The perfect pitch of Lata Mangeshkar

There is a whole world dwelling in Lata Mangeshkar’s voice. Ask Hindustani vocalist Shubha Mudgal, and she will tell you that it is just not chaste or child-like, as some would argue, but can be spicy or poignant. Mudgal would know — her mastery as a musician may be grounded in thumri and khayal, but she uses Hindustani music as the bedrock for many elegant fusion tracks, proving her talent to be an expansive one. In a conversation with BL ink , she talks about the doyenne of Hindi playback singing, as well as a host of other topics such as the noises of a city, and the idea that artistes ought to be “apolitical”. Excerpts:

Hindustani artists often cite Lata Mangeshkar’s voice as the most technically brilliant one among playback singers. What, according to you, makes it so?

Her accuracy of pitching at all times, whether holding a note or negotiating difficult passages that demand the agility of an acrobatic voice remains unmatched and exemplary. Even the most celebrated singers are prone to slipping up at times, or hitting a slightly inaccurate note, but not Lata-ji. But not only is the voice perfectly pitched, it is also expressive and steeped in musicality.

What’s the first Lata song you remember enjoying on the radio as a child? And what’s the last Lata song that you heard/saw on the TV or in a film and thought — “that’s a masterpiece”?

I’m afraid I can’t remember accurately the very first song by her that I thought was a masterpiece. But an all-time favourite with me is Kaise din beete kaise beeti ratiyaan composed by Pandit Ravi Shankar-ji for the 1960 film Anuradha . The beauty of her wistful ‘Hai’ sung in a cascade before the first line of the song is absolutely delicious and I do not tire of hearing it.

In the hall of fame: The song Kaise din beete kaise beeti ratiyaan from the film Anuradha was picturised on actors Leela Naidu and Balraj Sahni

I think it is also necessary to consider Lata-ji’s non-film tracks, and one to which I was introduced relatively recently is a Marathi abhang (a form of devotional poetry), Aga Karunakara , composed by the late Shrinivas Khale for an album titled Abhang Tukyache . A difficult composition sung effortlessly by Lata ji, it is the feeling of samarpan or surrender that she brings to the rendition that moves me immensely.

In an interview earlier this year, you were asked about Lata’s voice representing a certain kind of socially approved femininity (chaste, often child-like), and whether this was one of the reasons for her legendary status. Why do you think this perception is still very strong? Which Lata songs counter this notion most obviously?

Thaade rahiyo in Pakeezah , modelled on the thumri genre, Doongi tainu reshmi rumaal in Prem Pujari with its coquettish spiciness, Chadh gayo papi bichhua in Madhumati , Roz akeli aaye in Mere Apne with its poignancy, are some of Lata-ji’s songs that counter this notion.

Given the fact that Lata-ji has, over decades, successfully provided playback for a large number of actors playing a variety of roles and essaying different characters of different ages, this hypothesis of hers being a one-tone-fits-all-actors voice is most unjustified. Lata-ji started her career in films at a remarkably young age when she was barely 13. No surprises then if she sounded girlish at that age. But what one must also remember when discussing Lata-ji is that hers is a voice that did not age while she remained active and prolific in the music industry. It remained remarkably youthful, agile and able to negotiate different styles.

There are other examples of women singers whose voices did not age as obviously as most other voices do. But with Lata-ji, one is also reminded of the fact that she sang to the music director’s baton. Therefore, if at all her voice was used in a similar fashion, the burden of that charge must be borne by the composers who created the songs and under whose direction she sang. They could easily have created songs that used her incredible range in different ways.

In several interviews, Lata herself laments the sidelining of classical music in Bollywood. But was there ever really a space for classical music per se or was it simply a case of composers not necessarily being exposed to globally popular styles (post the ’70s, all of that changed, of course)?

I think many of the music directors in the early years of film music up until a few decades ago were themselves trained in Hindustani music and therefore it is not surprising for their work to be influenced by classical music. Great exponents of classical music — such as Ustad Vilayat Khan sahab, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan sahab, Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Alla Rakha Khan — also composed occasionally for films. Some of the films for which they composed also demanded the specific use of Hindustani music, for example, Satyajit Ray’s Jalsaghar , which featured Begum Akhtar in concert. Currently, music directors are more adept at non-Indian forms of music and technology-driven music production. The scripts they compose for do not demand the use of classical music and, therefore, there is no space for classical music in contemporary film music but for the odd exception.

