Is there a recent portrait that feels closest to who you are right now—doctor, songwriter, and shayar all at once?
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These photos capture the in-between spaces where most of my life actually happens—somewhere between the “white coat” world and the inner world I turn into songs and shayari.
I’m still learning to be comfortable being seen, not just heard, and these frames feel like honest checkpoints in that process.
For me, they’re less about posing and more about documenting the real person behind the lyrics—quiet, reflective, and still becoming.
How do you introduce yourself to someone discovering your work for the first time?
Beyond the white coat, I’m a singer-songwriter and shayar, driven by those “whorlysome” moments in life—a word I coined for feelings that are beautiful, complicated, and hard to name.
I write because I genuinely have to; it’s how I translate the quiet emotions I witness and carry every day into indie-pop stories and shayari.
More than anything, I hope my work feels like a mirror—something that resonates with the heartbeat of whoever is listening.
Take us into an early, unfiltered performance of your debut single “Khwahishe”—what are we hearing, and where were you when you recorded it?
This is a raw, acoustic version of my debut single, “Khwahishe,” recorded in my medical college hostel room—no polish, just the song as it first breathed.
A close friend of mine, Dr. Rushaique, is on guitar, and that simple setup helped the lyrics stay front and center.
I want listeners to feel the weight of what isn’t said—the internal struggle of caring deeply, but not being able to express what’s going on inside. Recording it in that room mattered, because it holds the vulnerability and isolation the song is built from.
When you think of “Khwahishe,” which visual best holds the song’s mood—and what does it represent for you?
The cover art is a candid shot from a trip to Manali—captured in a moment of reflection, not something staged or overly planned.
Honestly, I was hesitant at first to show my face; I wasn’t fully ready to step out from behind the lyrics and be “seen.”
But a friend encouraged me, and I realized that’s exactly why the image fits. “Khwahishe” is about the thoughts we keep hidden, and this visual feels like a bridge between my private world as a doctor and the music I’m finally putting out into the world.
What do your first drafts actually look like—and how do those rough notes turn into a finished song or shayari?
One of these photos shows the first lines of “Khwahishe” scribbled in the margins of my surgery notebook—literally the point where my medical and creative worlds collide.
My process is simple: I jot down “unsaid” thoughts during study breaks, then I start humming a melody that matches the mood, even if it’s messy at first.
After that, I sit with my guitarist friend in the hostel, explain the lyrics and the emotional vibe, and he builds acoustic layers around my voice. Another note here came to me in Manali, right before I went paragliding for the first time—proof that inspiration can hit anywhere, as long as you’re listening.
What shayari would you share that captures the feeling of unfinished dreams—and who did you write it for?
This piece is about the weight of incomplete dreams—the ones that remain unfinished because we waited too long, overthought everything, or were simply too afraid to begin.
It came from an internal tug-of-war I often feel as a doctor: in medicine, we’re trained to be cautious and calculated, but art demands courage before certainty.
I wrote it when I was hesitant to share my music publicly, and I realized the pain of “what if” can be heavier than the fear of failing. It’s for anyone stuck between two worlds, carrying a hidden passion, wondering if they missed their moment—because an incomplete dream doesn’t have to stay that way.
If you had to capture your idea of “Melodic Anatomy” in a single image, what would we be looking at?
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As a physician, I see the heart as the body’s most vital engine—a high-pressure system built to circulate exactly what we need to survive.
In this visual, I’ve replaced the flow of blood with musical tones, because for me, art becomes a second “circulatory system” for the human condition.
Just like the heart fills and pumps to maintain balance, I absorb the emotional pressure of unexpressed words and try to pump it back into the world as music, shayari, and stories.
Where did the urge to create first show up for you—what’s the earliest moment you remember?
It started when I was a kid—I’d sing randomly around the house, and people would look genuinely surprised and tell me I had a natural voice.
That was the first spark, but back then I didn’t feel a strong need to create anything of my own; it was more instinct than intention.
The real turning point came in medical school. Between textbooks, hostel life, and the intensity of hospital routines, I felt a buildup of emotions and observations that didn’t fit into clinical language. Writing shayari and composing became my release valve—and honestly, a way to keep my own balance.
What’s a listener reaction you still remember because it proved your words had truly landed?
The moment it clicked for me was in my hostel room, when I played a rough version of a track for my friend circle—people who live in the medical grind of exams, rounds, and constant pressure.
When the song ended, everyone sat in silence for a minute, and then someone said, “I think you just described exactly what we’ve been feeling for the last two years.”
That silence before the reaction was everything. It made me realize we all carry unsaid stories behind the white coat, and music wasn’t just my outlet anymore—it could be theirs too, even for the most practical people.
Looking back, what part of your craft has grown the most in the last few years?
My storytelling has improved the most. In the beginning, I had a decent voice and would sing casually, but I didn’t know how to shape emotions into a song that actually holds someone’s attention.
Over time—especially while balancing the intensity of medical school—I learned how to take heavy, unspoken observations from daily life and translate them into something people can feel in their own bodies.
My vocals have grown more confident too, because now I’m not just singing notes—I’m delivering meaning. I’ve realized it’s not about sounding perfect; it’s about being honest enough that someone recognizes their own story in your voice.
Contact and Follow
- Name: Dr. Nitish Kumar Rawat
- Email: rawatnitish5@gmail.com
- Instagram: @dr.nitishmusic
- Listen to “Khwahishe”: https://li.sten.to/dmop4w2a?utm_source=ig&utm_medium=social&utm_content=link_in_bio&fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAc3J0YwZhcHBfaWQPNTY3MDY3MzQzMzUyNDI3AAGnU7OORG-DGPF-vXiR3PC5KaaVNO9VwZuAKKe_jBrRyKu3HcT025x_c_17GC4_aem_sZZJhW9xOVvj8yy1NbYX4A
- Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/share/1DXaEMEVoz/
- X (Twitter): https://x.com/drnitishmusic
