Inn ‘Burse Ghan Sari Raat’Kumar Shahani beautifully performed a heartwarming song by Lata Mangeshkar for depression. Wave (1984), a woman (Kaval Gandhiok) walks to her destiny in a real desert. As if stepping into unknown infinity, she was lost in a trance with a strange lassitude in her eyes. Her legs wander by themselves, as if time were moving her forward. Her only release is a deep sleep, from which she may never want to wake up. The lyrics of the song written by poet Raghuveer Sahai are as follows. “Ghir aaya andhiyara darpan mein, neend aaye antim siski.” A trope from a South Asian horror musical – in a white sari – sung by Nightingale, featuring spectacularly moving diaphonic scenes in desolate palaces. But when I think of Latha and her irreversible death, that song, sometimes an obscure number, suddenly comes to mind.
As with every one of her songs, it has a story. Parallel cinema, in its artistic restraint, often omitted musical numbers preferred by a mainstream industry in which Latha was a mainstream. It was her only song with the late composer Vanraj Bhatia. In her book, Harish Bhimani writes that as the host of many of her concerts, the legendary singer is rarely satisfied with her own performances and has distanced herself from the misty recordings of dust and separation. For ‘Burse Ghan Sari Raat’, Bhatia and Shahani were overjoyed and she listened to the mix. Despite the litany of chartbusters to her name, this was proof that Latha enjoyed a rare craft gem. In this case, two of them were Bhatia’s ambitious works Tunes (Bhimpalasi and Mand Jogia) twisted each other. It’s a stretch, but it does not look back. .
In previous articles, I had written about how Lata elevated the kitchen-sink music of the Bombay film to a fine art, even though film lovers were mesmerized by the combination created by the women on the silver screen in Lata’s spontaneous background. It was a ‘dual personality’ operating in a combination of hidden body and voice.
The meta-narrative of the backing vocals means that Lata’s vocals carried the luggage of the archives beyond her leading female personalities.
These women were unarmed and seductive, some had gigantic buffaloes to climb into the reed-thin waist, while others, wearing nine-yard saris, prayed in makeshift temples, ringing bells, and Lata’s voice constantly pounding on the high registers. Each emotion needed enough time. It was a myth set by the stereotypes of femininity, which for generations was hard to escape, but their eternal softness could not be denied, as evidenced by the billions of views accumulated in the streaming. Platforms, perhaps, owe more to their songs than performances lost in the fog of time. Latha (and other playback singers) continues to be a big part of that tradition.
Although they rarely appear on screen, Latha’s personality and the dilemmas it represents are occasionally represented in the film. It was blessed with a rare majesty and irresistibility of V Shantaram Teen Butty Char Rusta (1953), where the actress was portrayed as a creeper full of saris, pigtails, expressions and manners, her hard work, her early passion for mimicry and her pan-national attraction (there were daughters in the central family. Law from several Indian states). Sure, she sang like a dreamer, but the narrator lived in the reductive trope of a plain Jain, imagining a pale-faced Raja Ravi Varma girl, a leading man who had never heard her sing alone. Then of course he recognizes her as a woman with conviction and ‘inner beauty’. This was also taken over by Raj Kapoor Satyam Shiva is beautifulA film he planned in the 1950s starring Lata himself. She was finally released in 1978 with Lata’s supportive Zeenat Aman. The film was a misguided adventure of contradictions and paradoxes, but Mangeshkar added another insult to the myth, with the primitive religious sense and impeccable innocence unjustly attached to her voice.
By Hrishikesh Mukherjee Abhiman (1973), to faithfully capture the physiognomy of a playback singer, Jaya Bachchan attended their recording sessions to observe the subtleties of Lata’s rule. This anchored the immaculate moral balance of her character, and Lata’s voice accompanied her on her lonely journey of self-realization. Given how soloist female singers have dominated much of the melodic landscape of twentieth-century Indian cinema, Latha has appeared at every opportunity to give us a remarkable awareness of the inner world of women, which is embedded by paragons but resonates with the inner world for generations. With the real-life experiences of the true word of men and women. But by then Sai Paranjpe had become a sensationalist Sauce (1998), the impeccable Mangeshkar personality may have passed its sales date, which is why Aruna Irani was able to act as a clay-footed goddess based on her.
It was the double-edged sword that followed her throughout her career. As the Mangeshwars gradually embraced the so-called monopoly concept, the women who succeeded at its center (Lata and her sister Asha Bhosle) were permanently held accountable.
Lata’s voice was not what they called a valuable musical instrument, or the producers (many of them great actors) about cash registers, or the real monopoly music companies, or even one-eyed actresses. The descendants were the ones who wrote in the contracts that only Latha should sing for themselves. Perhaps the industry would have benefited from the Latha-free areas – 1940s singers, Dada Burman’s Innings Sans Latha, OP Nayyar’s music, Satyajit Ray’s music, or Asha Hitting, who gave Geeta Dutt her best numbers. In the 1970s, he was convicted of singing only for Helen. Likewise, if Lata had been freed from orthodoxy and allowed to embody her true skill, we might have benefited when she attempts a lower octave, singing in a gentle leap or a rare coquettish vein.
In recent years, the otherwise ubiquitous Latha has been appearing in the bastions of popular culture in a way that has never been imagined, and has touched everyone from the melodic to the musically challenged. There are influencers who have become bathroom singers, who turn her soccer-sweet talk into mockery-perfection and use deep fake reels on social media to be vocal in everything from fashion to politics. There are British ‘reaction artists’ who can instantly identify Lata (after countless hearings) from the ranks of Indian women playback singers, as well as American women who sing (mostly crying).Log Ja Gole ‘. Although Lata’s song is often used in movies filmed at other times to evoke the taste of the times, the run-of-the-mill television (or OTT) series these days regularly buys the music rights to Lata’s songs, which may enhance the content of their content.
While traveling on dangerous roads in Uttarkashi recently and changing many transport buses and jeeps, this writer was amazed at how many times drivers sang Lata songs in the 1980s, when Hindi music was highly ‘overproduced’. This was the circuit on which the T-series cassettes once tried to eliminate the singer by trampling on the market with cheap covers by Anuradha Poudhwal (it was just a caption in the history of music). It went on to show that there are people in every incarnation of Lata who have been adopting Lata for decades and decades. Another personal memory from yesterday. At an alternative music venue in Mumbai, rifled through the dusty old vinyl of western music genres ranging from country to pop to heavy metal, suddenly an L.P. Chala Vahi DesMeera Bhajans Latha recorded the album in 1974 with her brother Hridayanath, which is still worth the gold. These casual ‘views’ of Lata, at least for this writer, give some insight into that great country we belong to. They uproot us in our shared cultures and histories, and perhaps the most fortunate thing is that we will never lose the fading traces of the creep that remain between us.