Classical vocalist and musicologist Shubha Mudgal wrote a brilliant analytical piece on Lata Mangeshkar's singing genius in Indian Express. (Read the original article on Indian Express).

Here is the full of text.

There can be no second Lata Mangeshkar, the singer
By: Shubha Mudgal

Death comes with a terrifying finality. It sends a reminder that everything and everyone is finite. It usually silences forever the voices of the lives it snuffs out. But, some exceptional voices firmly refuse to be silenced even by death. This most certainly holds true for the voice of Lata Mangeshkar. Not only will we continue to hear the thousands of exquisite songs that immortalised her voice, but even the silences and pauses she inserted with such mastery in some of her renditions, will continue to speak to us eloquently and hold us in thrall. (Remember that wistful “Hai” and the pause thereafter before she begins “kaise din beete kaise beeteen ratiyaan” in Anuradha (1960) composed by Pandit Ravi Shankar? Imagine the song without either and the eloquence of both will become amply evident.). 

Off the studio mike, she chose to remain silent and near reclusive, rarely appearing in public or offering an opinion, but for the occasional tweet. Even that silence about her life conveys to those who wish to listen, stories of an exceptional journey, fraught with the inevitable struggles and challenges of an artiste’s life, that she was able to grapple with and ultimately conquer. Like many iconic artistes, her life story too has been shrouded in anecdote, myth, and possibly fictitious accounts making it difficult to separate fact from fiction. With her demise, more such accounts may pop up in abundance, from which students of music will have to attempt to separate the wheat from the chaff. It is from this perspective that I attempt this tribute to an artiste whose work I loved, respected and even adored.

Stories of the lives of prodigies usually begin with the discovery of their remarkable musical talent and genius, that later burgeons and matures over the years; or in some cases, witnesses a meteoric rise and fall. In Lataji's childhood there could have been little or no time to celebrate the discovery of her genius and extraordinary gift. At an age, when most little girls play with dolls and dress up in Mum’s clothes and are pampered for cutely lisping out a rhyme or bandish, she was on stage delivering her lines and songs with the commitment and skill of a professional, because she had to fend for her mother and siblings. Lata ji was catapulted into a professional career as an actor-singer without any period of apprenticeship, and it would not be inaccurate to assume that she was able to do so on the strength of her prodigious talent alone.

While she was born and reared in a family that earned its livelihood through music and the arts, and was therefore in an environment where children learn music even without formal training, inheriting as it were, the musical sanskars so integral to the making and maturing of an accomplished musician, her formal training with her father was probably irregular and dependent on the time he may have been able to set aside from his professional commitments to theatre and music. Even those opportunities were cut short by his early death at the age of forty-one. Flung into the position of becoming the provider for her family, there would have been very little time to spare for riyaaz, given her colossal responsibilities as the bread winner. She herself mentions this in an interview for a television channel. Theatre and films must have made grueling demands on her time, with prolonged rehearsals, preparations, and performances.

Though Lataji respectfully acknowledged her taaleem with the great Aman Ali Khan saheb of the Bhendi Bazaar gharana, between 1945 when she is said to have moved to Mumbai, and 1953 when Aman Ali Khan saheb passed away, is a span of just about eight years. This must also have been a period of immense struggle and upheaval for her caused by the grief of losing a beloved parent, the terrifying prospect of failing to make ends meet, the disruption of being uprooted from Pune and Kolhapur and moving to Mumbai, and of establishing herself in an industry dominated by men. By 1948 she had recorded the hugely succesful “Aayega aanewala” for the film Mahal under the direction of Khemchand Prakash, and in the 50s she was recording prolifically for the leading music directors in the industry. She would have had a packed schedule at the time, rushing between studios, rehearsing and recording, traveling by local train, tonga and even on foot as she describes in an interview. Perhaps it was her untiring pursuit of perfection, prodigious talent and phenomenal aural observation that helped her learn and imbibe in whatever time was available to her for taaleem. What else can explain the crystal clear agility of her taans in some songs (eg at 0.44 seconds in the Meerabai pada Ramaiyaa bin neend na aave composed by her brother Hridaynath Mangeshkar), the perfect enunciation of raag-specific phrases in others (Eri jaane na doongi for the film Chitralekha), the impeccable lehjaa (utterance) that she brought to each of the forms she rendered such as bhajans, ghazals etcetera, and to the dozens of languages in which she recorded songs. This gave her the ability to sing any song form – a classical bandish, a folk song from any part of the country, a thumri, a ghazal, a kirtan, bhajan, without actually being trained as a specialist in any one of these forms. Apart from being a one of a kind singer, surely she must have been a listener like no other too ! That ability to listen and observe and store away in her mind the keenly collected memory of sounds, music, pronunciations, exclamations, used in diverse song forms, languages and dialects probably equipped her with a reference library that she must have drawn upon when required. This should ideally be one of the many lessons we can take from her life and work.

