Lara Zuberi's Blog - Posts Tagged "lata-mangeshkar"
Nightingale on The Highest Branch
Although I knew she was ninety-two, and I was aware that she had been afflicted with Covid, I was hoping that the strength of her lungs would prevail—but alas, her time had come. The day Lata Mangeshkar passed, I mourned for her like I would for a person I knew well, someone whose absence felt tangible and painful. It has taken me a while to write this, as I am still absorbing the impact of this monumental loss, a loss that is not mine alone.
It seems impossible to contain the spell of her songs in a few pages, and encompass her boundless contribution in a passage, and it is not my attempt to do so. I write this merely as a small tribute to a great legend.
My earliest memories are filled with Lata’s songs playing in our house when I was perhaps three years old. Our apartment was tiny, although it never seemed small--it was a happy, melodious home, the mellifluous voice of Lata Mangeshkar reverberating from its every corner, living with its walls. My beautiful mother sang her songs, and does to this day, lyrics embalmed in her memory, her sweet voice always in tune. My parents share a strong appreciation for music, and I am ever so grateful for having this woven into my DNA. I began singing Ai Meray Dil e Nadaan as a toddler, mispronouncing it as ‘Din e Nadaan,� mesmerized by its acoustic power many years before I understood the meaning of its lyrical words.
It is only recently that I have had the good fortune of finding a wonderful teacher, and am embarking on a journey of learning how to sing. This has given me a deeper and renewed perspective on the depth of music, as well as the genius of Lata Mangeshkar.
On the morning of her demise, my son, a playful sixth-grader, accidentally broke a decoration piece that sits on our mantle. I am not one to admonish over mishaps, nor am I one to be affected by the destruction of the finite. However, this was perhaps the only such item that seemed irrevocably tied to my childhood, and seeing it broken was upsetting in that moment. My parents had bought it when we lived in that apartment, when I was five or six. It was a colored Cinderella, adorned in a pink flowing dress, in her chaise with four horses, golden chains as their reins, a horseman perched on his elevated seat. After having lost their luster over the years, the chains had been replaced, and it appeared new despite being more than three decades old. My son’s shirt had caught in it, causing it to crash on the floor, breaking into a multitude of uneven pieces. It wasn’t just broken, it was shattered—parts of horse legs lay at different ends of the living room, the horseman’s arms amputated, the exquisite Cinderella dismembered.
I felt as if Lata and Cinderella—both integral parts of my life since my early childhood, were suddenly gone forever—and the breaking of this seemingly inconsequential glass piece, seemed to personify--and solidify the loss. We picked the countless shards off the floor, and as I accepted my son’s sincere apology, I reassured him that it was all right, and things are, after all, dispensable and replaceable.
We listened to Lata’s songs from every decade, savoring every eloquent rendition, while collectively mourning the loss of someone so dear to us.
Born to a father who was a classical singer, Lata ji had received early exposure to music, which became superimposed on an inherited talent and God-gifted voice. In an interview with Javed Akhtar, she recalled climbing onto the kitchen counter and singing among the clamor of dishes as her mother cooked, often to the latter’s annoyance. She corrected her father’s student at the mere age of five, forcing him to realize the musical maturity and infinite potential of his eldest child. The next morning at six am, he began teaching her on the Tanpura, and once she started, there was no turning back. Singing became her unbridled passion, and she dedicated her life to its pursuit and mastery. Although her father passed away when she was only thirteen, she continued along this path with unstoppable determination. Her Bollywood career began in 1947, the year of independence, and she became, in Dr. C D Deshmukh’s words, � a tuneful symbol of national integration,� boasting a career spanning more than seven decades, recording her last song in 2019.
Master Ghulam Haider, often credited to be the first to recognize her exceptional talent, said, “Your voice is like a stream in its flow. Give it a classical turn and the Chenab loses its fluidity.� She mentioned him being her mentor, teaching her the art of singing while deeply connecting with the lyrics, transforming into the character depicted on screen.
