I revisited the soundtrack of Kandukondain Kandukondain the other day, and I couldn’t help but admire the visual quality of its soundscape. Classicists have long examined the relationship between music and imagery. In a similar vein, the Indian music systems of Hindustani and Carnatic draw heavily on romantic verse. Many of these lyrics were written by literary greats for their spouses, mistresses, or muses. Indian film music, which evolved directly from these traditions, is no exception. When every lyric paints a vivid portrait of a graceful woman or a striking man, the sound alone creates a visual in the listener’s mind — a reflection of how each person interprets and celebrates beauty.
This visual quality of music, where senses intermingle, has always sparked debate. Take Gulzar’s evocative line, “Humne dekhi hai, un aankhon ki mehekti khushboo…” Many wondered, how could fragrance be “seen”?
Indian cinema, with its signature musical format, places immense responsibility on filmmakers to breathe life into countless songs and their embedded emotions. Commercial masters like Raj Kapoor, Mani Ratnam, Priyadarshan, and Yash Chopra repeatedly succeeded in doing just that. Yet, one film stands out above all others for transcending lush locations and designer costumes in its song picturizations — Rajiv Menon’s Tamil classic Kandukondain Kandukondain.
Like many AR Rahman soundtracks, this album carries a distinctive scent of its own. What sets his melodies apart is not just the music but how they’re visualized. A cinematographer by training, Menon, along with ace lensman Ravi K. Chandran, crafts an exquisite tapestry of carefully chosen locations, colors, and natural elements — all anchored by a celestially radiant and expressive Aishwarya Rai as Meenakshi (Meenu). I barely recall the finer details of the film’s plot, but I vividly remember my bedroom wall adorned with a life-size poster of Rai from this film — a testament to how her presence in these songs mesmerized me.
The first track on my list is Yenna Solla Pogirai, sung by Shankar Mahadevan, which won him a National Award. Though the song features Tabu and Ajith Kumar, my personal “version” would have Ajith romancing Aishwarya across snow-capped mountains, misty jungles, and golden deserts, with the color palette perfectly complementing Vairamuthu’s scenic lyrics. Not that the original picturization is any less stunning. Musically, every time Mahadevan croons “Sandana thendralai…”, my heart skips a beat.
Next is Kannamoochi by KS Chithra, where Aishwarya Rai dazzles in regal green. Her swan-like Bharatanatyam movements and luminous eyes elevate Chithra’s silky vocals. The song praises mischievous Lord Krishna, with green and blue hues beautifully woven into the frames. Shot in a wedding-party setting, the choreography cleverly uses limited space. There’s also a duet version with Chithra and Yesudas that remains equally memorable. If I could reimagine it, I’d place Aishwarya opposite Mammootty, focusing solely on glances and subtle gestures rather than overt dance movements.
Sadhana Sargam is among the rare Bollywood singers who nail diction in South Indian languages. Her rendition of Konjum Mainakkale is deceptively simple yet sonically adventurous, with Rahman experimenting through orchestration and understated male choruses. Naveen’s flute interlude is pure ecstasy. Rajiv Menon envisions this as Meenakshi’s whimsical declaration to reshape the world around her. The surrealist imagery — masks of her favorite poet Bharathiyar, working-class backdrops, and Ravi K. Chandran’s rich interplay of green and blue — reflect her playful, nonconforming mind. One unforgettable moment is Meenakshi swaying on a tree swing in a blue saree, the scene bathed in soft light and gentle motion. The climax, where she dashes through fields clutching a chartreuse-green saree, perfectly encapsulates her enormous dreams.
Then comes Suttum Vizhi, a Bharathiyar poem set to music by Rahman and sung by Hariharan. Appearing on a rainy evening, it finds Meenakshi drenched, swept away by romantic fantasies. Abbas appears like a knight on a floating pontoon, serenading his muse with images of diamond-studded blue sarees. Menon leaves ample room for our imagination to wander, while Chandran once again drenches the frames in his trademark palette of green and blue.
Shot in Scotland, the title track Kandukondain Kandukondain (Hariharan and Mahalaxmi Iyer) blends soft and pacy rhythms. Aishwarya, with her soft curls and goddess-like poise, handles the tonal shifts effortlessly. The castles, perfect lighting, and vivid color schemes make this feel like a world-class music video.
Smyayi, picturized on Ajith Kumar, Tabu, and Pooja Batra, seems designed to capitalize on Ajith’s surging popularity circa 2000. While not Rahman’s strongest composition, its picturization sparkles thanks to the actors’ charisma.
And then, the masterpiece — Enge Yenadhu Kavithai. The song captures Meenakshi’s heartbreak and betrayal as she records her debut single. Rahman’s composition radiates raw ferocity and anguish. KS Chithra’s soul-stirring vocals, Srinivas’s haunting background harmonies, and Vairamuthu’s piercing lyrics give Aishwarya ample scope to deliver a career-defining performance. Once more, Ravi K. Chandran’s choice of rain and color deepens the emotional weight of every frame.
It may no longer be fashionable to openly celebrate the quintessential “Aishwarya Rai” idea of beauty — society now finds it safer to praise “earthy” appeal, like that of Radhika Apte. Yet the fact remains: Aishwarya Rai’s face remains the global emblem of exotic Indian beauty, the kind unfairly dismissed as “God-gifted.”
For me, Rajiv Menon’s Kandukondain Kandukondain captures Aishwarya at her absolute best — ethereal yet approachable, regal yet playful. A rare balance. Beat that!
