I first saw Asha Bhosle on my very first visit to Bombay, in 1958. I was a participant at the Metro Murphy singing contest, judged by stalwarts such as Madan Mohan, Vasant Desai, C. Ramachandra and Anil Biswas.
I was in my early teens and fell asleep after my performance. Around 2am, the organisers woke me with two pieces of news — I had won, and Ashaji was about to take the stage.
She looked radiant in a simple white sari, with pearl earrings. The song she performed with a full orchestra was Eena Meena Deeka, composed by C. Ramachandra, whose guest she was that evening.
The audience clamoured for “encore, encore” until she sang it thrice. I was spellbound. When we were introduced, I touched her feet; she cupped my cheek and said: “Dekhna, hum phir zaroor milenge.”
Our paths crossed often thereafter — at recordings with R.D. Burman and at Lata Mangeshkar’s apartment on Peddar Road, where the sisters lived on different floors.
Lataji was gentle and affectionate. Once, after I cut my hair short, she teased me: “Kisi ne bola hoga achchhi lagti ho.”
Ashaji, in contrast, was exuberant and full of life. She would urge me to experiment — even with saris. “Ab nahin pehni toh umar chali jayegi,” she would laugh. They treated me like a much younger sister.
The Mangeshkars were involved in theatre in Kolhapur as their father Deenanath Mangeshkar was a dominant personality in Marathi theatre. While Lataji began building her playback career in Bombay at a very young age after their father’s death, Ashaji sang a lot for theatre.
Arati Mukherjee Sourced by The Telegraph
She rose to prominence in the film industry with the compositions of O.P. Nayyar — songs like Aaiye Meherbaan (Howrah Bridge), Isharon Isharon Mein Dil Lenewale (Kashmir Ki Kali) and Kajra Mohabbatwala (Kismat), steeped in a Punjabi folk idiom. Later, her collaborations with R.D. Burman revealed an astonishing versatility — from Western-inflected numbers to classical compositions.
What I admire deeply is how she fashioned herself into a consummate professional in a fiercely competitive industry while raising a young family. The rehearsals often stretched through the day. Having faced similar pressures myself, it brings tears to my eyes to think of the hardships she went through to balance both sides and I cannot bear to hear any ill spoken of her.
My favourite songs of hers include Chura Liya Hai (Yaadon Ki Baaraat) and Isharon Isharon Mein. The latter is no simple ghazal — it carries remarkable dramatic nuance. The Bengali song Chokhe Chokhe Katha Bolo, set to Raga Todi, displays such smart singing. To truly appreciate the artistry of the two sisters, one must listen with a trained ear.
Ashaji and I recorded several songs together. One of my earliest assignments, soon after I won the contest in 1958, Dukhiyon Pe Kuchh Rehem Karo, was for the film Talaq, starring Rajendra Kumar. It was Ashaji who explained what divorce meant. When I looked puzzled, she gently said: “Aisa hota hai.”
Both sisters guided me during recordings. While doing playback for a child’s role in Majhli Didi, starring Dharmendra and Meena Kumari, I was coached by Lataji at the request of composer Hemantada (Mukhopadhyay). “Pehle chalo practice kar lete hain, phir gayenge,” she said, encouragingly.
Another memorable collaboration was Jaate Ho Jaane Jana, composed by Laxmikant-Pyarelal. I sang for Shabana Azmi while Ashaji lent her voice to Neetu Singh, alongside Amit Kumar and Shailendra Singh for Amitabh Bachchan and Vinod Khanna.
Lataji was originally meant to join Ashaji but had to leave for Kolhapur; both sisters recommended my name instead. When Laxmikant called, he joked: “Dono behne aap ke upar fida hain. Aapne unko kuchh khilaya kya?”
I learnt as much by observing as by singing — sitting in on their recordings, as well as those of Kishore Kumar, watching how they modulated their voices. Ashaji listened widely to Western music and urged me to do the same; she and R.D. Burman introduced me to voices like Harry Belafonte and Nat King Cole. It taught me that singing well is not enough — one must cultivate an ear for all kinds of music.
There were lighter memories, too. When I visited Panchamda’s home, Ashaji would insist on cooking — often fish in her distinctive Marathi style, rich with spices and curry leaves. On Saraswati Puja, she would ask how much ghee I wanted in my khichdi.
Panchamda used to get upset that I left for Calcutta so frequently. But I had calls coming from both cities and did not want to miss out on the Bengali films. Ashaji too would gently caution me.
“Dekho, tum Kalkatta chali jaati ho toh yahan kaam chhut jata hai. Phir bulayenge nahin koi,” she once told me.
Even today, I listen to Lataji and Ashaji often. They are not merely singers; they are institutions of playback music. With Ashaji passing away, it seems a part of my life has suddenly ceased. There is no one left now from that generation I looked up to — my musical forbears.
(As told to Sudeshna
Banerjee)