Growing up in a Bengali household in the 1990s, LPs and audio cassettes were a staple. Listening to legends like Kishore Kumar, Mohammed Rafi or Lata Mangeshkar was nothing out of the ordinary.
But, surprisingly, I didn’t discover the genius of Asha Bhosle until the mid-’90s.
At that time, Bollywood had a clear soundscape. Voices like Alka Yagnik, Kavita Krishnamurthy, Sadhana Sargam and Anuradha Paudwal defined what a heroine should sound like. They were everywhere.
Asha Bhosle, on the other hand, felt like a name from another era — respected, no doubt, but distant.
Then, Rangeela happened.
Until 1995, Rangeela Re meant Lata Mangeshkar’s classic melody from Prem Pujari (1970). But A.R. Rahman changed that. The cloudburst prelude, followed by Asha’s magical vocals pulled you in.
Then there was Tanha Tanha. There was a teasing confidence in the voice, a kind of playfulness that felt completely in sync with Urmila Matondkar on screen (although I was not allowed to watch the song as a kid). And just when I thought I had a handle on it, Rangeela Re took things up a notch.
And to even think that this voice belonged to someone in her sixties! I became an instant fan of Asha Bhosle.
I’d heard Rahman’s work before in Roja and Bombay, but Rangeela felt like something else entirely. This was him stepping into mainstream Bollywood and redefining the soundscape. The sound was fresh, textured, unpredictable. And at the heart of it was Asha Bhosle.
Looking back, it feels almost improbable. Just a year earlier, she had turned 60 and lost R. D. Burman, her closest creative collaborator, and husband. Many would have slowed down, taken a step back. Instead, she came roaring back with songs that were bold, youthful, and impossible to ignore.
Rahman unleashed a side of Asha Bhosle that not many composers could. R.D. Burman was the notable exception. That instinct for rhythm, that willingness to experiment, that refusal to be boxed in — their collaborations after Rangeela only cemented it.
After Rangeela came Daud (1997) and Taal (1998). When she sang Kahin Aag Lage, we all could feel the pang of heartbreak. Picturised on Aishwarya Rai, the song worked because Asha elevated it. O Bhanvre, her duet with K. J. Yesudas, showed a softer side to her vocals, while adding drama and attitude into a song. In Thakshak (1999), Mujhe Rang De had a different texture altogether. It was boisterous and haunting.
The collaboration continued into the early 2000s. In Lagaan (2001), Radha Kaise Na Jale, her duet with Udit Narayan, showed that her voice had a playful spark. Then there were tracks like Mera Dil Ka Woh Shehshada (Kabhi Na Kabhi) and Chori Pe Chori (Saathiya), each showing the versatility of Asha’s voice.
And one underrated song from the composer-singer duo, also one of my favourites, is Offho Jalta Hai, Asha’s duet with Sonu Nigam from Lakeer (2004). That a 70-year-old veteran can still ooze sensuality with her voice, is unthinkable until you hit play.
Today, as we celebrate the legacy of Asha Bhosle, her discography would be incomplete if we did not acknowledge how Rahman reinvented Asha after the demise of R.D. Burman.