Madira Lyrics – (From “Rahu Ketu”) Abhinav Shekhar, Vikram Montrose & Simar Kaur

The Song Title & The Big Picture

The song is called “Madira” which is just this beautiful, ancient-sounding word for liquor, for wine. But from the very first listen, you just know it’s not a party track, not really. I mean, it sounds like one, it’s got that incredible, hypnotic beat that makes you move, but the title… it frames the whole thing as a story about intoxication. And not the fun, cheers-with-friends kind. It’s about an intoxication that climbs. That’s the verb they use over and over, chadh gayi. It climbed. It ascended. So right away, with just that one word as the title, you’re set up for this feeling of something taking you over, something rising up in you that you can’t control. It’s less about drinking and more about being drunk on a feeling, a person, a moment that completely possesses you.

Most Impactful Lines

There’s a couple of moments that just… they stop you, you know? Even in the middle of dancing. The first is right at the top: “ajnabi dekhi main to dar gayi aa / sakhiyan bhi meri saari ghar gayi aa”. “I saw a stranger and I got scared / all my girlfriends went home.” That’s so chillingly lonely. It’s not a joyful descent into a night out; it’s this eerie, solitary confrontation. You’re alone with this… presence. And then later, the pre-chorus kills me every time: “sochna bhaari ae / jannhitt mein jaari ae”. “Thinking is heavy / a lawsuit is going on in my mind.” A lawsuit in your mind! That’s the most brilliant, messy, human way to describe overthinking. Your own thoughts are prosecuting and defending you, and you’re just the courtroom where this exhausting battle is happening. It makes the idea of the “madira” climbing seem almost like a relief from that mental noise.

Decoding The Chorus

Everyone gets hooked on the chant of “chadh gayi,” but you have to listen to what wraps around it. The repetition of “madira aise chadh gayi” three times… it’s like a trance, it’s like the feeling is spiraling. You’re not just being told it climbed, you’re feeling the climb through the repetition. But then they hit you with the anchor, the cultural heart of it: “jaise vikram pe betaal.” That’s the whole story right there. Vikram and Betaal, the ancient king and the wise ghost that clings to his back, telling him stories he can’t escape from. So this intoxication isn’t just a chemical thing. It’s a storytelling ghost on your back. It’s wisdom and torment and an inescapable narrative that you’re now carrying. And then it just dissolves into that breathless, desperate chant of “chadh gayi,” over and over, like the ghost is whispering it into your ear, like the feeling has finally won and words don’t matter anymore, just the sheer fact of its ascent.

Most Relatable Part

For me, the most brutally relatable part is that pre-chorus, especially the closing line: “sambhale kaise aangan tedhe-medhe naach nachaye re.” “How do I keep my courtyard balanced when the dance it makes me dance is crooked?” God, that’s it, that’s everything. The “aangan,” the courtyard, that’s your self, your life, your stable ground. And the intoxication, the obsession, the “madira”… it doesn’t just make you dance crooked. It makes your whole courtyard, the very foundation of you, tilt and sway. You’re trying so hard to keep your balance, to act normal, to “sambhal” everything, but the force inside you is redesigning your entire world into something “tedha-medha,” something slanted and off-kilter. That’s not just being tipsy. That’s when a feeling rewrites your gravity.

Conclusion & Overall Message

So what’s it all leaving you with? For me, “Madira” is a song about surrender, but a really specific, ancient-feeling kind. It’s not a happy surrender. It’s the moment you stop fighting the ghost on your back. The lawsuit in your mind might be ongoing, your friends might have left, the night might be terrifying… but the “madira” has climbed. Like Vikram, you’re now carrying this story, this intoxicating, weighty wisdom that you didn’t ask for. The song frames that not as purely destructive, but as a transformative possession. The “kaafiraana nasha,” the infidel-like intoxication, touches the “aasmaan,” the sky. It’s blasphemous and divine at once. The final takeaway is that shivery, breathless chant—chadh gayi. It’s a fact. It’s done. The thing has taken over, and all you can do is acknowledge the climb, and maybe, in its dizzying, crooked rhythm, find a new kind of dance.