Many years ago, when I started listening to Marathi music, I came into the possession of an album of bhavgeet by Asha Bhosle sung under the baton of her brother Hridayanath Mangeshkar, a composer who often gets shortchanged when judged on the basis of his Hindi output, but who has done far brilliant-er work in Marathi.

The CD, titled Aawaz Chandanyache, is a must-have for anyone who likes Marathi music, be it a beginner feet-wetter or a connoisseur. Hridayanath, who is renowned for his complex and intricate compositions, is also known for reserving his best for his sisters. This album is no different. Be it the incredible raaga Puriya Dhanashri composition jivalagaa raahile re duur ghar maazhe, the sensual tarun aahe raatra ajunhi, or the delicate and nuanced kevhaa tarii pahaate, every song makes one marvel at the singer’s ability to traverse the complex notes with such remarkable ease and grace. There should be a law against it somewhere, methinks.

But the song from the album that makes all this babble relevant is one called kaajal raatina odhuun nela. The melody of this will be familiar to Hindi film music listeners as the Lata Mangeshkar sung khudse baatein karte rehna from the Ketan Mehta directed and Hridayanath composed Maya Memsaab (1992). The low and high notes and chord changes in this gorgeous roller-coaster number make it a joy to hear and a challenge to sing. The song is from a Marathi movie called Ha Khel Savlyancha (1976). I have no idea what the movie is about, but its intriguing name stayed with me, skulking around in the backbenches of my mind. And today, on seeing this picture, it ran up to the front of the class to the teacher handing out chocolates, waved its hand excitedly and said — Me! Me! Pick me! And so here we are.

Coming to the picture — every once in a while, the evening sun reflects off a neighbor’s porch door, streams in through my kitchen window, gets partially blocked by a wall and finally casts a spot of light on my living room’s vertical blinds, illuminating the leaves of my ficus plant. It takes a very specific set of conditions for this to occur, and when it happens, it lasts for just a minute. But while it does, it is an incredibly beautiful and moody sight to watch. The orange glow of the sun contrasting with the blue-ish light slipping through the chinks in the blinds. The fascinating play of the many hues of light. And more so, the play of shadows. Ha khel savlyancha.

A digression here — The debate about which of Lata-bai or Asha-bai truly deserves to be called the queen of Hindi film music is always a tough one to resolve. It is difficult to take sides, unless you are an RDB fan, in which case Asha rules. Lata is no doubt, an exceptional singer and has rendered masterpieces like none other. But in terms of sheer consistency, versatility and a willingness to experiment, especially in her work with Pancham, Asha rules. Then again Asha and Pancham had, in my opinion, a symbiotic relationship, creatively speaking. They each pushed the other to new heights. An implicit understanding of the other’s art, perhaps helped by the personal relationship they shared, leading to output that few other music director-singer combinations can match.

Then again, preference for one over the other, is beyond logic and debate. As Pancham diplomatically put it once — If Lata is like Don Bradman, Asha is like Gary Sobers. Or like when, at the end of a exhausting discussion with a friend, complete with examples and counter-examples, I was asked to sum up, in one sentence, why I preferred Asha over Lata, and I replied — Lata may be Lata, but Asha is *Asha*. Okay, not exactly an argument that would hold up in a court of law, but that is finally what it comes down to. A gut feeling. That and Lata’s annoying giggle. Yep, those are pretty much the only things that matter.

Another thing that amazes me about Asha, the performer, is her incredible energy on stage. The way she’s all chirpy-chirpy and wheeeee! all the time. And her wonderful sense of humor. At the start of the show, she stated rather matter-of-factly that she doesn’t know English, but since half the audience was non-Indian, she was gonna speak English anyway. And then added, with a cheeky grin — the doors are locked, so you can’t really do anything about it. Heh!

She also said a few words about how it is ‘eeshwar kii ichha aur aapkaa pyaar’ (God’s will and your love) that I am able to continue singing at this age. So please excuse any mistakes I make. Just then, an unhappy child went waaaaaaaa in the audience. (Side rant: People who bring wailing two-year olds to music concerts, assume that the audience will find the wailing adorable, and stay happily glued to their seats, while the kid howls away. Bah.) Asha-bai sweetly said — If I can listen to your kid cry, you can also listen to my mistakes, na? One could see the blur of a red-faced parent as he promptly darted out, howling kid in tow. Sweet.

Her discomfort with English (which I sometimes think could be an act) did not prevent her from subjecting Dave Harrington of the ‘Quartet to snark. She narrated a tale of how, when she initially met Dave, it was tough to explain to him, what the song meraa kuchh saamaan tumhaare paas padaa hai from Ijaazat (1987) meant. Saamaan? What’s that, Dave asked. Oh, luggage, she replied. They have poetic songs about luggage, in Bollywood?, he asked incredulously. Uff, ab main inko kya samjhaaon, she said, and proceeded to tell us — It is a song in which a girl, after breaking up with the guy she loves, tells him to return all the things that belonged to her. Her feelings, her memories, the moments shared with him — anything that is hers, she wants it back. At this point in the tale, she turned to Zakir saying — Zakir, you speak English well .. how do you explain the meaning of this song? Zakir promptly replied — Oh that’s simple .. Alimony! Heh heh. Gulzar would have been proud.