Her unmatched ability to emote and express is amply illustrated in many of her well-loved songs. But I once had the privilege of hearing a rare recording of an extract from the Sundarkand in Tulsi Ramayan, sung by Lata ji and composed by Pt. Raghunath Seth, possibly for the Films Division if my memory serves me correctly. My father, the late Skand Gupt, who learnt the flute from Seth Sahab in Allahabad, was also an ardent admirer of his work as an accomplished composer. I remember Seth Sahab bringing over a cassette copy of the recording for the listening pleasure of his loyal disciple, where Lata ji had sung a chaupai describing the words of a captive Sita in Lanka as she asks Hanuman after the welfare of her spouse and his brother Lakshman. She describes her husband as being ‘Komal chitta krupaal Raghurai”, or one who is extremely gentle and soft-hearted. Had a recording of this chaupai existed in the public domain, all a listener would have to do is to listen to her enunciation of the word ‘komal’, to understand what it meant!.

Lataji;s handling of laya and taal was also exquisite. Often film songs prefer to stay away from complex layakari and taals, but there have been arrangers and composers who have included complex rhythms and counter rhythms in their work. The legendary R.D. Burman for example, was known for cleverly introducing this element in his work as was Pt Ravi Shankar. But listen to Hridaynath ji’s composition in Lata ji’s voice for the non-film album “Chaalaa Wahi Des”. In Meerabai’s Sakhi ri laaj bairan bhai the first two words, Sakhi and ri are spaced over two rounds of the six matra dadra taal, with several twists and turns in the melody. If this small section of the composition seems quite easy to some, it would only be because of the effortless rendition by Lata ji, and of course, the brilliance of the composer. Otherwise, it could easily tie up a singer in knots which might be tough to disentangle.

Lata ji’s total attention and concentration to the aural element of her work is a remarkable aspect of her art. She was from the tradition of playback singing, where for many decades the vocalist providing the singing voice for actors remained a name on shellac and vinyl records, cassettes and later CDs. Her identity and pehchaan came from her voice. Video footage of her rehearsing a song, or recording, or performing on stage almost invariably show her standing in front of a mike, barely moving or gesticulating, but despite that, never flinching or holding back in expressing and emoting. She performed and how, but only through the sound of her voice. The visual element of performance, the spectacle of performance, so highly valued today, meant nothing to her despite the actor in her. Could that be one of the reasons why she could make listeners cry, laugh, flirt, dance, entice, whisper sweet nothings through her songs?

I’m also wondering if her persona with its sari-clad, devoid of glitter simplicity was a consciously crafted image meant to keep away unwanted attention. We hear of exploitation in the industry even today, and one can only imagine the kind of challenges she must have faced as a vulnerable young girl struggling to establish herself in an industry where there would invariably have been wolves on the prowl at every turn. She herself remained silent on this issue, but it is probably a silence that stems not from any weakness or fear, but from grit, determination and quiet dignity.

Much has been said and written about her voice being ‘thin’ and the challenges she initially faced due to this perceived disadvantage. Indeed, her voice was thin, light and airy and full of an indescribable sweetness. But it was never a sickening sweetness. Neither was it tinny or metallic or shrill. Like the photogenic quality of some faces, her voice was perfect for the microphone and acquired full bodied strength and character on the mike, hitting notes with unfailing accuracy and perfection. Among the many singers who follow her and mimic her are some with voices that come close to hers in many ways, but are marred by the almost diabetes inducing sweetness they bring to their renditions of her songs. The difference between the original and the cover is made brutally apparent in such cases.

To me the truth is quite apparent. There can be no second Lata Mangeshkar, the singer, try as anyone might. What we can all do is to follow her example by continuing to chase perfection, knowing full well that for us perfection will forever remain elusive.

Read the original article on Indian Express.