Asha Bhosle did not belong to just one generation; she shaped many. Everyone carries a memory of her, a song that means something deeply personal. Her music evolved with time, yet remained constant across lives, ages, and emotions. The legendary singer passed away at 92, leaving a void.
Filmfare’s Editor-in-Chief Jitesh Pillaai looks back on the moment his connection with Bhosle first took root. In this deeply personal piece, he reflects on her candour, her presence, and the woman behind the voice the world came to revere.
In Jitesh Pillaai’s words:
I don’t know the exact moment when the connection was made. When Asha Bhosle became my first abiding love. Could have been the time I was a baby when I saw the first ever TV programme of hers. Yeh Hai Asha had me hooked. Or maybe it was that one rainy evening in Prabhu Kunj when she read pages from her autobiography, which is yet to be published. She’s so honest, so candid, I fear for her. And this is the same candour I look for in other showbiz people. Just no one like her.
Her sharp memory took my breath away, she will remember the colour of the saree she wore or the retakes the music director made her do just to spite her. She was also quick to remember the sometimes three to five recordings she would knock back in just a day.
Distance gives a writer objectivity. It also gives him a certain clinical coldness to assess his subject. With her, I could never ever do it. I may not meet her for months on end, but when I meet her, it’s as reassuring as her bear hugs. Arre hota kuthes? Aai nako tula? (Where were you? You’ve forgotten your mum). She will gently chide in Marathi. To know her is not to judge her. To know her is to surrender to her affections. As easily as you surrender to Roz roz ankhon tale (Jeeva).
To know the real Asha Bhosle is as simple as it is complex. Simple because what you see is what you get. There is no dissembling. No masks. As crystal clear as her voice in Yehi woh jagah hai (Yeh Raat Phir Naa Aayegi) and as real as Mera kuch samaan (Ijaazat).
Complex, I say, because it’s a lived-in voice. She has seen birth. She has lived death. At close quarters. So when she sings, you can see the eddies and currents churning in her voice. And that’s why the poignance of Ambar ki ek pak surahi (Kadambari) or Yeh kya jagah hai doston (Umrao Jaan) is so tactile. You can touch it. The lament in her voice could be a regret for a hasty marriage to a much older man or regret that she let her heart rule her head once too often.
Asha Bhosle’s voice belongs as much to Dada Burman’s Oh panchhi pyaare and Ab ke baras bhejo in Bandini as much as it did to the beauty Ek hans ka joda in Lajwanti. Asha’s voice found her metier in OP Nayyar’s Akeli hoon main (Sambandh) as much as it did in Jaidev’s Abhi na jaao (Hum Dono). Asha’s feisty spirit and her robust vocals can never be the suzerainty of any one person. If they gave her flight, she soared with her voice to the skies. Asha’s voice belongs as much to LP’s Man kyun behka (Utsav) as much as it belongs to Kalyanji Anandji’s Husn ke lakhon rang (Johny Mera Naam) as much as it belongs to Bappi Lahiri’s Raat baaki (Namak Halal) and AR Rahman’s Tanha Tanha (Rangeela).
The answer is the voice. It emerges from her throat, melds with the musician’s beat, makes its way into your memory files and stays there forever. There is also identity. You’ve heard it before, and so you recognise it. As a child, as a teenager, as an adult, as a senior citizen. You’ve heard it in a lullaby, in a ghazal, in a disco song. It’s unmistakable, it’s her.
In real life, she camouflaged grief through sporadic bouts of anger or absolute silence. And when she spoke, it was not from the heart. It’s from the gut. It’s a voice that has travelled through more than seven decades of music; she has outlived the questions, the awards and the naysayers. She had outlived redundancy. Just two months ago, I lost my dad. Now it’s you. Thank you for everything. Goodbye, Aai, till we meet again.
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