How would it feel to be called ‘the other Lata’? Queen of melody and Padma Bhushan Suman Kalyanpur (January 28, 1937 to May 31, 2026) would have known the answer.
Suman was born the same year as Lata Mangeshkar’s youngest sibling, music director Hridaynath. Professionally, Lata was already at the top of her game when Suman took her baby steps in the industry. Many soon noticed their tonal similarities. Film producers who couldn’t afford Lata’s fees or get her dates often hired Suman for the film songs.
To be compared to Lata is a huge compliment, but Suman was not an almost-Lata or a budget-friendly Lata. If Lata was the diamond, Suman was the pearl. Those delicate high notes, those soft expressions, that unmistakable sweetness belonged to Suman alone.
Sharabi sharabi yeh sawan ka mausam, composed by Roshan for the 1967 historical film Noor Jehan directed by M. Sadiq, starring Meena Kumari and Pradeep Kumar, offered music to the ears. Inspired by the ragas Gaud Malhar and Kamod, Roshan’s composition and Shakeel Badayuni’s words lend a languid blush to the monsoon that seems tailormade for Suman’s voice.
Sharabi sharabi yeh sawan ka mausam/ Khuda ki kasam khoobsurat na hota/ Agar iss mein rang-e-mohabbat na hota.
Simply put, love makes the rains intoxicating. And when Suman tells us so, we believe it. Look at the clarity with which she pronounces “yeh pur-noor manzar”, while infusing the words with the radiance they deserve, how she caresses the word “gulaabi” while singing “gulaabi gulaabi yeh phulon ke chehre”.
Remembering Suman isn’t possible without referencing Lata. Lata, who lost her father Pandit Deenanath Mangeshkar, at just 13, quickly had to step up and become the large family’s breadwinner.
Suman had a sheltered, upper middle-class upbringing, but her parents were progressive enough to encourage her talent in music and painting. After the Hemmadys settled in Mumbai (then Bombay) in the 1940s, Suman studied in the prestigious St Columba Girls High School and enrolled in the Sir J.J. School of Art in the early 1950s to pursue painting. As fate would have it, she developed an allergy to turpentine oil.
Suman switched gears to music. It helped that after her 1958 marriage to businessman Ramanand Kalyanpur, she found a fan who accompanied her to recording sessions and handled her money.
The decided differences in their lives may have shaped their careers. Lata had a commanding personality and fought for visibility and royalty rights for playback singers. In contrast, Suman was retiring, shy. And yet there were many similarities. Both Lata and Suman were Marathi singers, classically trained, with fluid, soprano voices and impeccable Hindi-Urdu diction. They were both born for playback.
That’s why Suman’s rendition was mistaken for Lata’s so many times, especially in the Rafi-Suman duets. In the early 1960s, Md Rafi did not want to fight for royalties, but Lata wanted him to stand with her. The resultant ‘cold war’ between the two playback superstars put a halt to their singing together for some years.
Music directors who planned Rafi-Lata duets would have despaired had it not been for Suman. From the breezy Aaj kal tere mere pyaar ke charche and Na na karte pyar to the toe-curling romantic Thehriye hosh mein aa loon, the Rafi-Suman pairing touched all the right notes.
Suman glows in the too-few solos she got in her career, bringing a rare delicacy in the precision of sur. How many know that Suman sang the female version of Hemant Kumar’s Na tum hamein jano, and not Lata? Once you explore Suman’s oeuvre, including her Marathi and Bengali songs, you’ll be amazed at her sweetness and clarity.
They say there’s room for only one at the top. Lata was undeniably at the top. Suman lived in Lata’s shadow, receiving fewer songs and much less recognition than her artistry deserved. But when you hear her songs, you don’t think of Lata or anyone else, only Suman. Even Lata would agree.