The legendary Greek philosopher-mathematician Pythagoras often echoed that good music was allied with the varied rhythms and cadences of life. He also employed his findings in music to the ‘conduct’ of cosmic objects — in other words, the smallest intervals in the musical scale — that added up to seven whole tones that formed a flawless, pleasant-sounding natural order. That the great man envisaged the universe itself throbbed with its own masterpiece ensemble was yet another landmark testament. Pythagoras understood that such melodies were godly and exquisite, yet sometimes too muffled for the human ear, unless the singer took it to the next level that was laden with pure, divine sound and melody of the highest order — the preserve of just a select, also chosen, few.
Lata Mangeshkar [September 28, 1929-February 6, 2022] exemplified the Pythagorean context, like no other, in her own rose-, also sepia-tinted, or multi-coloured, Lata-centric genre of variegated contexts with the Midas’ touch. That she made no claim, or reference to it, despite being the Queen of Music, epitomised her humility, also greatness — more so, when she reached the insuperable zenith of her career.
It is obvious that musical contexts are limitless auguries — not random constructs. They are, in more ways than one, burrowed realities moored in wide and deep realisms, where each veracity is a part of infinite aggregates. In other words — a boundless oeuvre that more than highlights, or rejoices, a precise framework. This celebrates yet another facet — the elucidation of musical contexts is not only elicitation, but also the illumination of a certain essential connection, or transcendent, subliminal exploration.
Lata understood such a musical artwork that would intrinsically, or compositely, represent the rainbow synthesis of the horizons — the emergence of melody as one whole. She also thought of it as the understanding of every work related to art and craft, because every great singer is but a ‘process’ of one’s own self. This was a revelation from deep within and just as effusively refreshing in its final upshot.
The Lata saga was a remarkable chronicle of what dreams are made of and, most importantly, fulfilled. That Lata was born with a keen ken for music is passé — the connect was more than just genetics. It was a divine blessing — ordained not just by god, but also Saraswati, the goddess of music, art, speech, knowledge, wisdom, and learning, as it were.
Lata, who was born to Pandit Deenanath Mangeshkar, the renowned classical vocalist and theatre personality, and Shevanti, his doting wife, in Indore, was the eldest child of the family. Her siblings, Meena, Asha, and Usha, followed in her footsteps, while brother Hridaynath is a composer in his own right.
Lata made her singing debut, at age 13, following her father’s death, in Kiti Hasal [1942], a Marathi film, while taking up her responsibilities for the family. It was destiny’s decree, her inner calling, also career opportunity, that she moved to Bombay [now Mumbai] in 1945. This bid fair for the first few numbers she rendered. Her ‘eureka’ moment arrived with her abiding number, Aayega aanewala, a song composed by Khemchand Prakash — who also mentored the likes of the legendary Naushad Ali, among others — in Mahal [1949]. The song was a minimalistic foray with just a dozen-plus musical instruments. What made the song no less unique was its surreal ‘distant’ effect.
The rest is history — with that rare template of Lata amassing approximately 30,000 songs in several Indian languages, including a few in foreign lingo, a world record. This wasn’t all. Her tally of accolades and awards — right from Bharat Ratna, Dada Saheb Phalke, Officer of the Legion of Honour, from France, among others, to mention only a select few — are enormously impressive. That she was the first Indian singer to perform at the Royal Albert Hall, in London, was just another ‘feather’ in her marvellous singing inventory.
For a cricket and photography buff — with a proclivity for cars, chocolates, and cooking — whose list of ‘willow’ favourites extended a brace of generations, from Sir Don Bradman to Sachin Tendulkar, Lata’s tryst with destiny, to resonate Jawaharlal Nehru’s famed, also everlasting, words, was the revitalisation of her musical pledge, not wholly, or in full measure, but substantially. It was also her awakening at every moment, which comes but rarely for a singer, while stepping into every genre, from the old to new, with every song, where the echo of a nation found its complete utterance. When Lata rendered her immortal song, Aye mere watan ke logo, penned by Kavi Pradeep and composed by C Ramachandra, Nehru was moved to such an extent that tears welled up in his eyes. Nehru’s own literary embellishments, also intellect, and sensitivity, would have reverberated in his heart and mind — more so, as Lata’s golden voice and poignant words flowed to stir every Indian’s heart in the aftermath of Chinese perfidy, also invasion.
