I was only five when I first saw Michael Jackson on television. A man I didn’t know I would go on to love with all my heart.
He was a man with a voice born out of pain. A man who gave the world the childhood he never had. A man who wanted to heal it.
My own childhood wasn’t particularly happy. But somehow, Michael made it feel beautiful.
Even before I understood his lyrics, I understood how he made me feel. Safe. Happy. Like a light in the world only he could spark. And now, in 2026, whenever my heart feels too heavy or the world too chaotic, he’s still the one I turn to.
To understand what Michael means to me, we have to go back to where it began.
It was 2006. I hadn’t even started school yet. Our DVD player — often temperamental and stubborn — needed a firm smack to boot up. And once it did, my father, who would only listen to Michael Jackson from the world of English music, played Smooth Criminal on the television.
The swift footwork and the iconic anti-gravity move in Smooth Criminal hooked me the first time. YouTube
I don’t remember every detail of that day as I was only five, but I remember the feeling. The thrill of watching him move like gravity didn’t apply. The way the room seemed to enliven with every beat, every footstep. I remember my father beside me, tapping his feet and bobbing his head subtly — probably since MJ’s music gave him a sanctuary nothing else did.
And I remember asking, with all the wonder a child could hold — ei lok ta eto naache keno? (Why does this man dance so much?)
My father seemed too engrossed in the music to reply to my silly question, but I felt awestruck in no time.
As a child, I remember going with my grandfather to a small rental CD shop, bringing home playlist disks every week. Remember those pirated CDs with numbers scribbled with markers? The shop owner would keep them ready for me beforehand.
Evenings were the best part.
My father would come home tired, and listening to Michael’s music was the best way to unwind. He’d tap his feet, hum along. And I would always take the centre stage in our living room, trying to imitate the back-breaking, leg-cramping moves without a care in the world.
On his weekly-offs on Mondays, we’d draw the curtains and block the sunlight to see the music videos clearly on the dimming screen of our old cable television. I’d warn everyone at home not to interrupt us. And then, it would begin. Our very own concert. It always started with Black or White and ended with Heal the World. There was laughter, missteps, clumsy spins, and a kind of joy that didn’t ask permission to be felt.
Heal the World is a song I have always held close to my heart. YouTube
Still, Dirty Diana was forbidden to me. I never really knew why. It only made me more curious. If the likes of Billie Jean and Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough made me dance mindlessly as a child, Stranger in Moscow, Childhood and They Don’t Care About Us made me understand Michael’s struggles as an adult.
Sometimes, my mother and grandparents would join in too. And these moments made my childhood feel whole.
A few years later, City Centre 2 opened in Rajarhat, and for me, the Moser Baer store beside Tea Junction felt like paradise.
Even though my father had been buying CDs from Music World on Park Street long before, it was with me that he began collecting Michael’s albums one by one. Thriller. Bad. Dangerous. HIStory. Invincible. All of them. The store isn’t there anymore but I carried these little joys into my adult life.
Some of the albums I collected with my father as a child. Sourced by the correspondent
In school, a friend once told me she had met Michael in the US. I remember the sting of jealousy, the way I ran to my father asking if we could go too. Later, I realised it was a lie, but it didn’t matter. Because that’s how much Michael meant to people.
My father used to regret that he never got to see Michael live during the 1996 HIStory tour in India. He never spelled it outright, but I could feel it. And as a child, I had that dream too.
Michael Jackson performing at the Andheri Sports Complex in Mumbai on November 1, 1996 X/@JohnyBravo183
Until June 25, 2009.
I don’t think I have ever cried over the death of any celebrity, except for Michael's. His passing felt too heartbreaking. I remember my father watching the news, more intently than I had ever seen him. It was the only news he would tune in to for a long while.
And yet, nothing really changed. The music kept playing. The dancing sessions continued. The trips to browse and buy CDs didn’t stop.
I was too young to understand the chaos, the controversies and how the media continued to slander Michael even after his death. As I grew older and social media advanced, the picture was clearer to me. Like every other fan I’ve met, I questioned what was shown and tried to piece together the truth.
Today, whenever I speak about Michael, I always say he was a hero who wanted to make the world a better place. And I shall always stand by that.
Michael Jackson’s music gave me the best childhood memories. YouTube
Because to me, Michael Jackson wasn’t just the first musician I loved. He was the entire soundtrack of my childhood. The bridge between me and my father. The comfort I still return to.
As a child, I enjoyed his music. Now, I understand it.
It’s 2026. The world still isn’t a better place, Michael.
But somewhere — in a corner of the world, in tiny living rooms, behind drawn curtains, in tired hearts looking for a little light — you are still dancing.
And we are still listening.