Listen to Aayega aanewaala: its freshness never abates; to listen to it, even today, is to feel present at the birth of something new, the beginning of a journey. The beginning of

Indian film music as we have come to know and love it. If Lata had given us nothing more, that would be enough. 

Today when the wider soundscape of India is as chaotically rich as that of any Western nation, with experimental music, indie-rock shows soaked in hipster attitudes, pop idols cavorting on HD monitors in malls and innumerable winners emerging from ceaseless reality singing competitions, a demure woman in a white sari still manages to capture the attention of the nation every time she sings or even speaks. She connects us to much that we hold dear in our musical tradition with a humility that is as remarkable as the genius from which it springs. 

It is easy to get hyperbolic when talking about Lata but words can so easily fail to adequately describe what Lata has meant to the world of Indian music and to the generations of Indians who have grown up listening to her divine voice. Her achievements are so gargantuan that even if she had stopped singing after the first 15 years of her career, Indian music would still be in her debt.

Easiness of expression is untrendy these days in our brave new 21st-century world. In our respect for difficulty we equate fluency with superficiality. Lata’s artistic genius lies in her making singing seem so effortless. The most difficult of ragas, the highest of scales — Lata manages both with serenity. And yet she is often criticised for not being versatile enough — unlike her sister, Asha Bhonsle. It’s the critics, however, who seem out of touch with her repertoire — Aa ja Jaane Ja, one of the finest of cabaret numbers; Woh Ik Nigah Kya Mili where she sings like a soprano; Mere Naina Sawan Bhadon where she sings at a scale otherwise used only for male voices; Aye Dilruba where she sings an Arabic tune flawlessly in high octave; innumerable songs that she sang for C. Ramachandran and Salil Chaudhury in the Western idiom. If this is not versatility, then the word is devoid of any meaning. 

The songs sung by Lata become Lata songs — her genius is overpowering enough to take credit away from the music director. It’s often said that Lata monopolised Hindi film music and did not allow others to grow under her shadow. But, actually, the music composers monopolised her, reserving their best compositions for her. Her talent challenged them to push their own artistic boundaries.

Lata has enjoyed the love and respect of her countrymen and women like no other artist in the last six decades. But what she hasn’t been duly recognised for is her contribution as a crusader for the rights of playback singers. She is where is she is today because she fought, and fought hard, to get on top. She demanded power from an industry that had no wish to give it up. She single-handedly took on the male-dominated Hindi film music establishment on a range of issues — from insisting that records should carry the names of those singing, to forcing the Filmfare Awards to recognise the contribution of playback singers, to fighting for the singer’s right to royalties. Today’s playback singers owe their entire status in the film industry to Lata who in her numerous battles fought with the high and the mighty — Raj Kapoor, S.D. Burman, Shankar-Jaikishan. It took guts to wage these battles and Lata could not have persevered had she not possessed supreme confidence in her abilities as an artist and the rightness of her cause. She has championed the cause of women in her industry; she stood so tall, above all others, even giants like Rafi and Kishore Kumar. Nowhere else has a woman so dominated an industry as Lata has with the sheer power of her artistic achievement. 

Indians cannot hope for a better artist to represent their times. Celebrate Lata and her music for it’s also a celebration of India at its best.

The writer teaches at King’s College, London express@expressindia.com