Prod him a bit about the boredom bit, and Rehman admits that doing film music is both stagnating and demanding. ``To be a successful music director, you have to write music according to the film's needs. For international films, you write music according to an emotion or a theme. But here, you have to take into account the benches -- front, back and whatever -- and you are catering to the people. So, you have to coat your music with something loud, something that'll sell. It's like giving someone slow poison,'' he says, laughing at his own analogy, brushing back his shoulder-length hair that keep falling over his forehead.

For Vande Mataram, though, there was a great deal of hard work involved, which included learning Hindi and Urdu. ``I got interested in Urdu and Persian shairi, so I wanted to learn the language. Hindi was also important for the video as well as films.'' But don't expect any couplets from him yet. ``I don't write poetry, but when I feel I'm good enough, I might. Inshallah.''

Quiz him about his latest musical offering, Mani Ratnam's Dil Se, and he responds immediately: ``With Mani Ratnam, you can't fool around, you have to be very sincere about your work. With someone of his calibre, your level of work has to match his. I fear his standard, really.'' And as for the mish-mash that Dil Se stands accused of being, Rehman advises you to see the music in the context of the film. ``It's got these two completely different families in terms of region and culture,'' he explains, ``so the music had to reflect that diversity, and yet show a certain unity.''

Dil Se's music, in fact, also has a sufiyana influence (like much of Rehman's music), something to which he admits readily. ``We did the Punjabi version first to get a feel of the music, but it didn't suit the film,'' he says. ``So we did the Hindi version. I have tried to depict the Sufi notion of spiritual love in the film. It is love in seven stages, from attraction to death through madness.''

Rehman has immense faith in God and there's a story behind it. ``When I was 11, I met this Sufi saint in a hospital where my father, R K Shekhar, was admitted,'' he recalls. ``His guidance and teachings gave us peace of mind. Whatever I have today is because of him.'' Rehman's humility is born out of this faith, which is why he wears his success so lightly. ``I take each day as it comes, without any great aims or anything. I'm not one of those people who think ten years ahead,'' he philosophises.

Chennai is the other reason why he's so laid back. ``You have to be flashy and loud to be very visible in Mumbai,'' he grins. ``In Chennai, everybody is very cool, nobody gives a damn about you.'' It hows in his shuffling walk as he pampers the shutterbugs, in his shy smile that doesn't have a hint of his long struggle to make his music understood, in his dark-blue shirt, untucked, and casual blue jeans.

And in his matter-of-fact recollection of how he took to music as a means of survival. ``We went through periods of great financial difficulty around the time that my father, who was also a music director, passed away. I was only 11 then and I turned to music to earn a living.'' Those were distressful times for the family, and that is when Rehman turned to Islam for solace.

That was when he was still in his teens. When he was 23, Roja happened, and changed his life forever. Bombay came next, its theme score being his personal favourite. ``I do what comes naturally to me, from the heart,'' he says. ``But that often takes time, so I am notorious in the film industry for being late. If I can't deliver, I delay.'' Fortunately, he never disappoints.