To move on to another subject, in December 2017 you were one of the curators at the Serendipity Arts Festival, and you collaborated on an installation about the sounds of Delhi. Could you tell us a bit more about it?

The idea for ‘Sonic City’ came to me from the many sounds I hear simultaneously at my home in Paharganj in New Delhi. At any given moment, as in any other city or town, a large number of sounds can be heard overlapping each other in a chaotic but fascinating aural collage. I could be at home doing riyaz , and suddenly raunchy songs being played at a neighbourhood wedding sangeet will drown out my voice; a siren from a speeding ambulance will tear through the layers of sound; expletives from a street fight will add yet another layer of sound and so on. ‘Sonic City’ also created a similar collage in collaboration with several artistes.

Master scenographer Sumant Jayakrishnan designed and created the installation, Srijan Mahajan and Raghav Pasricha provided the photographs of Delhi scenes, audio engineer Nitin Joshi recorded street sounds and on-location sounds for the installation. Himanshu Bablani from Konspire was the technology expert for the project. I also obtained licences for using music by Delhi-based musicians, creating different kinds of music ranging from khayal to qawwali to rock and roll, indie and so on. As viewers walked into the installation, they saw a row of photographs to which specific sound samples had been assigned with sensors triggering them on. They therefore got a multisensory experience. In a central dome, the samples were layered to create a cacophonous mix of the kind we often encounter in any Indian city.

One of the issues with mainstream pop culture that’s now being called out frequently is cultural appropriation (in Bollywood’s case, of folk tunes). Were you ever offered a song or asked to collaborate on a project that seemed very obviously “inspired” or otherwise insensitive?

On several occasions I have been asked to collaborate on projects that feed on previously existing classical compositions in a raga or folk songs. In many instances the producers or initiators of the project do not have any information on the source of the bandish or folk song. It is conveniently labelled ‘traditional’ and it is assumed that therefore it can be used, adapted, modified in any way. This may be the result of sheer ignorance, or apathy towards the issue, or even cause for positioning themselves as revivalists of a supposedly lost traditional repertoire that’s being rejuvenated by their efforts. While they may have taken these positions without any ill-intention on their part, this is a problem, particularly with repertoires that belong to specific communities.

A promoter and curator of Indian music events for overseas festivals once told me he was asked to pay licence fees for tracks such as Nimbuda Nimbuda that were being performed by Langa Manganiyar musicians in an overseas concert. How ironic is that? To be forced to pay a fee to sing songs owned by their own communities because in the music market they have been registered as the property of a record label or music director for a film? Issues such as these require rigorous debate and discussions with all stakeholders if a satisfactory solution is to be found.

Sadly, I am not aware of any attempts to find any solutions.

A phenomenon that’s getting normalised today is the idea that artistes ought to be “apolitical”, that there is some inherent virtue to that categorisation. How do we reset the terms of this conversation?

Simply by making art that carries the strain of one’s political conviction and ideology. If you abhor violence, sing songs that say so. If you do not believe in war, write poetry that states your viewpoint. This is the only tool artistes have and must use as directed by their beliefs and artistic urges.

But, more importantly, being political does not necessarily have to mean an active involvement in national politics. What about being political and expressing political opinion or taking a stand in your own chosen sphere, namely creative arts? If an artiste is against exploitation, should he/she not protest exploitation in their own area of specialisation? In the area of Hindustani classical music, I do not see musicians, barring a few exceptions, taking a stand on matters of great significance for their own fraternity. Many are self-proclaimed patriots and chowkidars for the nation, but have no time for chowkidari or thinking of the welfare of fellow artistes.

Slowness — philosophical, artistic — suffers in an age of techno-capitalism, as has been well-documented. What does this mean for the future of forms such as theatre or Hindustani music that use — and sometimes emphasise — slowness?

I can only speak about my experience as a student, performer and avid listener of Hindustani music and, to some extent, popular music. I cannot say that these forms are evolving because that term carries positive connotations of progress, improvement, nuancing and subtlety. Adaptation, on the other hand, has been attempted by successive generations of musicians. For example, the musicians of yesteryear adapted to the demands of recording technology, compressing the duration of their leisurely raagdari renditions to fit the 78 RPM format of 3-5 minutes.

I know that performers of Hindustani music are grappling with the idea of making it more accessible to larger audiences and, in the process, trying strategies that they believe will work wonders. In the process the profound gravitas of the system may be dented and mutilated, but would any change be at all possible if some deviations, experiments, however trite, were to be rejected outright?

Aditya Mani Jha is a freelance writer based in Delhi

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