What made Lata a legend like no other? She could render just about any song, whatever the category — movie songs in classical, semi-classical, light forms, bhajans, also sundry, including racy, jazzy pieces, and cabaret numbers, with as much ease as a virtuoso violinist on the stringed instrument. She could sing the eternal Rasik balma [Chori Chori, 1956], for Shankar-Jaikishan; Saari sari raaton teri yaad sataye [Aji Bas Shukriya, 1958], for Roshan Lal Nagrath; O sajana [Parakh, 1960], for Salil Chowdhury; Pyar kiya to darna kya [Mughal-E-Azam, 1960] for Naushad Ali; Rang dil ki dhadkan bhi [Patang, 1960], for Chitragupta; Mora gora ang laile [Bandini, 1963], for Sachin Dev Burman; Raat bhi hai khuchh bhigi bhigi [Mujhe Jeene Do, 1963]; for Jaidev; Jeevan dor tumhi sang bandhi [Sati Savitri, 1964], for Laxmikant-Pyarelal; Lag ja gale [Woh Kaun Thi, 1964], for Madan Mohan; Kuch dil ne kahan [Anupama, 1966], for Hemant Kumar; Lo aa gayi unki [Do Badan, 1966], for Ravi Shankar Sharma; Jhir jhir barse sawani ankhiyan [Ashirwad, 1968], for Vasant Desai; Hum ke jinke sahare [Safar, 1970], for Kalyanji-Anandji; Aaj kal paon zaamin par nahin padte [Ghar, 1978], for Rahul Dev Burman; Ae dil-e-naadaan [Razia Sultan, 1983], for Mohammed Zahur Khayyam; Dil deewana [Maine Pyar Kiya,1989], for Raam-Lakshman; Jiya jale [Dil Se, 1998], for A R Rahman, among countless all-time hits [It’s, of course, a paradox that Lata never sang for O P Nayyar, though they had ample respect for each other]. The list is, doubtless, infinitesimal, because of the sheer number, also quantum, of Lata songs — more so, because all of us, from Kashmir to Kanyakumari, from Karachi to Mombasa, from Kathmandu to London, from Paris to Toronto, or elsewhere, would have our own ‘most favourite’ Lata numbers.
Lata was a genius, beyond a shadow of doubt; she was also human. She had her flaws, idiosyncrasies, not to speak of certain anxieties, if not insecurities. Her glorious canvas, despite all its resplendence, was not devoid of sibling rivalry too. As Raju Bharatan, the late music critic, journalist and author, who this writer knew well and respected, put it in perspective. “Lata was brilliant, but she was the voice of the meek heroine in white. The romance in the past needed the heroine to be coy. Lata’s vocal image was perfect for that… Lata and Asha grew up in the same house, just three years apart, and were competitive even as kids. When Lata found attention and popularity, displacing every female singer in the music industry, Asha wanted to do the same. In the 1950s and 1960s, Lata charged ₹500 for a song, unheard of in the industry, while Asha had to settle for ₹100-150. While Lata chose what to sing, or whom to sing for, Asha did not have that luxury and it rankled [her]. As did the fact that whenever Asha performed live, Lata never attended her shows. The lack of encouragement and musical support from an older sister turned matters worse. Asha took it upon herself to prove herself.” And, she did — with her own awesome, adaptable, also inimitable flair.
This wasn’t all. Lata had her ‘tiffs’ with Mohammed Rafi, with whom she sang the most number of duets, on royalty; Shankar [of Jaikishan] for the song, Main kya karon ram mujhe buddha milgaya [Sangam, 1964], for its ‘impropriety’ — which would be ‘hallowed’ in today’s scenario — as also for Raj Kapoor’s ‘find,’ Sharda, who was ‘touted’ as a ‘contender,’ for no valid reason; ‘Dada’ Burman, although it was a short-lived squabble; Dilip Kumar and Naushad, who had something to say for her Urdu ‘diction,’ at one time, among others.
It would be interesting to decipher what Lata thought of herself amidst all the colossal adulation, fan following, and her supreme musical status. Over to Nasreen Munni Kabir, the noted television producer, director, and author of Lata Mangeshkar… in Her Own Voice: “I am [very] grateful to god that my success hasn’t had a detrimental effect on me. My head could have turned; I could have thought no end of myself. If I am gifted, it is by the grace of god. Who could have imagined I would be so famous? All right, I can sing, but my singing wasn’t some sort of miracle. My singing is nothing extraordinary. Many have sung better than me, but perhaps they didn’t get as much as I did. It is His kindness alone. So, how could I lose my head?”
“Music,” said philosopher Plato, “gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.” Lata exemplified it all — in letter and spirit, song and melody.
Her passing heralded the end of an era, albeit her legacy is imperishable. There won’t be another like her again. Her timeless numbers will reverberate in our heart, also mind, and for generations to come — or, so long as music lives. Forever.
— First published in Madras Courier
