Letting Lata go – a tribute

The tug of film and classical music is an old one in the subcontinent. One represents excitement, the other exactitude. There’s popularity in one, propriety in another. It’s a conundrum that could break the best of singers, and it often has.  “If you want to earn money, raise a family,” warns a voice in Chaitanya Tamhane’s The Disciple, “then perform love songs or film songs.” That’s how sharply, lest we forget, the lines are drawn.

Lata Mangeshkar sang love songs, film songs, and she earned a bit of money. Yet look at the reverence pouring out – all those tears and tributes – and a greater picture emerges. In life, Lata, who trained under her classical vocalist father, didn’t so much break from tradition as recast it anew. Her most defining traits – composure, simplicity, grace – are consistent with her musical roots. Yet she also ran wild with the times, improvised where she had to, retreated where she couldn’t. She adapted to film totally, spiritually — and that’s no mean feat. If the pronouncement in The Disciple sounds dismissive today, how much more would it have stung in 1943?

It’s staggering how deeply Lata’s voice is connected to our lives. The melodies, the lullabies – they’re passed on, heirloom-like, through time. Technology plays a part. As I write this, strains of 'Tum Agaye Ho' and 'Aaja Piya Tohe Pyar Du' waft in from the other room. It’s been played on Spotify on a mobile phone – there’s compression involved, and a hint of crackle. It’s not how I remember first hearing these songs, on a Sharp TV set in the late 90s. My parents, who grew up in the 60s and 70s, with the radio transistor, have a different story.

It’s a time of mourning; flags stand at half-mast. Social media is flooded with pictures. “Feb 6 is a dark day,” declares Hema Malini, luminous star of some of Lata’s brightest songs. A pandemic-stricken country joins in grief. The singer, for her part, goes in characteristic quiet. Consolation? Parting words? Find it in the songs.