I do have a very special attachment to Ae ga Anne Waala from Mehel. It was my grandfather’s favorite song, and I have been enchanted by its beauty over the years. Since technology was limited at the time, the music director, Khemchand Prakash, asked Lata to walk several steps gradually towards the microphone, in order to create the illusion of an echo to fit the haunting scene in the movie. This had to be repeated five times for the desired effect. Nargis and her mother listened to her sing, complemented her, expressing appreciation that despite being of Marathi origin, she had pronounced the Urdu word ‘Baghair� with such ease and precision.
This focus on pronunciation is what sets Lata apart from singers of her time and singers of today. She gave credit to Dilip Kumar who once advised her to learn Urdu at their first meeting at the onset of her career. She took up this challenge with utmost urgency, dedicating herself as a disciple of an Urdu ustaad, Maulana Mehboob. He not only taught her accurate diction and fine linguistic nuances, but also went into depths of explaining the timeless and classic poetry of Mir and Ghalib. Although she never attended a formal school, her education at home was instrumental in her reaching the pinnacle of success.
At that time, playback singers were not acknowledged, and the Mehel album was titled Kamini, the character played by Madhubala in the movie. Countless listeners of radio programs repeatedly sent in requests, inquiring about the singer’s identity, the mystical voice behind the song, and Lata Mangeshkar’s name came to be known, becoming sewed into the fabric of Hindustani music. Sadly, Khemchand passed away shortly before his masterpiece received its due acclaim.
Barsaat was the first film that acknowledged her as a playback singer, and soon she was propelled into stardom.
When more filmmakers began recognizing her musical expertise, she was offered numerous songs and albums, and sometimes recorded for different films simultaneously, travelling by train, often working until three in the morning. She passionately enjoyed her craft, and the long hours did not impede her zeal.
She gave voice to the timeless lyrics of Shailendra, Majrooh Sultanpuri and Sahir, and the masterful and intricate compositions of Naushad, Anil Biswaas, Madan Mohan, S.D. Burman, C. Ramchander and others. Her dedication knew no bounds, as evidenced by her continuing the recording of the wonderful song Tere Sadqe Balam after having passed out from illness following the third take. She remained a perfectionist, often cancelling recordings when her sinus trouble intervened. Whenever she felt she could give her seventy-five percent, she refused to sing, despite composers insisting that that her seventy-five percent was better than her rivals� hundred percent.
There is little doubt that the greatest songs would have been impossible without the talent of the masterminds who wrote and composed them, however, many of them expressed in later years that their creations may not have existed without Lata Mangeshkar.
The impact of her music has been felt from the times of Kemchand in the 40s, to Naushad in the 50s and 60s, to Khayyam in the 70s and 80s, to A.R. Rehman into the new century, touching many generations.
In 1963, during her performance of Ae Mere Watan Ke Logon, the former Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, overcome with patriotic emotion, is known to have wept unabashedly.
Songs from Piya tho Se Naina Laage re to Dekha Ek Khwaab tho and Aaj Kal Paaon Zameen Par will make you fall in love; yet others like Thor Diya Dil Mera to Yeh Shaam ki Thanhaayian to Uthae Ja Unke Sitam to Mujhe Teri Mohabbat Ka Sahaara will tear you apart; Bachpan ke Din to Bachpan ki Mohabbat ko will transpose you into a world of nostalgia; Chanda Hai Thu to Dur Kahin Ek Aam Ki Baghiya will reaffirm your motherhood; Bane ho Eik Khaak Se and Aurat Ne Janam Diya Mardon Ko will make you cry for injustice; Allah Tero Naam to Ai Dil e Nadaan to O Paalan Haare will connect you to the Higher Power in an unbreakable way.
Her high octaves are unmatched, they seem unreachable without monumental effort, seeming as effortless as exhaling a breath when sung by her. She acknowledged studying voice modulation with Anil Biswas who helped her achieve an extraordinary steadiness of her voice across every pitch. Always adorned in a traditional Sari, often white, she graciously accepted awards and accolades, including the highest national honor of the Bharat Ratna, and stopped accepting Filmfare awards after 1971, paving the way for newer talent.