And then, there was the little joke that was gleefully tossed out by her on stage. Made us proud, it did. But before we tell you what it is, we have to show you a picture. Here it is, to the right. Guess who it be? Yep! It is Mousie Singh! So here’s the background —

There was a Sardarji wedding in town. But this wasn’t any ordinary wedding. This was one of Sardarji tigers. Punjab da sher and all that. So a bunch of tigers were dancing in the baraat and growling yahoon yahoon! A wee-little mouse in a tiny pheta was also dancing with them, squeaking a little yawoon yawoon! of its own. A random passerby came up to Mousie Singh and said — Oye, yeh sher ki shaadi mein chuhaa kyon naach raha hai? (This is wedding of tigers. What’s a mouse doing here?) At which the mouse replied — Arrey! So what if I am a mouse? Shaadi ke pehle main bhi sher thha! (I too was a tiger before marriage!)

Heh Heh. Ouch. Made you wince, did that not? You were not seriously expecting a post only about music, were you? But trust me, when that joke is earnestly narrated by a chirpy and twinkly Asha, accompanied by a little mouse-bhangra, it gets much much cuter.

Age has begun catching up on Asha, and there were moments where her voice faltered, gently reminding us that she is, after all, nearing seventy-three! But even then, watching her smile and sing and even dance at times, resplendent in a white and gold sari, surrounded by musicians half her age, was incredibly inspiring.

And then there was the music itself. The ‘Quartet’s song selection for their CD (and thus the show) was unusual. Rather than only going with RD’s more famous numbers which people are wont to doing, they’ve picked a number of lesser-known and interestingly arranged compositions. Will do a separate post on that, if anyone wants to listen to me ramble about RD. C’mon, be nice and say you do, will you?

The audience was about half American and half Indian, roughly divided along the lines of those who had come to hear the ‘Quartet and those who had come to watch Asha sing. It was pretty much the perfect evening, marred only by some ditzy Ghaat women who chattered next to us in the lobby, and whose scintillating conversation we had the privilege of overhearing —

DGW1: How many sisters are they in all?
DGW2: Four.
DGW1: Really? Lata .. Asha .. and?
DGW3: Usha ..
DGW2: There’s one more! There’s one more!
Me: *math genius!*
DGW2: Uh .. her name is .. uh .. her name is .. uh ..
Me: *someone put the woman out of her misery, please*
DGW2: I know it! It is .. it is ..
Me: *turning to woman* Meena ..
DGW2: Oh yes! Thank you!
Me: *phew*

A few minutes later —

DGW1: Her husband was also a music director, no?
Me: *Duh!*
DGW3: Was it Hridaynath Mangeshkar?
DGW1: No yaar, that was her brother! Chheee!
DGW3: What was his name then?
Me: *This was right after an Asha-R D Burman concert, for crying out loud!*
DGW2: Mr Bhosle, I guess? *annoying giggle giggle*
Me: *groan*
DGW4: She was married to R D Burman, yaar! Did you not read the brochure?
Me: *God bless your soul*
DGW2: But why is she Asha Bhosle then?
DGW1: That was her first husband. She divorced him.
*DGW2 and DGW3 clamping hands to mouth and collectively gasping in shock* Ohhhh really? Hawww! She’s a divorcee?! Wowww, I didn’t know that!

Sheeesh. Gah bah! But we don’t do generalizations about Maharashtrian women. Nuh-uh, we don’t.

Isn’t it amazing how some songs remain with you for years together? You never think of them during all that time. Yet one day many eons later, you hear a bit of the interlude playing somewhere, or catch someone singing it, and find yourself humming along like it was a tune from yesterday. You remember every variation, every word, every obscure little thing about it that you never heard consciously, even the first time around. And the goosebumps wash over you much like the visiting memories you never knew you had.

Like someone you thought you forgot, but instantly recognize. From the twinkle in their eyes to the crinkle in their smile. From the tum-dee-dum notes in the prelude, to the variations in the rhythm. From the distinct way they laugh to the way a certain word is sung .. all the li’l nuances that turn a forgettable song into an unforgettable memory.

And in that music you search for yourself — the you from yesterday that laid the foundations for the you of today. Breaking up the song into little pieces, you look amongst them for the life you lived — a simpler, worry-free you from the past, frozen in a few moments of a melody.

Some songs are like old friends. They bring back memories. They make you reminisce. Fondly, wistfully. And like silent friends, they stay with you for life, reminding you from time to time, of who you once were.

Rishi (our self-appointed PR guy) asked everyone to write a lil blurb about themselves so he could put together a bio of all the people involved. Spent about an hour trying to come up with something witty and intellectual to say about myself; something that eulogizes my quirks in that ‘eccentric genius artist’ sort of way. Failed miserably so this is what I turned in instead —

A musician trapped in the body of a geek. This blurb, much like her life, is a perpetual work in progress.