An Art of Meditation

I KNEW Lataji before I really knew how great she was. My father had a picture of her next to his bed and I knew this was someone he worshipped. It was surreal for me because he never really spoke about his inspirations, but silently followed them. One such inspiration was Lata Mangeshkar. I didn’t grow up on film music since I was learning classical compositions, but I knew that she was very unique and revered and, some day, I would work with her.

I was just 30 when I met her for the first time, when we were creating the mu­sic of Dil Se (1998). We were to record ‘Jiya Jale’ together, and I think it was the first time I was that nervous before a recording session. I remember her walking into the studio and I could barely look straight at her. It was out of sheer respect. I felt like a child who was meeting a legend. We sat down and I explained the song to her, and she would just smile and nod. I was just amazed by how open she was to learning even after so many decades as a singer. She had questions on why I had arranged the song a par­ticular way, on the Malayalam lyrics, everything. She was so eager to be part of the process, rather than just doing her bit and leaving. I remember we were recording in Chennai and she was in the studio cubicle, and it was built in a way she couldn’t see me or anyone outside of it. She was not comfortable with it and she had requested Gulzar Saab to find a way to communicate with me during the session. He then sat in the cubicle with her and would come out and talk to me about what she felt about a verse, or an alaap. She was so keen on following the vision of the song, and with that she would improvise. I think I still have some of those takes.

She was simply magical behind the mike, and she wasn’t afraid to make mistakes or try something new. Her under­standing of music was beyond ragas and talas; it was deeper than that. For me, she was an institution of deep musical knowledge, and she brought all that to her singing. I did not get to spend too much time with her, but every time I did, there was something to learn. We did quite a few live shows together, and one day I noticed she was sitting with a piece of paper just by herself. She was rehearsing the song word by word. I always took my singing lightly, but when I saw her doing her riyaaz, even after so many years, I realised why she became such a huge force of inspiration.

There’s one artist who creates art for the world, and there’s another who lives the art, grows with it, and medi­tates with it. It’s a very intimate, spiritual relationship with your craft that lasts till the time you last, and Lataji’s was one such relationship. She would share how during her recording sessions with Naushad Saab, they would rehearse for more than 10 days and only then record the song. Everything was live then, and you couldn’t afford to waste a minute in a recording room with 200 musicians. She understood that and gave her everything to it from the very beginning. Her voice was gifted, but her discipline is what I learnt the most from. In the song ‘Luka Chuppi’ (from Rang De Basanti, 2006) she was the voice of the mother, and I was the voice of the son. I feel fortunate I could share that song with her, and we have this sargam together at the end of the song. It’s life’s few moments that makes everything worth it. It reminds you why you are here, of your purpose. That’s the purity she brought to her work and to the life of everyone who listens to her, and will con­tinue to. She’s left a huge void, but she’s given so much to the world that we can’t thank her enough. She lives in the consciousness of India. Always will.

(As told to Divya Unny)

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