In the 90s, she created a touching tribute to her predecessors including K.L. Saigal and Pankaj Mullick, and co singers including Mohammad Rafi, Geeta Dutt and Kishore Kumar, among others, in the form of Shraddhanjali. She introduced us to songs that newer generations may have remained oblivious to, simultaneously teaching us that humility and appreciation of our comrades keeps us grounded, ensuring our continued introspection and perpetual growth.
Although none of us spoke of the broken Cinderella, it hung in the air like the fact that we were all ruminating over Lata. The next day, I listened to songs of Andaz and Amar, Aarzoo and Anarkali on my way to work and back, and fit in a few classics into my short lunch break. I sang with her, every memorized word, feeling melancholic, but inspired--fortunate to have witnessed the remarkable journey of this unparalleled singer.
When I entered our home, I was greeted by Cinderella, appearing unharmed, her four horses intact, without the slightest crack visible. I gasped in amazement as I remembered my father’s extraordinary ability to fix things. It was magical. He said he’d seen on my face how much it meant to me, so he’d spent some hours dexterously reattaching each miniscule piece. I still don’t know how this could be accomplished without a microscope.
I felt as though Lata were here too, with me—her songs within my soul, singing to me, soothing me in times of despair, celebrating with me in times of joy, showing me the way to the impossible.
As she sang in Mughal-e-Azam,
Tumhaari Duniya se Jaa Rahe Hain Utho Humara Salam Lay Lo
Lata ji please accept Salam from the whole world—for all the singers you inspired, all the lives you touched, and all the hearts you moved.
Since the keyboard is designed with T juxtaposed to R, the typo for my name is—not infrequently-- your name, even when I am typing it myself. It is perhaps the only texting error that rather than irritating me, fascinates me.
Although you are no longer with us, your songs, like my childhood, will remain a part of my soul as long as I live—and although my heart was crushed when the news of your passing came, it has mended itself with the soothing voice of silk that emanates from your songs, and akin to the repaired Cinderella in her pink dress, it feels whole again.
Just as your music lives beyond the confines of the seven surs, Sa-Re-Ga-Ma-Pa-Dha-Ni, your legacy lives an ocean beyond the ink of these words.
(Title inspired by Dr. Padma Subrahmanyam’s description of Lata)
It seems impossible to contain the spell of her songs in a few pages, and encompass her boundless contribution in a passage, and it is not my attempt to do so. I write this merely as a small tribute to a great legend.
My earliest memories are filled with Lata’s songs playing in our house when I was perhaps three years old. Our apartment was tiny, although it never seemed small--it was a happy, melodious home, the mellifluous voice of Lata Mangeshkar reverberating from its every corner, living with its walls. My beautiful mother sang her songs, and does to this day, lyrics embalmed in her memory, her sweet voice always in tune. My parents share a strong appreciation for music, and I am ever so grateful for having this woven into my DNA. I began singing Ai Meray Dil e Nadaan as a toddler, mispronouncing it as ‘Din e Nadaan,� mesmerized by its acoustic power many years before I understood the meaning of its lyrical words.
It is only recently that I have had the good fortune of finding a wonderful teacher, and am embarking on a journey of learning how to sing. This has given me a deeper and renewed perspective on the depth of music, as well as the genius of Lata Mangeshkar.
On the morning of her demise, my son, a playful sixth-grader, accidentally broke a decoration piece that sits on our mantle. I am not one to admonish over mishaps, nor am I one to be affected by the destruction of the finite. However, this was perhaps the only such item that seemed irrevocably tied to my childhood, and seeing it broken was upsetting in that moment. My parents had bought it when we lived in that apartment, when I was five or six. It was a colored Cinderella, adorned in a pink flowing dress, in her chaise with four horses, golden chains as their reins, a horseman perched on his elevated seat. After having lost their luster over the years, the chains had been replaced, and it appeared new despite being more than three decades old. My son’s shirt had caught in it, causing it to crash on the floor, breaking into a multitude of uneven pieces. It wasn’t just broken, it was shattered—parts of horse legs lay at different ends of the living room, the horseman’s arms amputated, the exquisite Cinderella dismembered.
