It is impossible to write about Lata Mangeshkar with clinical objectivity if you love Indian music.
Some of us who grew up before the 2000s have a Lata song for every occasion, every mood and every twist of fate. When you need a pick-me-up from the dull funk of pandemic oppression, search Aaj Phir Jeene ki Tamanna Hai (Guide, 1965) on your Spotify. Joy swells in-between its syllables.
When I think of my mother, I listen to Luka Chuppi (Rang De Basanti, 2006); the tears flow. Her voice had lost its limpidness by the 1990s, but with A.R. Rehman’s orchestration, it is a piercingly emotional song about mother-child longing.
I remember my father by the Bengali song O Mor Moyna Go (1975, not from a film) because in his flat baritone he would sometimes sing it to cheer me up.
When my daughter was two or three, I introduced her to Eechak Dana Beechak Dana (Shree 420, 1955) and experienced ecstasy seeing her tiny body sway and wobble in joy.
For my partner of 20 years, there’s Tere Mere Sapne Ab Ek Rang Hai (Guide, 1965), among several others.
It is impossible to encapsulate the oeuvre of this genius in a few hundred or thousand words. Numerous books have been written on her, numerous films have been made on her. Lata sang thousands of songs in several Indian languages including Hindi, Marathi Bengali, Assamese and Odiya.
When patriotism was an unsullied emotion far removed from political grandstanding, Lata’s rendition of Ae Mere Watan Ke Logo, an homage to soldiers who lost their lives in the Sino-Indian war of 1962 (written by Kavi Pradeep and composed by C Ramchandra), moved our first prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru to tears.
Lata has been revered, vilified for her ambition, and resurrected several times over. She has sung bhajans,
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