It all began with a haunting. Nobody expected Mahal (1949), often dubbed the first horror film of Bollywood, to be a massive hit. And nobody anticipated Aayega Aanewala, the film’s mournful melodic centrepiece, to do what it did. Lata Mangeshkar, then 20, understandably nervous, had a strange task. She had to begin the song from a corner of the room, and then, approaching the microphone, lodge its refrain. Timing was everything.
This story reverberates, much like its containing song, throughout Lata’s career. She was a master of timing and tone, and myriad technical inventions bolstered her seemingly effortless voice. Or they did until now. The renowned singer and legend, a beacon of Indian film music the world over, and natively its queen, passed away on Sunday, after a sustained battle with Covid-19 in Mumbai. She was 92.
The end came at 8.12 am in Mumbai’s Breach Candy hospital following multiple organ failure. Her brother Hridyanath Mangeshkar lit the funeral pyre at Shivaji Park late in the evening.
Lata was born to music and the stage. Her father, Pandit Deenanath Mangeshkar, was a classical vocalist and theatre actor. He had five children: Lata, Meena, Asha, Usha and Hridaynath. Lata, the eldest, began by acting in her father’s plays. But his early demise brought her to the world of films. She acted in four Marathi films, one of which, Gajabhau, had her first Hindi song, Hindustan Ke Logon.
One of Lata’s early champions was Ghulam Haider. Under his mentorship and the break of Aayega Aanewala, she found her footing in the 50s Hindi cinema. For the next four decades, Lata redefined Indian playback singing, elevating its credentials amid the strictures of classical traditions. Her peerless vocal range, deep musical knowledge, and unblemished singing style — varyingly described as sweet, pure and ageless — brought her fame. She recorded thousands of songs in Indian and foreign languages.
There were the romantic odes (Jab Pyar Kiya To Darna Kya, Pyaar Hua Ikrar Hua, Ajeeb Dastan Hai Yeh), the sad favourites (Ek Pyaar Ka Nagma Hai, Raina Beeti Jaye), the patriotic hits (Aye Mere Watan Ke Logon), the timeless duets (Tum Aa Gaye Ho, Tere Bina Zindagi Se Koi — Kishore; ‘e Mohabbat Unse Milne Ka Bahana, Kali Ghata Ghir Aye Re — Rafi; O Mere Sanam, Ichak Dana Beechak Dana — Mukesh) and countless bhajans, aartis, and ghazals. Where do you begin? Where do you end?
In a tribute to Lata, it would be remiss to leave out the composers, Shankar-Jaikishan and Laxmikant-Pyarelal being her sternest constants. Equally irreplaceable, though, are the actors who inhabited her voice: Nimmi, Madhubala, Meena Kumari, Nargis and later, everyone from Waheeda Rehman, Hema Malini and Jaya Bhaduri to Sridevi, Madhuri Dixit and Kajol.
In the introduction to her 2009 book, Lata Mangeshkar …in Her Own Voice, Nasreen Munni Kabir observed, “An interesting question to ask is whether Lataji is singing for the actress or the actress’ performance is determined by Lataji.”
Lata’s formal accolades seem almost beside the point in the enormous context of her career. She won the National Film Award thrice, the Padma Bhushan, the Dadasaheb Phalke Award, and, in 2001, the Bharat Ratna, India’s highest civilian award. Her expansive playback career was one half; she also exalted Indian film music on the international stage, composed soundtracks, produced films, released albums, founded hospitals and designed jewellery — all this while being one of the most reclusive and media-shy public figures of India.
Last year, on the occasion of her 92nd birthday, Lata gave one of her last interviews to journalist Subhash K Jha. She said she intends to return to active singing soon, and that she condemned communal divisions in the country. She sounded clear-eyed about a world without her. “It will be the same,” she said humbly, though unbelievably. No, Lata ji, it’s not the same.