I felt as if Lata and Cinderella—both integral parts of my life since my early childhood, were suddenly gone forever—and the breaking of this seemingly inconsequential glass piece, seemed to personify--and solidify the loss. We picked the countless shards off the floor, and as I accepted my son’s sincere apology, I reassured him that it was all right, and things are, after all, dispensable and replaceable.
We listened to Lata’s songs from every decade, savoring every eloquent rendition, while collectively mourning the loss of someone so dear to us.
Born to a father who was a classical singer, Lata ji had received early exposure to music, which became superimposed on an inherited talent and God-gifted voice. In an interview with Javed Akhtar, she recalled climbing onto the kitchen counter and singing among the clamor of dishes as her mother cooked, often to the latter’s annoyance. She corrected her father’s student at the mere age of five, forcing him to realize the musical maturity and infinite potential of his eldest child. The next morning at six am, he began teaching her on the Tanpura, and once she started, there was no turning back. Singing became her unbridled passion, and she dedicated her life to its pursuit and mastery. Although her father passed away when she was only thirteen, she continued along this path with unstoppable determination. Her Bollywood career began in 1947, the year of independence, and she became, in Dr. C D Deshmukh’s words, � a tuneful symbol of national integration,� boasting a career spanning more than seven decades, recording her last song in 2019.
Master Ghulam Haider, often credited to be the first to recognize her exceptional talent, said, “Your voice is like a stream in its flow. Give it a classical turn and the Chenab loses its fluidity.� She mentioned him being her mentor, teaching her the art of singing while deeply connecting with the lyrics, transforming into the character depicted on screen.
I do have a very special attachment to Ae ga Anne Waala from Mehel. It was my grandfather’s favorite song, and I have been enchanted by its beauty over the years. Since technology was limited at the time, the music director, Khemchand Prakash, asked Lata to walk several steps gradually towards the microphone, in order to create the illusion of an echo to fit the haunting scene in the movie. This had to be repeated five times for the desired effect. Nargis and her mother listened to her sing, complemented her, expressing appreciation that despite being of Marathi origin, she had pronounced the Urdu word ‘Baghair� with such ease and precision.
This focus on pronunciation is what sets Lata apart from singers of her time and singers of today. She gave credit to Dilip Kumar who once advised her to learn Urdu at their first meeting at the onset of her career. She took up this challenge with utmost urgency, dedicating herself as a disciple of an Urdu ustaad, Maulana Mehboob. He not only taught her accurate diction and fine linguistic nuances, but also went into depths of explaining the timeless and classic poetry of Mir and Ghalib. Although she never attended a formal school, her education at home was instrumental in her reaching the pinnacle of success.
At that time, playback singers were not acknowledged, and the Mehel album was titled Kamini, the character played by Madhubala in the movie. Countless listeners of radio programs repeatedly sent in requests, inquiring about the singer’s identity, the mystical voice behind the song, and Lata Mangeshkar’s name came to be known, becoming sewed into the fabric of Hindustani music. Sadly, Khemchand passed away shortly before his masterpiece received its due acclaim.
Barsaat was the first film that acknowledged her as a playback singer, and soon she was propelled into stardom.
When more filmmakers began recognizing her musical expertise, she was offered numerous songs and albums, and sometimes recorded for different films simultaneously, travelling by train, often working until three in the morning. She passionately enjoyed her craft, and the long hours did not impede her zeal.
She gave voice to the timeless lyrics of Shailendra, Majrooh Sultanpuri and Sahir, and the masterful and intricate compositions of Naushad, Anil Biswaas, Madan Mohan, S.D. Burman, C. Ramchander and others. Her dedication knew no bounds, as evidenced by her continuing the recording of the wonderful song Tere Sadqe Balam after having passed out from illness following the third take. She remained a perfectionist, often cancelling recordings when her sinus trouble intervened. Whenever she felt she could give her seventy-five percent, she refused to sing, despite composers insisting that that her seventy-five percent was better than her rivals� hundred percent.
