realised there had once been a young man who loved singing so much that he spent years performing with an orchestra. When his family needed him, he chose responsibility without hesitation.
What stays with me is that he never stopped making space for music in his life. He shared it with friends, sang at gatherings, encouraged my brother and, without even realising it, passed that love for music on to me as well.
Today, whenever my brother sings or plays the harmonium, I see a part of my father in him.
And whenever an old Mohammed Rafi song starts playing somewhere, I think of him instantly.
My father left us many memories, but some of my favourite ones begin and end with music.
All images courtesy Shubhangi Bajpai
