A.R. Rahman Tere Ishk Mein Music Review

Some films rely on dialogue, some rely on performances, and then there are films that lean entirely on the emotional truth of their music. Aanand L. Rai’s Tere Ishk Mein belongs to that rare third category. The title promises romance, but the soundtrack digs much deeper. It holds the confusion, the longing, the fire, and the fragile hope within Dhanush’s Shankar and Kriti Sanon’s Mukti. And the artist shaping all of this from behind the curtain is A. R. Rahman.

Rahman doesn’t approach this album as a background score or a collection of “hit songs.” He builds a full environment where emotions aren’t told to you, they surround you, quietly and completely. His music becomes the air these characters breathe, the silence they sit in, and the noise they run from. It’s this world-building that makes the soundtrack feel alive from the first note.

The title track sets the tone. Arijit Singh brings a weary tenderness to his performance that lingers. Nothing flashy, nothing desperate, just an honest voice carrying a heavy heart. Rahman keeps the arrangement spacious. Long pauses, stretched chords, soft percussion. He lets the song ache without forcing it. The impact lands because it breathes. The heartbreak doesn’t need dramatic lines or swelling violins, Arijit’s voice and Rahman’s restraint do the real talking.

But the soundtrack isn’t all weight and wounds. There’s a surprising, playful pocket midway through the album. It’s lighter, looser, and carries the same spark that Kriti Sanon brings to her character on screen. These tracks become the film’s exhale the brief windows where relationships feel possible and the world feels less demanding. Even in the cheerful moments, Rahman avoids anything formulaic. Live percussion blends with airy synths, vocal harmonies slip in quietly, and the rhythms feel effortlessly modern without losing emotional warmth.

The real magic, though, lies in Rahman’s background score. This is where the film gets its heartbeat. He uses recurring motifs as if they’re small memory triggers. A gentle flute phrase shows up when someone pulls away. A stretched vocal sample marks longing. A murmur of low strings rises whenever Shankar’s anger simmers. Nothing is loud, nothing is obvious but everything nudges the story forward. The score becomes an invisible narrator, guiding you without stepping in front of the film.

Irshad Kamil’s writing sits beautifully inside this landscape. His lines stay simple, direct, almost spoken. They don’t chase cleverness; they chase clarity. He writes like someone who understands that Rahman’s compositions don’t need crowding. His words hit because they leave space for the music to bloom.

As the film progresses, Rahman mirrors the characters’ emotional journey. The early tracks feel open and melodic. Midway, the rhythms harden. When the story darkens, the music strips itself down to near-whispers: bruised vocals, fragile chords, raw textures. You feel the shift before you see it. That’s the power of a composer who understands emotional architecture.

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Outside the film, the soundtrack works as a standalone listening experience. Inside the film, it becomes the glue holding the emotional world together. When the narrative shakes, the music steadies it. When the characters crumble, the music remembers what they were before they broke.

For Sound of the Streets India, Tere Ishk Mein is a reminder that great cinema is built on great sound. Rahman doesn’t decorate the film. He defines it.