Some movies arenât just watched, theyâre felt. Theyâre designed to slip quietly into the background of your life, and then, when you least expect it, tear through you. That, for me, was Rockstar. You donât just watch Rockstar. You relive heartbreaks (that you may have never experienced), ache for something not quite defined, taste freedom, all because the line between the screen and reality ceases to matter.
Driving through the mountain roads of Shillong this May, with Rockstarâs soundtrack blasting in my ears, I realised I was feeling something unfamiliar, a kind of yearning I hadnât quite known before. Shillong itself is a place set apart. The mountains are somehow endlessly green, and the mist wraps around everything to a point that makes you wonder what the city is hiding. At every turn, I felt like there was a story, half-hidden, waiting to be found. Here, the subtle feeling of being âamissâ lingers, no matter how many times you trace the same streets. With the car windows open, the air carried the sweet scent of places far away and the hum of possibility.Â
A.R. Rahmanâs music (particularly Rockstarâs soundtrack) storms in, shakes your soul awake, and refuses to let go. It felt almost as if every curve in the road mirrored something happening inside of me. Saadda Haq churned out its rebellion against the beautiful backdrop of the sky and the cliffs. Jordanâs (the protagonist) restlessness, a hunger not just for love, but for freedom and meaning, suddenly felt real, almost familiar. It was the kind of yearning that catches you almost by surprise – sharp, insistent, and hard to shake.Â
Then, as the sun began to set and the valleys deepened, Tum Ho slipped in with its gentle ache. The music began to feel less like a mere soundtrack and more like a force that gently exposed places I usually protect, a reminder that hope and vulnerability sit side by side. The tender melody of the delicate piano notes toward the end of the song felt like a whisper – soft, intimate, almost like a breath held between heartbeats. It was a portrayal of the acceptance of longing that is neither desperate nor resolved, but just so beautifully suspended in time.Â
Kun Faya Kun flared like a prayer over the hills, and something deep inside of me felt forgiven, accepted for all my uncertainties. The road stretched on, of course, but I barely noticed how far Iâd come; my world inside the car and the world outside seemed to merge. I understood, for the first time, the messiness of wanting something you canât name – not just in love, but in the restless pursuit of purpose, ambition, and the dreams that flicker just beyond reach.Â
Driving with Rockstar as my guide, I felt raw and exposed in a way that was so liberating. The album didnât just accompany me on my journey; no, it transformed it. It connected each mountain rise and every quiet stretch in between to a new sense of possibility within. Maybe thatâs the magic of letting music, place, and story weave together. Some journeys donât just move you through space, but through corners of yourself that you never expected to find. And when a soundtrack so effortlessly finds its place deep inside your soul, doesnât it make you pause to think that maybe, just maybe, the story being told is about more than just what meets the eye?
And thatâs when I realised – Rockstar is a love story. But itâs not just about love.