Close your eyes and travel back to an Indian wedding of the 1960s. A dusty road, a groom perched proudly on a decorated mare, colourful clothes, curious children and a noisy procession of baraatis. Suddenly, the bandmaster raises his trumpet.
And then it happens.
“Come September…”
Within seconds, the baraat changes character. The serious-looking uncle begins to sway. The young men break into the twist. Even the old man whose knees have been complaining for years suddenly discovers a forgotten spring in his legs.
That was the magic of Come September. In the 1960s, Hollywood came to India not only through films but also through music. The film Come September, starring Rock Hudson, Gina Lollobrigida and Sandra Dee, brought with it a lively instrumental tune composed and performed by Bobby Darin.
Darin developed the opening melody on a twelve-string guitar. The recipe was simple: romance, rhythm and a little mischief. Guitar, mandolin, accordion and bongos came together to create a melody that was impossible to ignore. India did not need to translate it.
There were no words, but the tune seemed to say everything: be young, be cheerful and forget your worries for a while. The melody travelled rapidly from cinemas and radio sets into drawing rooms, picnics and, most importantly, wedding processions. Indian bandmasters, those unsung cultural ambassadors, adopted it with enthusiasm.
A baraat was already a moving theatre. Add Come September to it and social discipline simply went on leave. The groom’s cousins danced. Neighbours joined in. Children ran around the procession. Strangers standing on the roadside became temporary members of the wedding party. Everyone had his own choreography. Democracy, at least on the baraat road, was flourishing. Then came another international tune that conquered Indian hearts: “Brazil.”
Ary Barroso’s famous Brazilian composition Aquarela do Brasil travelled across continents through instrumental and orchestral versions. In India, it found a particularly warm home among bands and orchestras. Its rhythm reached cities, small towns and eventually villages. It became a familiar sound at weddings far removed from the sophisticated world of international music.
Most baraatis probably did not know that the tune had travelled from Brazil. For them, it was simply “band wale ki zabardast dhun.” And that is the real miracle of music. It may have a passport, but it needs no visa to enter the heart. Come September, Brazil created a delightful cultural khichdi. Hollywood melody, Brazilian rhythm and Indian wedding traditions met on the same dusty street.
Nobody asked questions about nationality. The band played. The baraatis danced. The tune became ours.
The charm of Come September lay partly in its simplicity. The melody rose and fell, repeating itself just enough to remain permanently lodged in the mind. The feet took over before the brain could object.
It fitted Indian weddings beautifully. Give it a trumpet, add a dhol, throw in a little nagada and plenty of desi enthusiasm, and the foreign tune was completely domesticated. Bollywood, naturally, was watching.
Indian composers absorbed Western musical influences and often transformed them into something distinctly Indian. Echoes of such rhythms could be heard in films and songs of the period, including Hamraaz. Later generations of composers continued borrowing, adapting and reinventing Western musical ideas.
That was never simply copying. Indian music had a remarkable habit of taking something foreign, giving it a desi makeover and sending it back into the world. Think of weddings in the 1960s and 1970s.
No DJ. No laser lights. No giant speakers shaking the neighbourhood. Just a band, shining brass instruments, a dhol and a crowd of enthusiastic relatives. Yet the atmosphere could be electric.Today, the DJ plays so loudly that the groom may occasionally wonder whether he is attending his own wedding or a political rally.
In those days, one infectious tune was enough to create a celebration. Perhaps that is why Come September remains lodged in the memory of an entire generation. It did not merely make people listen.
It made them move. For a few minutes, age, status and social etiquette disappeared. The professor danced beside the shopkeeper. The businessman moved alongside the rickshaw driver. The shy teenager suddenly became a star performer.
More than six decades have passed. Yet an old melody can still open a forgotten door.
The dusty road returns.
The mare appears.
The groom smiles.
The trumpet rises.
“Come September…”
And somewhere, perhaps from another band, comes the unmistakable rhythm of “Brazil.”
Hollywood, Brazil and India meet again. And the baraat dances on.
- Brij Khandelwal