Lata Mangeshkar passes away: A neighbour recalls lessons on music — and life — from the legendary singer

“Lata sabki nakal kar leti hai  [Lata imitates every voice]. Ek bar sunne ke baad hi"  [Just after listening to them once]. Just as the legendary singer Asha Bhosle finished saying that, the doyenne of playback singing, Lata Mangeshkar, sauntered into the room, presumably looking for her spectacles. She smiled at us, shuffled through the side cabinets, and then made her way to the couch opposite us. My mum and I were sitting with our famous neighbours, bemused at how “normal” they seemed away from the glitz and glamour of the world they inhabit. Some of the most iconic Indian and international musicians and artists have sat where we were at Prabhu Kunj. Lata said to my mother in the most dulcet voice: “Gayatriji, aap toh Shivaji Ganesan ko pehchante honge.” Of course, my mother had heard of Shivaji Ganesan, the veteran Tamil actor and cinematic demigod. She cocked her head like the late Ganesan, saying: “He once told Asha [Bhosle]: Amma, you are a very good cooker!”   An instantaneous burst of laughter filled the room, led to higher pitches by the chanteuses as tears streamed from their eyes and they giggled until they had to pause to catch their breaths. The imitation was spot-on, by the way.

Lata Mangeshkar could seem rather aloof to the point of being unfriendly, but she was always aware of how awestruck people could be in her presence. She had an uncanny ability to disarm you if she liked you.

Her diminutive frame stood in stark contrast to her colossal stature, her voice so soft-spoken you could miss her words if you were not paying enough attention, but you never missed her intent.   She was a Bharat Ratna, a national treasure in every sense but at home, she was just tai [elder sister in Marathi]. She had an ethereal presence that she wore ever so casually. It was an illustrious family that shared three-interconnected flats on tony Peddar Road but sitting on that couch that day was a reminder of how they were just like every other bunch of siblings; taking turns to poke fun or be moody, and oftentimes hum strains of famous songs as casually as any of us. Only infinitely more mellifluous.   It was the people working with her who would caution you about not being too needy or too pestering. Lata aunty, as I came to know her, was simply content having upma with tamarind-less chutney that my Amma made.   “Iska imli bandh karo,” she told my mother. Telling a Tamilian to give up tamarind is akin to telling a Parsi to give up eggs. Yes, borderline sacrilegious. But she had my best interests at heart even if it meant half the rasams and sambhars were off my diet. Much to the chagrin of my maternal grandmother, an established Carnatic classical radio singer who had tamarind in every meal.   Learning singing in the early years from her youngest sibling Pandit Hridaynath Mangeshkar meant keeping track of his erratic work schedules. On some days, my classes would be very early, much before my school bus came at 7:45 AM, some others we would practice ragas at night, way past my bedtime. She would quietly drop in for my sessions at Panditji’s home, occasionally correcting my pronunciation or pitch.   She once told me of a time when she was a fledging singer in 1947, travelling by train with thespian Dilip Kumar and composer Anil Biswas. When Biswas introduced her to the actor as a singer who sings very well, “Yusuf  saab    [Kumar] said: ‘Are you a Maharashtrian? Maharashtrian singers don’t have very good diction.’” That really stayed with her.  Upon her return, she got her music guru to look for an Urdu teacher to help her with the finer nuances of Hindi and its Hindustani roots. “A maulana came to my rescue, and religiously helped me with diction and the essence of the language,” she recalled.  Even as a septuagenarian, she would have my mother correct her Tamil diction, taking pride in the efforts she put in while singing in every one of the 36 languages she had dabbled with. After a few years, Lata suggested to my mother that for more consistency, it might be better to have another teacher who would share notes with Hridaynath Mangeshkar. The curated curriculum was an exclusive study of Hindi music from the subcontinent that spanned Mehdi Hasan ghazals to an obscure children’s song by a lesser-known Mangeshkar sibling, Meena Mangeshkar.   A few more years into training and after sitting through multiple practice sessions in the building’s community hall where Lata and Asha aunty would rehearse with the likes of Kumar Sanu, Udit Narayan, Suresh Wadkar, Sudesh Bhosle, Kavita Krishnamoorthy and more, my teacher and his luminary advisors decided to introduce a song that has gone on to become both a blessing and a bane to my learning endeavours. From  Bhabhi ki Chudiyan [1961], was the angelic Lata Mangeshkar song ’Jyoti Kalash Chhalke,’ which sounded just like a typically pure number from her early days.   When we talk about Lata Mangeshkar’s massive repository of masterpieces, many more popular and award-winning songs come to mind. And when we think of her today and that volume of work she has left behind, we collectively grieve with some of her timeless classics. ‘Jyoti Kalash Chhalke’ may not make the cut in many best-of lists but for me, it is testimony to the divinity in her talents. She made it sound so easy.   ‘Jyoti Kalash Chhalke’ was certainly easy-listening but a monstrous piece of work to decode. For within every other note lay an interplay of restraint and the effortless gamakas  [vocal embellishments done on a note or between two notes] that Lata effortlessly added, squeezing in a last syllable before the beat changed, bending a note to optimise the tone and continuing this over and over as the song progressed. I was 11 years old when we started with the song, I was 16 by the time I was done with it, having simultaneously learnt some ghazals from across the border to avoid being disheartened at my progress. It was an elaborate exercise in understanding the concept of tapasya  [penance] in musical education, where the quest for perfection overrode any need to pacify a demotivated student. Lata aunty and Panditji would take turns to ask me about the song over the years; she would be generous enough to break down the beat for me every once in a while, illustrating how it can be practised slower until I gained confidence. She understood very well how we are orbiting different ranges: She was a soprano, and I was somewhere in the mezzo-soprano-flirts-with-contralto range.   [caption id=“attachment_10143331” align=“alignnone” width=“640”]  Lata Mangeshkar[/caption] A quarter of a century later, I do not think I’ll ever be done marvelling at the delicate trills that have come to define the sound of the song. Lata aunty did not add it for effect. She simply did not know any other way to sing, and it was for us mere mortals to aspire to hit the right notes, let alone sing like her.   I once asked Panditji if she ever found it harder to sing in a lower register like mine given that her natural voice was higher pitched. He got her to sing me two verses from ‘O Dil Banjaare,’ a song that he composed and she sang for the 1993 film Maya Memsaab. It spanned three octaves over two lines, and shifted three scales in one verse with the kind of melodious discordance that only a Lata Mangeshkar could pull off. Thank you Lata aunty, it has been a lifetime of lessons, and a privilege of the highest order.   Senior journalist Lakshmi Govindrajan Javeri has spent a good part of two decades chronicling the arts, culture and lifestyles.