I did not want to write on this. Enough has already been written about A.R. Rahman’s recent lament that Bollywood may be cold-shouldering him for ‘communal’ reasons. When an industry insider plays the victim card without evidence, the noise usually dies down on its own. But when the accusation comes from a global icon, silence begins to sound like consent.
Let me state this upfront, lest motives be questioned. I am not indifferent to music, nor am I a casual listener diving into this debate. In 2018, while working with Gulf News, I reviewed Rahman’s live concert in Sharjah Cricket Stadium – a three-hour spectacle before 20,000 people, complete with monstrous LED stages, orchestral grandeur, Sufi interludes, and a genuinely mesmerised audience. I called the performance ‘awesome’ then, and I meant it. I have seen Rahman at his commanding best, in full control of sound, scale, and silence. Which is precisely why his present charge feels so jarringly off-key.
That said, admiration does not demand intellectual dishonesty. Honestly speaking, I have never cared much for Rahman’s music in the cinematic sense. Much of it sounds alike – an overreliance on electronic layering, sonic gimmickry, and atmospheric padding masquerading as innovation. For all the global acclaim, there is little that feels rooted, pure, or classically inspired. The reverence around him often feels disproportionate, as though repetition itself has been mistaken for reinvention.
When whispers are mistaken for wounds
If there were merely ‘Chinese whispers’ about him losing work because of a ‘communal thing’, wisdom would have dictated ignoring them. Whispers collapse when denied oxygen. By choosing to air them publicly, Rahman lent them legitimacy. In doing so, he alienated a section of his admirers – proof that even icons falter when they mistake self-pity for candour.
The claim also collapses under basic scrutiny. Rahman is not being sidelined; he is being prolific. Since 2016, his Hindi filmography alone includes Mohenjo-Daro, OK Jaanu, Mom, Beyond the Clouds, Dil Bechara, Mimi, Atrangi Re, Maidaan, and Amar Singh Chamkila. His upcoming slate boasts Ramayana Part 1, Lahore 1947, Kamal aur Meena, a Gandhi television series, and more – excluding his work in other languages. For a man allegedly frozen out, he appears remarkably busy. So what, exactly, is the grievance?
Even Bollywood’s own veterans have quietly dismantled the thesis. Screenwriter and lyricist Javed Akhtar dismissed the idea of the industry being communal, reminding Rahman that talent, relevance, and timing – not theology – decide careers. Columnist and novelist Shobhaa De pointed out that Bollywood is uniformly ruthless, sparing neither Hindus nor Muslims, believers nor atheists. Its only prejudice is against stagnation.
Then there is the larger, uncomfortable irony. Music, according to orthodox interpretations of the faith, Rahman now follows, is haram (forbidden). Yet Rahman has built an empire composing it. That contradiction has never troubled him, which makes his sudden sensitivity to imagined religious bias curious.
The Ramayana paradox
The anecdote shared by veteran Tamil lyricist Piraisoodan only deepens the disquiet – being invited to Rahman’s home, only to be asked by his mother to remove his vibhuti and tilak before entry, while Rahman reportedly watched in silence. That is not cultural harmony; it is selective tolerance.
Rahman once spoke eloquently about composing for Ramayana, about absorbing values across cultures, about India telling its stories beyond religion. It was a moment of grace. Which is why his later insinuations feel like a retreat from that very universality.
Bollywood is many things – cynical, cut-throat, opportunistic – but communal is not its defining trait. It worships only one god: relevance. When the music stops connecting, the industry does not ask your religion. It asks for the next tune.
Perhaps the silence Rahman hears is not prejudice at all – merely the pause before an audience decides whether it wants an encore.
