The Weight Of Words: Why Ibson Lal Baruah Believes Every Song Must First Tell A Story

For Ibson Lal Baruah, the question is deceptively simple. What is the backbone of a song? His answer arrives without the slightest pause- “The lyrics.”

It is neither a rehearsed line nor an attempt to diminish the role of melody. Rather, it is a conviction that has quietly guided his journey as a lyricist, composer and music director over the years.

Every time he speaks about songwriting, filmmaking, Assamese music or the creative process, he returns to the written word.

To Baruah, a tune may invite listeners into a song, but it is the lyric that gives it an identity, an emotional centre and, ultimately, the ability to outlive its own time.

That philosophy extends far beyond music. It moves effortlessly through literature, theatre, painting, cinema and society, blurring the boundaries that often separate one art form from another.

Creativity, he believes, cannot flourish in isolation. It is shaped by the books one reads, the films one watches, the people one meets and the experiences one chooses to carry.

Songs, in his words, are not merely compositions waiting to be sung. They are stories waiting to be understood.

The foundations of that belief were laid long before he entered a recording studio.

Ibson Lal Baruah grew up in a household where art was never treated as an occasional indulgence. His father, the late Prasanna Lal Baruah, was deeply associated with music and cultural activities, while his grandfather was known for his work in theatre.

Their home welcomed singers, actors, writers and friends with equal warmth. Conversations flowed over cups of tea, but so did rehearsals. Someone would invariably reach for the harmonium or the tabla, and songs would fill the room as naturally as everyday conversation.

Outside the home, literary gatherings organised by the Azara Sahitya Sabha nurtured his growing interest in reading and writing.

Looking back, Baruah considers those formative years more influential than any formal training.

“I think the attraction towards art and creation began in childhood itself,” he recalled.

“When you grow up surrounded by songs, stories, theatre and literature, they quietly become a part of you,” he added.

Interestingly, he never romanticises destiny. There was a time when he dreamt of joining the Indian Army. Had life unfolded differently, he said, he might have worn a uniform instead of writing lyrics.

The remark is not offered dramatically, but as a reminder that creative journeys are often shaped as much by circumstance as by talent.

Perhaps that explains why Baruah has never confined himself to a single discipline.

Before music became his identity, he acted in plays, painted, played the tabla, guitar, harmonium and drums, sang occasionally and immersed himself in social work. Smiling at the memory, he describes himself as a “jack of all trades”.

“I used to do everything a little,” he recalls, adding, “Because I did everything, perhaps I never mastered any one thing completely.”

The admission is disarmingly honest. Yet, in retrospect, it may also explain the richness of his songwriting—every artistic pursuit left an impression that eventually found its way into his lyrics.

It also shaped his understanding of music itself.

For Baruah, a song is never about technical brilliance alone. A powerful voice may impress, but unless the words carry meaning, the song rarely survives the passage of time.

“What is the backbone of music?” he asks before answering his own question. “It is what the song wants to say.”

That belief has influenced every stage of his creative process. Whether writing for an independent album or a feature film, Baruah begins not with rhyme or rhythm but with context.

Before a single line is written, he wants to understand the characters, their emotional journeys and the world they inhabit.

A song rooted in a rural Assamese village cannot speak the language of an urban romance. Likewise, the lyric must sit comfortably within the voice of the singer who will eventually perform it.

“There are times when I ask who will be singing the song. Some words sound beautiful in one voice but may not feel natural in another. Similarly, I want to know about the characters and the background of the story. Only then can the lyric belong to that world,” he said.

The same openness defines his collaborations. Directors suggest changes. Music directors propose different phrases. Singers occasionally struggle with a line. Baruah welcomes those conversations without allowing his ego to dominate the process.

“If someone feels a line isn’t working, I am always willing to change it,” he said.

“At the same time, if I strongly believe a particular line is important, I explain why I have written it that way. Creativity grows through understanding, not rigidity,” he quickly added.

That absence of possessiveness perhaps explains the remarkable story behind one of the most recognisable songs associated with his name.