There is little doubt that the greatest songs would have been impossible without the talent of the masterminds who wrote and composed them, however, many of them expressed in later years that their creations may not have existed without Lata Mangeshkar.
The impact of her music has been felt from the times of Kemchand in the 40s, to Naushad in the 50s and 60s, to Khayyam in the 70s and 80s, to A.R. Rehman into the new century, touching many generations.
In 1963, during her performance of Ae Mere Watan Ke Logon, the former Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, overcome with patriotic emotion, is known to have wept unabashedly.
Songs from Piya tho Se Naina Laage re to Dekha Ek Khwaab tho and Aaj Kal Paaon Zameen Par will make you fall in love; yet others like Thor Diya Dil Mera to Yeh Shaam ki Thanhaayian to Uthae Ja Unke Sitam to Mujhe Teri Mohabbat Ka Sahaara will tear you apart; Bachpan ke Din to Bachpan ki Mohabbat ko will transpose you into a world of nostalgia; Chanda Hai Thu to Dur Kahin Ek Aam Ki Baghiya will reaffirm your motherhood; Bane ho Eik Khaak Se and Aurat Ne Janam Diya Mardon Ko will make you cry for injustice; Allah Tero Naam to Ai Dil e Nadaan to O Paalan Haare will connect you to the Higher Power in an unbreakable way.
Her high octaves are unmatched, they seem unreachable without monumental effort, seeming as effortless as exhaling a breath when sung by her. She acknowledged studying voice modulation with Anil Biswas who helped her achieve an extraordinary steadiness of her voice across every pitch. Always adorned in a traditional Sari, often white, she graciously accepted awards and accolades, including the highest national honor of the Bharat Ratna, and stopped accepting Filmfare awards after 1971, paving the way for newer talent.
In the 90s, she created a touching tribute to her predecessors including K.L. Saigal and Pankaj Mullick, and co singers including Mohammad Rafi, Geeta Dutt and Kishore Kumar, among others, in the form of Shraddhanjali. She introduced us to songs that newer generations may have remained oblivious to, simultaneously teaching us that humility and appreciation of our comrades keeps us grounded, ensuring our continued introspection and perpetual growth.
Although none of us spoke of the broken Cinderella, it hung in the air like the fact that we were all ruminating over Lata. The next day, I listened to songs of Andaz and Amar, Aarzoo and Anarkali on my way to work and back, and fit in a few classics into my short lunch break. I sang with her, every memorized word, feeling melancholic, but inspired--fortunate to have witnessed the remarkable journey of this unparalleled singer.
When I entered our home, I was greeted by Cinderella, appearing unharmed, her four horses intact, without the slightest crack visible. I gasped in amazement as I remembered my father’s extraordinary ability to fix things. It was magical. He said he’d seen on my face how much it meant to me, so he’d spent some hours dexterously reattaching each miniscule piece. I still don’t know how this could be accomplished without a microscope.
I felt as though Lata were here too, with me—her songs within my soul, singing to me, soothing me in times of despair, celebrating with me in times of joy, showing me the way to the impossible.
As she sang in Mughal-e-Azam,
Tumhaari Duniya se Jaa Rahe Hain Utho Humara Salam Lay Lo
Lata ji please accept Salam from the whole world—for all the singers you inspired, all the lives you touched, and all the hearts you moved.
Since the keyboard is designed with T juxtaposed to R, the typo for my name is—not infrequently-- your name, even when I am typing it myself. It is perhaps the only texting error that rather than irritating me, fascinates me.
Although you are no longer with us, your songs, like my childhood, will remain a part of my soul as long as I live—and although my heart was crushed when the news of your passing came, it has mended itself with the soothing voice of silk that emanates from your songs, and akin to the repaired Cinderella in her pink dress, it feels whole again.
Just as your music lives beyond the confines of the seven surs, Sa-Re-Ga-Ma-Pa-Dha-Ni, your legacy lives an ocean beyond the ink of these words.
(Title inspired by Dr. Padma Subrahmanyam’s description of Lata)
