"Kambakht besuri hee nahee hoti"

Not terribly off-putting was the verdict of the stern Mother Superior after the flag hoisting ceremony, ‘I didn’t quite get why you are wearing a moustache when singing that song. Is the singer a man with a falsetto?’

I was part of the crowd in the one-act play on the freedom struggle, I wanted to explain. But I couldn’t. I was angry at the prank my friends had played on me, pushing me on to the stage to sing ‘Ai mere watan ke logon’ in school uniform and a moustache. The entire assembly was giggling, and I have never lived that one performance down (there’s a an alumni group on Facebook that is still teasing me about the nightingale with a moustache).

The nightingale, oblivious of my humiliation in front of the school, has gone on to become the most recorded voice in history, singing several thousand songs in many different languages, receiving not only the Padma Bhushan, but the Padma Vibhushan and Bharat Ratna titles as well.

Image: Vidyanand Kamat

I went on to scatter my energies into many things but I still harbour a wish that someone will hear me sing and comment, ‘Kambakht besuri hee nahee hoti,’ as Bade Ghulam Ali Khan said of the one and only Lata Mangeshkar.

Frankly, my love affair with Indian movies started because of the music. You would hear a haunting voice singing ‘Aayegaa anewaala’ and you would be compelled to seek out everything about the song, the singer, the scene from the movie. There was no one click to YouTube then. It was such joy to discover the story behind one of Lata Mangeshkar’s best songs. The microphone was placed in the middle of the studio. When she sang, she had to walk towards the mic in order to make the voice come closer!

Those were the days of Binaca Geet Mala (every Wednesday, was it not?) and then Chitrahaar (a treat from Doordarshan). Ameen Sayani’s golden radio voice would offer us juicy tidbits about the songs and the composers and tell us on what paaydaan the song of your favorite singer stood.

Later when TV took pride of place in our drawing rooms we would be sitting in front of the contraption on Twiggy legs (ours was a fancy one with shutters to keep the dust out) watching the play of grains, trying to figure out which actor it was. But it was always mum who would be listening from the kitchen who would say, ‘Arre! That must be Dilip Kumar and Vyjayantimala!’ and sing along with the Lata Mangeshkar and Rafi.

On idle days I have pretended to be the head of a music company and made lists that would become bestselling CDs. My favourite list is the one full of her songs about the moon. It’s another thing that one is a nocturnal creature, but the very fact that one can quickly list twenty of her songs with the word ‘chaand’ included is pretty amazing. Let me start you off with a few: Chaand phir nikla; Dekho woh chaand chhupke; Chanda hai tu mera suraj hai tu; Dheere dheere chal chaand gagan mein; and so on.
If you search for her name online, you’ll find yourself exhausted by the sheer number of songs that you will consider as your eternal favourites — whether you are singing antakshari with your friends (Gore gore, oh baanke chhore! from Samadhi), simply singing to your first crush (Mera salaam leja, dil ka payaam leja from Udan Khatola), learning to face heartbreak (Baharein phir bhi aayengi, magar hum tum judaa honge from Lahore) or just happy to be alive (Aaj phir jeene ki tammanna hai from Guide).
If you read up on her (the latest book about her is Nasreen Munni Kabir’s conversations with her, Lata Mangeshkar In Her Own Voice), you will find yourself settling down in front of the music system, in your favourite chair, listening to the compilations of the songs she has sung for Majrooh Sultanpuri, C Ramchandra, songs she has sung with Talat, Hemant Kumar, Kishore Kumar and Mohammad Rafi. As for emotions, she has sung of them all. Isn’t that why you remember the words to ‘Yuhi koi mil gayaa thaa sare raah chalte chalte’ more than the colour of the dress and the jewelry Sahib Jaan wears in Pakeezah?

People who have written extensively about the movies have but one thing to say about Lata Mangeshkar. When it is her voice, you cannot figure out whether it’s the actor emoting or Lata’s voice that is supplying the passion on the screen. And that is why her voice effortlessly lends itself to everyone from Nargis and Waheeda Rehman to Jaya Bhaduri and a host of Yash Chopra heroines.
For me, the very early songs of Lata Mangeshkar, the songs with a Noorjehan touch to her voice, are still her sexiest. Not the ‘Kaise rahoon chup ke maine pi hee kya hai’ kind of drunk sexy.

No, I’m talking about the ones picturised on women with eyes heavy lidded with love, naughty curl escaping on forehead, Angelina Jolie lips, swan-like neck arching with imagined pleasure kind of sexy.
One cannot ignore the ‘Yeh kahaan aa gaye hum’ high-pitched style of her singing in the later years of her career, but then who would dare object when the diamond-wearing diva herself agreed to sing for your motion picture?

Yes, she likes diamonds and white silk sarees, and still wears her hair in two plaits, and when she’s not singing she is able to stop flyovers from being constructed. She is rumoured to have edged out not just new singers but even her own sister when she sang ‘Ai mere watan ke logon.’ Tales abound about how she refused to sing for music directors who chose other singers over her.

But when you hear her sing ‘Allah Tero Naam,’ or ‘Bekas pe karam keejiye, sarkaar-e-Madina,’ you forgive her for any alleged selfishness, and join your hands in prayer and wish her many years of music.

(Manisha Lakhe is a writer and film critic.)