Few listeners know that Kobita, which eventually became one of Zubeen Garg’s most memorable songs, was never written for him.

Baruah smiles before recounting the story.

“Nobody knows this story. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken about it publicly before. The song was actually written for musician Goldie Sohel, who lives in Mumbai. Goldie, who is like my younger brother, had been asking me for a song for quite some time. He composed the tune, and I wrote the lyrics for him. After that, life became busy, and I almost forgot about it.”

“One day, someone called me and asked, Dada, have you written a song for Zubeen da? A clip has been released, and it sounds like your writing. I was surprised because I hadn’t written anything for him recently. Then I listened to it and realised it was the very song I had written for Goldie,” Barua continued.

“Later, Goldie told me that things had changed during production, and the song eventually reached Zubeen da. I don’t even think Zubeen da knew that the song had originally been written for someone else. That’s how it happened. I have promised Goldie that I’ll write another beautiful song for him,” he concluded.

He narrates the anecdote without the slightest trace of regret. If anything, there is quiet acceptance in his voice, almost as though songs, once written, begin choosing their own destinations.

That perspective mirrors the generosity with which he approaches art itself.

Baruah often compares creative nourishment to physical nourishment. Just as one chooses healthy food for the body, an artist must carefully choose what to feed the mind. Books, films, paintings and music become forms of intellectual nutrition, each influencing the work that eventually emerges.

“There was a time when we read whatever books we could find because they were difficult to access. Today, the entire world is at our fingertips. The challenge is no longer availability; it is choosing what deserves our time,” he said.

He believes that young artists must learn to consume selectively rather than endlessly. The quality of creative output, he argues, is directly linked to the quality of creative input.

The same outlook also shapes his views on Assamese cinema.

For years, discussions around the industry’s struggles have revolved around shrinking audiences, limited budgets and inadequate exhibition spaces.

Baruah acknowledges those realities but refuses to view them as insurmountable obstacles. If anything, he believes Assamese cinema stands at an important turning point.

“There was a difficult phase for Assamese cinema for many reasons. But today I feel optimistic. Audiences have changed. They have access to the best films from across the world. That also means filmmakers cannot underestimate them anymore,” he said.

He argues that producers, directors and writers must now invest far more energy in developing compelling stories than in chasing formulas that worked decades ago.

A good film, he believes, is no longer judged only against other Assamese films but against global cinema available at the click of a button.

His thoughts on creativity naturally lead to another subject—the growing popularity of what is often described as “minimalist singing”. Baruah, however, resists the label.

“I don’t think singing style should ever become the main discussion. What matters is the content,” he said.

To make his point, he invokes the names of Bob Dylan, Bhupen Hazarika, and Pratima Barua Pandey.

“Nobody remembers them only because they sang well. People remember what they gave to society through their songs,” he said.

It is a statement that neatly encapsulates his artistic philosophy. Technique may evolve with changing times, but meaning remains timeless.

Reflecting on Assamese culture, Baruah eventually turns to Bhupen Hazarika, whose centenary celebrations continue to inspire renewed conversations about the state’s cultural legacy.

Rather than dwelling exclusively on Hazarika’s musical genius, Baruah chooses to speak about something deeper.

“When we look at Dr Bhupen Hazarika, we should also look at his love for people. The same applies to Jyotiprasad Agarwala, Bishnu Prasad Rabha, Lakshminath Bezbaroa and Srimanta Sankardev. Their greatness lies not only in their creations but in the humanity that shaped those creations,” he said.

For Baruah, the responsibility of an artist extends beyond producing memorable work. Art, at its finest, strengthens society by reminding people of their shared humanity.

Perhaps nothing captures Baruah’s outlook better than the thought he leaves behind.

“Live a long life. Keep smiling—not only for yourself, but for others too. Storms and hardships are a part of life. A smile is precious. If your smile can teach someone else to smile, then your life is truly blessed,” he said.

The words linger long after the conversation ends. Perhaps that is fitting. For a man who believes every song must first have something meaningful to say, it is not the melody that remains. It is the words.

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