Born on 27 June 1939 in Calcutta, Pancham was destined to live inside melody and music.. As the son of S.D. Burman, one of Indian cinema’s greatest composers, music was everywherebut Pancham was never content being a mere extension of his father’s legacy. Legend has it that his nickname came from crying in the fifth note (Pa) of the musical scale as an infant. Myth or truth, it feels fitting. He seemed tuned differently from the very beginning.
His early years were spent learning quietly assisting his father on films to his first break with Chhote Nawab.
But it was Teesri Manzil (1966) that marked the real rupture. With electric guitars, pounding rhythms, mouth organs, ghungroo beats, and a heady Western influence, Pancham announced that Hindi film music could swing, swagger, and seduce in entirely new ways. He created an aura Called Pancham who was widely credited with revolutionizing Bollywood music. His genius lay not just in innovation, but in fearless assimilation. He incorporated influences from an astonishing range of genres ; electronic rock ,pop, disco, jazz, Latin rhythms, Indian classical, and Bengali folk—often blending them within the same composition. At a time when love stories followed predictable musical patterns, Pancham injected fast beats into romantic narratives, giving them youthful energy and edge.
Jazz harmonies and improvisational structures found their way into his background scores and orchestration, lending sophistication without alienation.
What made Pancham truly special was his enthusiastic, unorthodox approach and ability to embrace every form of music, bend it to his will, and stamp it unmistakably as his own without ever damaging the soul of the melody. That balance between experimentation and emotional purity gave his work a class that remains unmatched.
An Era of Endless Reinvention
The late ’60s , ’70s and early '80s belonged to him. Pancham was everywhere and repetitive yet never repetitive. He could craft tender introspection like "Kuch Toh Log Kahenge" , “Yeh Shaam Mastani”, aching restraint in “Tere Bina Zindagi Se”, playful romance in “Jawani Diwani”, and wild abandon in “Mehbooba Mehbooba”, sung in his own raw, unpolished voice or the Medley in Hum Kisi Se Lum.Nahin. His music captured a changing India—restless, experimental, modern, yet emotionally grounded.
Innovation came instinctively. Pancham recreated rainstorms inside studios, experimented with reverse playback long before it became fashionable, layered sounds with intuitive brilliance, and turned everyday objects—combs, bottles, table edges, claps—into percussion instruments. Jazz riffs sat comfortably beside Indian rhythms, never clashing, always conversing.
Gargling became a background anthem.
His collaborations with Gulzar, Anand Bakshi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Gulshan Bawra and Javed Akhtar, and voices like Kishore Kumar, Lata Mangeshkar, Mohammed Rafi, and Asha Bhosle, weren’t mere professional alliances they were creative symphonies that defined decades of listening.
His personal and musical partnership with Asha Bhosle resulted in some of the boldest, most sensuous, and emotionally layered songs Hindi cinema had ever heard.
Pancham even carried his charm onto the screen. In Bhoot Bangla (1965), his brief acting appearance revealed the same playful intelligence that danced through his compositions a reminder that for him, music was joy before it was a craft. He quit acting when his father asked him to concentrate on one art and not have two legs on two boats.
The final Quiet Years were like a shock .
Despite composing for over 300 films, recognition often lagged behind influence. The late ’80s were particularly cruel. As trends shifted, Pancham—the composer who once defined modernity—was ironically labelled “outdated.” Yet his creative fire never dimmed.
Then came 1942: A Love Story. Released after his death, its lush, soulful music felt like a quiet apology from time itself—timeless, tender, and deeply emotional. Once again, Pancham proved he had never chased trends. He had always created them or been ahead of them.
For many of us, Pancham Da does not exist in discographies or documentaries alone. He lives in memory. In old cassette players, crackling radios, long drives, college canteens, and solitary evenings when one song suddenly pulls us decades backward. You don’t need to check the credits—within seconds, you know it’s Pancham.
Even today my playlist reads Hits of R.D.Burman or something related to him.
Some composers belong to history.
Pancham belongs to life.
As he composed Khali Haath Shaam Aayi Hain Khaali Haath Jaayegi...
He left us .. Khaali Haath but Bhare Kaan..
MISS YOU PANCHAM.
