Growing up on Lata

She’s been with me since I can remember. That’s the simplest way I can describe my relationship with Lata Mangeshkar. And I know that it’s not unique. Latabai must be having such a bond with millions of music lovers.

The closest I came to meeting her was in 1991 when I was commissioned to do a detailed story on her. I gave up when after two months of effort, I could only reach her brother’s secretary. That story - which was meant to be like a condensed biography-cum-insight into her charismatic persona - was never done, by me or anyone else. I remember thinking from the core of my heart that she could have been a bit more accessible to the press.

Will I meet her in future? They say that Didi (as she is known to associates) decides whom to meet, or otherwise. But if Didi believes (as she has said on record) that she is what she is because of the Almighty, and that God, is all-powerful, then I think that she will concur with me that it is ‘Destiny’ which will decide whether she meets a genuine admirer along with the circle of sycophants who have got to first base with her.

Having developed a love for film music probably from the cradle, among the earliest songs I remember (and which I liked to sing as a tot) were Pyar kiya to darna kya (Mughal-E-Azam), Ehsan tera hoga mujh par (Junglee) and O basanti pawan pagal (Jis Desh Mein Ganga Behti Hai). Who knew then what Lata Mangeshkar was even then, far less where she would reach later in the ’60s and beyond? For me, it was the first female voice I identified on the radio. I was told that she was Lata Mangeshkar, the daughter of a famous musician. I found that the voice was distinct, and more appealing than any other voices which I heard in the EPs and LPs in the family collection.

All through my early childhood, that voice was omnipresent. I remember being enthused by songs like Dam dam diga diga (Chhalia), bored by Mere mehboob tujhe (Mere Mehboob), cheered by Main chali main chali (Professor) and strangely moved by Dil ka diya (Akashdeep), Aap ki nazaron ne samjha (Anpadh) and Naina barse (Woh Kaun Thi?). Poor Ashabai, despite all her virtuosity, never stood a chance, even less the others. Asha used to sing a lot more in Marathi, my mother-tongue, but having spent the bulk of my childhood outside Mumbai, it was always Hindi film music (heard all over the country on Radio Ceylon and Vividh Bharati) with which I resonated. And I remember being resentful in my childishness about most Maharashtrians stating that they preferred Asha. I remember being fiercely glad that it was Lata who sang much more in Hindi films!

I was only human, and I remember liking certain songs which I thought were Lata’s, only to discover that they were in fact Asha’s or Suman Kalyanpur’s numbers. As I grew older and my liking for film music turned into both a study and a passion, there were also numbers which I read or was told (by not-too-enlightened sources) were Suman’s or Asha’s. I remember conceding grudgingly that they had done a good job - only to discover later that it was Lata who had sung then. But there was one factor which was consistent in all my errors of identification: they were all duets or multi-singer songs like Har dil jo pyar karega (Sangam) and Sun le pyar ki dushman (Pyar Kiye Jaa). Never did I mistake her solo to be anyone else’s or vice-versa. Lata, apart from being unmistakable when not dividing the spoils with a co-singer, was too ingrained in my ears for me to err where she sang alone.

As my mental study began - and only the Almighty knew that I would write on music then - I remember thinking several things about Lata and her voice. From her photographs I felt that she must be a mischievous person. Later I was to know that I had been spot on in that matter. But I remember being amazed that such a simple girl could actually make Sadhana seem even more beautiful for the while that she lip-synched. Bedardi balma tujhko in Arzoo. I remember getting goose-pimples when she sang Gudiya humse roothi rahogi (Dosti) with that world of mamta in her voice. Imagine, I thought, the lady hadn’t even married! How could she infuse such caressing maternal love in that classic LP song? But then I had yet to realise what Lata was!

An avid movie-goer always, I remember comparing how well her voice suited different heroines, even granting her uncanny ability to sound like whoever she was singing for, I always felt that she suited Waheeda Rehman and Nutan most, though admittedly I had never then watched Nargis’ films, as she had quit and that was the pre-video era. Among the later ones, I felt that she sat particularly pat on Mumtaz (especially in LP’s and RD’s songs), Saira Banu and Hema Malini.

Inevitably, I also began to compare Lata under different composers. But in retrospect, I feel here that my compositional preferences seemed to guide how much I liked Lata under different composers. And as always these were heavily influenced by my growing-up years and my environment (I was then based in Delhi). I also sincerely felt that there was something special in Lata I heard under Laxmikant-Pyarelal, and it as not just the mind-boggling variety they offered her, from Master Mahesh voicing Maa mujhe apne aanchla mein chhupa le (Chhota Bhai) to Helen dancing before a caged savage as she sang Aa jaane jaa in Intequam. She was extra sweet for them, and to a lesser extent for Madan Mohan. She was haunting under Roshan, pleasant under Shanker-Jaikishan and Kalyanji-Anandji, deliciously complex under Salil Choudhury, unusual under the nascent RD, indifferent under Ravi, and a shade monotonous under Naushad, and finally like an exotic wild flower under Dada Burman. And I have never had analytical or instinctive reasons to change these opinions of mine since the late ’70s, though these generalisations have had some remarkable exceptions to prove the rule.

As I entered the portals of journalism, a cross-section of views on Lata came into focus. Like every legend, she had three sets of view-holders on her - the confirmed detractors who, with or without reason, could only run her down, those who loved her genuinely and found her human, complete with faults and those who simply flattered her from vested interests. Eminently human that Lata is, she seemed to prefer the last, but I also was to realise that no one had any second views on her artistry. And when Lata the artist overshadows eve Lata’s personal plus points I think that it is only logical that her genuine negative points also lose out to her spectacular achievements and her inarguable brilliance.

In discussions on film music and Lata (and there are those who say that these are synonymous terms) I am often asked, both by outsiders and music insiders, what my two-penny views are on Lata continuing to sing when she decidedly does not sound as good as she did a decade ago. I think that this has been unnecessarily made out to be the debate of the century. To me, there is a logical two-point answer.

One, every music director starting out today dreams of the ultimate dream - of recording at least one song with Lata Mangeshkar. The lady is so exclusive and so rarely available, that every youngster grabs even the most slender chance. Quite often, such a music director obviously creates what he feels is a khaas composition for her, which may not quite suit her present vocal timbre. Or he may even have composed the song for her years ago.

And secondly, this is what even the established music directors should ensure when they get Lata to sing today - design a song which she compositionally deserves and which technically matches her present voice. Most of the composers today satisfy only one or none of these conditions. But what both these requirements are fulfilled (as in most of the songs of Maachis, Jiya jale in Dil Se.. or most of her songs for Jatin-Lalit), Lata is still magical.

Rajiv Vijayakar