The interview never happened, though she nodded her head and smiled when asked a random question
Lata Mangeshkar and Mohammed Rafi
Memories flash by. As a young, inexperienced journalist, I was a nervous wreck when first asked to interview Lata Mangeshkar and cover her concert. This was in Jaipur, 35 years ago, and since she wasn’t giving a press conference, one tried to approach her at Govindji Ka Mandir, making sure her prayer wouldn’t be disturbed.
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The interview never happened, though she nodded her head and smiled when asked a random question. That gesture was worth a pot of gold, and writing about the concert was the silver lining. Even today, her rendition of Aaj phir jeene ki tamanna from Guide (1965) and Yeh zindagi usi ki hai from Anarkali (1953) stay behind.
An era is over. Numerous incidents come to mind, as one remembers the huge impact she had on millions of fans. Every admirer has his or her own Lata Mangeshkar stories, which they can narrate down the generations. It could be about watching Nutan or Nargis on the big screen, syncing her flawless voice. It could be of Ameen Sayani introducing her songs on Radio Ceylon. It could be of humming Pyaar hua ikraar hua for an early crush, Chand phir nikla on a lonely night, or Maine kaha phoolon se in a happy mood.
It could be of listening to Mogara phulala in Marathi or Pa ma ga re sa in Bengali. It could be of a live performance, with Anil Mohile conducting the orchestra. You heard her Vande mataram on Independence Day, and Ae maalik tere bande hum in school prayers. Antaksharis, weddings, festivals, pujas, train journeys, sad moments, fans knew a Lata song for every occasion.
My own admiration could have begun earlier. I remember, as a child, listening to Tera jaana (Anari, 1959), O Sajana (Parakh, 1960) and Rahe na rahe hum (Mamta, 1966) on the radio, without knowing who sang them. People around me liked them, and I liked them too. Growing up, one heard more Lata songs in Bobby (1973) and Abhimaan (1973), besides developing other favourite singers in Kishore Kumar, Mohammed Rafi and Mukesh.
Most born in the early 1960s heard later Lata releases, while simultaneously discovering the older gems. Rajnigandha phool tumhare (Rajnigandha, 1974), Tere bina zindagi (Aandhi, 1975) and Aap yoon faaslon mein (Shankar Hussain, 1977) would simultaneously play alongside Aayega aanewala (Mahal, 1949), Yun hasraton ke daag (Adalat, 1958) or Ajeeb dastaan (Dil Apna Aur Preet Parai, 1960). The year never mattered. The songs would appeal to 12-year-olds, middle-aged people and senior citizens. Watching the movies in theatres or on television, one simply admired how her voice suited every heroine.
Many of us ended up becoming diehard Lata fans, collecting her songs on cassettes, and jotting down details of co-singers, music directors and lyricists. Much before the Internet arrived, people would have discussions on the raags she sang, or how he sounded with Shankar-Jaikishan, Madan Mohan or RD Burman, or her non-film projects like the 1991 ghazal album, Sajda with Jagjit Singh. Each nuance would be admired and analysed. Her melody, range, diction, perfection. Today, it’s a different world of instant Google knowledge, WhatsApp groups, YouTube links and personalised playlists, where one has learnt things one could never imagine. The frequency of earworms hasn’t changed.
Being a diehard fan, one was also confused while doing the job of a music journalist. Whenever I was assigned to speak to her, the first reaction would be of nervousness, often cooking up a story that she wasn’t reachable. Various fears came to mind — who was I to ask her anything, how would she respond, what if I said something she didn’t like, what if I unintentionally misquoted her?
After the Jaipur concert, it was only after a decade that I had the opportunity of interviewing Lataji. I’d have loved to visit her at her Prabhu Kunj residence in Mumbai, but was nervous. When told she preferred a telephonic conversation, it came as a minor relief. The article was on the biggest musical highlights in 50 years of independence, and she narrated some wonderful anecdotes, specifically giving details of Ae mere watan ke logo, written by Kavi Pradeep and composed by C Ramchandra after the Indo-China war of 1962.
I met her at length during the 2001 launch of the Saregama HMV album, Meera Soor Kabira, featuring her and Roopkumar Rathod, and composed by her brother Hridaynath Mangeshkar. The nerves slowly vanished, as she was very relaxed and nostalgic. The organisers had insisted that I would only ask questions about the album, and nothing else. When I told her, she laughed, and said in Hindi, “They’re doing their job, you are doing yours, I shall do mine. Ask me anything, but it should be about music.”
In 2004, I wanted to speak to her on the music of Veer-Zaara, where unreleased music of the late Madan Mohan was revised by his son Sanjeev Kohli. I hadn’t heard from the film’s team for a week, when I suddenly got a call saying Lataji was ready to speak in the next five minutes. I had just left a meeting, and was on the way to the bus stop. On finding a bench, I began interviewing her from there, taking down notes in all that traffic noise. A senior gentleman overheard me, and waited for me to finish. When I told him who it was, he couldn’t believe it, but soon started his own Lata Mangeshkar story.
He came from a different generation, and was a teenager when Lata shot to fame with Barsaat and Mahal in 1949. Though he heard songs as they were released, Lataji meant as much to him as it did to people of my age. Her immortal voice means the same to youngsters at talent shows. Clearly, Lata Mangeshkar represents purity, timelessness and eternity like none other.
Did you know
The 1974 edition of The Guinness Book of Records had listed Lata Mangeshkar as the most recorded artiste. But the claim was contested by her peer Mohammed Rafi. The book continued to list Mangeshkar’s name, until 1991, but also mentioned Rafi’s claim.
Did you know
At the beginning of her career, Lata Mangeshkar’s mentor Ghulam Haider introduced her to producer Sasadhar Mukherjee. The producer, who was making Shaheed (1948), apparently rejected her because her voice was “too thin”
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