Her son Anand had forgotten to inform her that he had invited me for lunch. Twenty minutes after I arrived at Prabhu Kunj, a king's spread was rustled up and laid out on the table. After some jolly jibes at her son, the high priestess of music, Asha Bhosle gamely tucked her pallu into the folds of her saree and ensured I was heartily fed. She's that easy! As easy as warbling one of those high tenor RD Burman numbers.
I don't know the exact moment when the connection was made. When Asha Bhosle became Asha-aai I do not know. Could have been the time I was a baby when I saw the first ever TV programme of hers. Yeh Hai Asha had me hooked. Or maybe it was that one rainy evening in Prabhu Kunj when she read pages from her autobiography which is yet to be published. She is so honest, so candid, I fear for her. And this is the same candour I look for in other showbiz people. Just no one like her.
You can never pin her down to an interview easily. It's just so much easier to meet her, and slide into a chat with her. An ace raconteur, she will share rare recording room anecdotes about Kishore Kumar, Pancham and her own didi Lata Mangeshkar. There are unprintable stories, there are funny ones, and sometimes, juicy nuggets which will never bear repetition. Her sharp memory takes my breath away, she will remember the colour of the saree she wore, or the retakes the music director made her do just to spite her. She is quick to remember how she would knock back three to five recordings in just a day.
Distance gives a writer objectivity. It also gives one a certain clinical detachment to assess his subject. With her I could never ever do it. I may not meet her for months on end, but when I do meet her, it's as reassuring as her bear hugs. Arre hota kutthes? Aai nako tula? (where were you? you've forgotten your mum) … she will gently chide in Marathi. To know her is not to judge her. To know her is to surrender to her persona. As easily as you surrender to Roz roz ankhon tale (Jeeva).
I watch her indulge her grandchildren Ranjai and Zanai in their bonhomie. I see her sadness when they go away to boarding school. I see her filling up her vacant hours with concerts and so many social obligations. A far cry from the diva who dazzles with her repertoire from Aaiye Meherbaan (Howrah Bridge) to Dil cheez kya hai (Umrao Jaan).
To know the real Asha Bhosle is as simple as it is complex. Simple because what you see is what you get. There is no dissembling. No mask. As crystal clear as her voice in Yehi woh jagah hai (Yeh Raat Phir Naa Aayegi) and as real as Mera kuch samaan ( Ijaazat).
Complex I say because it's a lived-in voice. It has history. She has seen birth. She has lived death. At close quarters. So when she's sings you can see the eddies and currents churning in her voice. And that's why the poignance of Ambar Ki ek pak Surahi( Kadambari)or Yeh kya jagah hai doston (Umrao Jaan) is so tactile. You can touch it. The lament in her voice could be a regret for a hasty marriage to a much older man or regret that she let her heart rule her head once too often. For the loved ones who forgot to love. For the many hasty decisions.
I have a bone to pick with anyone who equates the entire Asha oeuvre with just RD Burman. No doubt Pancham saw the jewel that Asha Bhosle was, and nurtured it through two decades of Maar dalega dard e Jigar(Pati Patni) to perhaps one of the last numbers together Pyaar ke mod pe(Parinda).
But Bhosle’s voice belongs as much to Dada Burman's O Panchhi pyaare and Ab ke baras bhej in Bandini, as it does to Dada’s other gem – ‘Ek hans ka joda’ in Lajwanti. Asha's voice found its metier in OP Nayyar's Akeli hoon main (Sambandh) as much as it did in Jaidev's Abhi na jaao (Hum Dono). Asha's feisty spirit and her robust vocals can never be the suzerainty of any one person. If they gave her flight, she soared with her voice to the skies. Asha's voice belongs as much to LP's Man kyun behka (Utsav)as much as it belongs to Kalyanji Anandji's Husn ke lakhon rang( Johnny Mera Naam), to Bappi Lahiri's Raat baaki ( Namak Halal) and to A R Rahman's Tanha Tanha ( Rangeela).
She defies categorisation, she defies stereotyping. Who then is the real Asha? Is she the voice of the nautanki dancer of Paan khaaye saiyyan( Teesri Kasam) or the voice of the marijuana laced Dum maro dum (Hare Rama Hare Krishna) Is it the dirge of the courtesan in Justuju jiski thi (Umrao Jaan) or the joie of the vamp in Hangama ho gaya (Hangama)?
The answer is the voice. It emerges from her throat, melds with the musicians beat, makes its way into your memory files and stays there forever. There is also identity. You've heard it before and so you recognise it. As a child, as a teenager, as an adult, as a senior citizen. You've heard it in lullaby, in a ghazal, in a disco song. It's unmistakeable, it's her.
In real life, she camouflages grief through sporadic bouts of anger or absolute silence. And when she speaks it's not from the heart. It's from the gut. It's a voice that has travelled through more than seven decades of music, she has outlived the questions, the awards and the naysayers. She has outlived redundancy.
Her entire arsenal was on display one moonlit night in the outskirts of Mumbai. She regaled the audience with one bhaav geet after another, mimicking sister Lata Mangeshkar, belting out a classical bandish with her brother Hridayanath Mangeshkar. The notes went from high to higher till her octaves encircled the entire audience. There was pin-drop silence. And then roars of approval. Encore, they said. Tarun aahe ratra was the song. A song true to its name which gets younger with every rendition. Much like the singer.
On her 83rd birthday I can pick no one particular favourite Asha song of mine. Remember she was part of my childhood when she husked Sapna mera toot gaya (Khel Khel mein). The voice in front of me which has beguiled me forever is now plying me with food, pallu firmly tucked into her saree. The voice in my heart will never say no to a generous helping of Asha-aai. Now and forever.