तू आ गई दिल की तमन्ना जाग उठी

The fourth and last of the Saigal solos in Kurukshetra is the counterweight to the film's other, sadder numbers. Where Kidhar Hai Tu asks where longing has gone, this song answers that it has come back, and that the heart's desire and the whole dream-world have woken with it. The verses then widen outward from that one fact, cataloguing a landscape transformed by an arrival - trees in flower, wilderness turning green, dry country filling up, rain-cloud and life-giving nectar arriving together. Only the audio survives, so nothing is known about how it was staged.

Pandit Ganpat Rao - Ganapatrao Gurav, a Kirana gharana vocalist from Ratnagiri district who was among the first batch of Ustad Abdul Karim Khan's disciples and served for years as a court musician at Jamkhandi - scored only two films in his life, Kurukshetra and Bebus (1950), before returning to the concert platform. This is the one number in his small film output that moves at a walking pace rather than a contemplative one, and the shape of the writing - a short refrain that returns again and again, with the verses expanding between returns - is the shape of a folk-devotional song rather than of a ghazal. Saigal, who normally worked in the register of restraint, is audibly enjoying himself here; the blog that posted it noted the laughter in the take.

Mazhari builds the poem on a single grammatical trick: every line is a consequence clause. Because you came, the branches flowered; because you came, the desert filled; because you came, fate's magic arrived. Nothing is described for its own sake - the landscape exists only as evidence of an arrival. That is a devotional structure borrowed for a love song, and in a film that is arguing about idleness and national renewal it reads, without straining, as a song about something larger than a woman walking into a room. The vocabulary reaches for rahmat and amrit, mercy and the nectar of life, words that belong to scripture rather than to romance.

Kurukshetra (1945) was made by Unity Productions of Calcutta and directed by Rameshwar Sharma, whose entire filmography runs to three titles for the same banner. It welds the Mahabharata to a modern social story: documented plot descriptions have it open on a contemporary strand about social workers campaigning against idleness before moving into the epic proper - the Draupadi swayamvar, the humiliation in the sabha, and the march to the war at Kurukshetra - cutting between the two registers and drawing lessons from the Bhagavad Gita as answers to national problems. K.L. Saigal played Karna. This was the last of the film's four Saigal songs to be recovered and circulated by the Hindi film song blogging community, appearing in August 2011 - by which point it was, by the blog's own count, the 102nd Saigal film song it had covered, with only four left to go in his entire filmography.

Nothing about this song entered the standard repertoire; it has no cover versions, no reissue and no place in the Saigal compilations that sell. Its interest now is documentary - it shows a singer associated almost entirely with melancholy doing the opposite, in the last full year of his working life, for a composer who had wandered in from the classical concert circuit and would wander straight back out again.