God Did Lyrics – Nijjar

Okay, so for me, this whole song… it’s not just a track, it’s like this heavy, knowing sigh set to music. It feels like sitting with an older, wiser friend after you’ve been through some stuff, and they’re just nodding and saying, “Yeah, I see it too.” It’s not about anger, really. It’s more about this profound, weary clarity about how people work, about betrayal and fake friendships and the games everyone plays. But wrapped in this acceptance that’s almost spiritual, you know? Like you’ve seen the worst of it, and instead of breaking, you just… understand.

That first main verse he hits you with, it just lays the whole game bare. “Kinne lagan lage te kinne chahun lage” – how many pretend to be devoted, how many pretend to love? He’s talking about the performers, right? The people who treat your life like it’s a song they can just compose for their own entertainment. And then that line about learning games from your own friends… that one stings because it’s so true. The people closest to you teach you how to be suspicious, sometimes. But the part that always, always gets me is “jithe karti zuban ki fe nehrian tufaan” – where the tongue’s work creates floods of storms. It’s such a powerful way to say that gossip and lies aren’t just words, they’re destructive forces. And the ones who have to bear the cost of that, “jihni kharna oh mitra,” only they really know the weight of it. He’s separating the audience from the actors who actually live the consequences.

And then you have the chorus, which seems simple but it’s everything. “Saanu luttan waale vi aap royi jande ne.” The ones who rob us, even they end up crying someday. It’s this incredible piece of karma, but it’s not said with vengeance. It’s stated like a fact of nature, like gravity. You do bad, it comes back. And the other line, “Baba kari jaave mehar kaam hoyi jande ne”… if the divine just shows a little grace, work gets done. This is where the weariness turns into a sliver of hope, but it’s a hope that’s completely out of our hands. We’re not in control. The robbers will face their own pain, and good things only happen by a kindness bigger than us. Every time the chorus comes back after another verse of listing betrayals, it hits different. It starts as a hope, then becomes a reassurance, and by the end, it feels like a quiet prayer you’re just repeating to survive the mess.

When you pull it all together… the verses are all these specific, gritty examples of human failure. People leaving you in poverty, friends turning friendship into business, fair-weather folks ditching you. It’s the diary of disappointment. But the chorus is the lesson written on every page. It’s like he’s saying, “Look, I’ve catalogued all the pain, I’ve named every betrayal… and my only conclusion is that the universe has its own balance, and my job is just to witness it, to have patience.” That “nijjar’an sabar” – the patience of a watchman, just observing. It leaves me feeling strangely calm. It doesn’t solve the pain, but it makes it feel shared, like a universal truth we’re all navigating. You listen to it and you think, “Yeah… they do cry in the end. And maybe, if grace happens, things will work.” It’s a survival mantra for the soul, and that’s why I keep coming back to it. It’s the sound of heartbreak maturing into wisdom.