I was brought up in a household that was seldom quiet — filled to the brim with Urdu ghazals, old Bollywood cassettes, and the occasional Wham! CD that my parents carried across oceans to our shoebox apartment in Queens.

My genetic material, then, would not let me be anything but boisterous in my declarations of love. How could I not be? I had a father who put on Dil Ki Lagi by Nazia Hassan every Valentine’s Day and a mother who had carefully curated mixtapes from Bombeat in Rawalpindi. They now live in a box under my bed, waiting for the day I finally order a Sony Walkman.

Ever my mother’s daughter, I am no stranger to hyper-specific playlists. I have no less than 50 of them cluttering my Spotify homepage, which I fit into neat little folders based on theme.

And, on a balmy summer night in Islamabad, when I realised I had a teensy crush on ‘him’, I did what I know best: I associated the feeling with a song (Behkana by Ali Tariq). And another (In Dinon by Atif Aslam). And another (O Re by Noori). Until my playlist about him — let’s call him Spotify Boy — felt as long as our phone calls before going to sleep.

It’s always dangerous making someone the subject of a playlist,letting them merge into the opening chords of songs you couldn’t possibly bear to part ways with

In my haste, Abdul Hannan’s Iraaday also wound up on the playlist. It’s always dangerous making someone the subject of a playlist, letting them merge into the opening chords of songs you couldn’t possibly bear to part ways with.

I had an entire two-and-a-half months of a talking stage to let my feelings bubble in a pressure cooker. Our relationship toed the line across friendship for a long while, our only hints being song links with obscure lyrics or extremely obvious titles.

The first song Spotify Boy sent was Hannan’s Raabta. The song still makes me nauseous whenever it comes on shuffle. It’s funny how your brain can be Pavloved with music. Our chat history — that I may or may not have reread, trying to figure out where exactly I went wrong — is littered with https://open.spotify.com/track/bubbles.

Later, when we mustered up the courage to admit to ourselves that we had somehow started to fall in love, I remember lowering the volume on my headphones because it’s hard to think straight when you’re listening to Saathiya by Azaan Sami Khan.

Falling in love seems like the easiest thing in the world with him singing the background score. That’s the thing about Pakistani music: it will be on your side, understated melodies and all. Much like its listeners, it is quietly stubborn. Its refusal to ever be properly translated into the English language for fear of losing its heart along the way is a commendable feat. The irony is not lost on me.

I didn’t tell Spotify Boy I loved him immediately, but I let him know in other ways: a carefully selected meme (look, u and me!), an alarm set for 6:30am and, most of all, a playlist for him.

Unsurprisingly, it was eventually watching the like counter drop from one to none on that playlist that felt like a dagger to the heart. Fun fact: the first song I listened to after Spotify Boy broke up with me was Jo Tu Na Mila by Asim Azhar, because that’s the fun thing about break-ups — you get to wallow in your misery by being an absolute cliche.

So, for a relationship that began largely because of a throwaway comment I made about our shared music taste and a tendency to hog the aux on a road trip, it made sense to obsessively watch his Spotify activity afterward: Ranjish Hi Sahi by Ali Sethi played for a day, my playlist was wiped two days later, and he made her a playlist two weeks after.

My own listening history comically switched from Beparwah by Momina Mustehsan to Tum Mil Gaye by Vital Signs to nothing at all. Now, I often sit in silence at work, because my over-eagerness has cost me even my background noise by association.

In the car, last week, my teenage brother reached over to skip Faaslay by Annural Khalid, because he knew Spotify Boy played it too often in his own car. The song was made for midnight drives through foggy Islamabad, I can’t blame him.

The worst part about getting your heart broken for the very first time isn’t even the person, the relationship, or the earth-shattering emotions that come with it. It’s the annoying realisation that all the cliches about break-ups are true, and there is no way around them.

I have to sit with the grief because time will pass anyway. But it’s hard to explain to my friends that, while I’m perfectly fine, I’m mourning the avid music listener I was before him. And yet, heartbreak comes with a strange sense of liberation. I am finally in on it.

Kaavish and QB’s Faaslay will never be the same. I now have the absolute pleasure of understanding Urdu lyrics as they were meant to be understood: with a melancholy heart.

The inclusive nature of Pakistani music is one that I have only recently discovered, for better or worse. It’s almost as if singers engage in an all-knowing back and forth with their listeners, reminding them that the human experience, especially love, is universal. My heartbreak isn’t necessarily unique and, while it has certainly led to an unprecedented silence, my favourite songs ruined and new ones far too relatable, there is strength in numbers.

I may have taught Spotify Boy a secret language hidden in my playlists, but there is no real need to continue speaking in code. Spotify Boy smashing my heart into smithereens didn’t do a whole lot of good, except pointing me straight back into the comforting arms of Pakistani music. I can no longer listen with a clean slate, but learning how to fall back in love with my favourite songs has been one of the greatest joys of my life.

When I was four, I remember sitting on my grandmother’s forest green couch, watching Jal perform Aadat on a clunky, grey television set, changing the Pakistani pop music landscape forever. It has been my favourite song ever since, always having a reserved slot in my Spotify Wrapped.

Back then, it might have been a young Atif Aslam brooding away that intrigued me but, this time around, I can sympathise. In an entirely sadistic way, I am relieved that a song I managed to evade for 20 years caught up to me.

And in an entirely selfish way, I am more relieved to know that even 20 years ago, nothing broke like a heart.

Published in Dawn, ICON, February 25th, 2024