Author: Dr Sumedha

I wake up with a start. There is a creepy sense of being stalked and a not-so-nice feeling of sharing space with someone I did not intend to. In the half-gloom of dawn (it is only 4.30am), I see a pair of waving antennae and suppress a scream. A cockroach is taking a merry morning stroll across the head board and will perhaps stop somewhere near my feet in hopes of an early breakfast! Before you think of jeering at my abysmal house-keeping skills, let me remind you of an obscure lesson I suddenly recall from my Grade Eleven biology class. Cockroaches abound in tropical climes in the months of March and September because it is breeding season for these critters and their exponentially swollen numbers result in household havoc.

Trying to keep a lid on the whole situation, I stealthily crawl to the small cupboard where I store my trusty can of ‘LAAL HIT’, (guaranteed one hundred percent to rid your home of all varieties of creepy-crawlies) and return at speed, holding the can like a shield. I point the nozzle and exult in the thrill of being on the verge of reclaiming my prized space, evicting the unnerving vermin, when the cockroach stares beadily at me and a cacophony of tinny voices echo, “Privileged Human, we deplore your infringement of cockroach rights. You have prov(w)oked the woke! You will know the ignominy of cancel and call-out culture.”

I have been given a talking to by talking insects! Before I know it, all manners of creatures are spreading my misdemeanors far and wide. Slumping in defeat, I capitulate by crawling away to a crevice (read the sofa) where I spend a sleepless hour, thinking black thoughts, about my independence being imperiled by an invertebrate. Defeated before even beginning to defend what was rightfully mine! All because of a ‘call-out’ by a cockroach at the crack of dawn, fueling that innate fear which lurks in most humans, the fear of being singled out in the tribe!

This rather unsettling episode has woken me to the woke (yes, I know, but I am a fan of ghastly puns). A new fever which has gripped the world, which involves involving oneself with a cause, fighting for a disregard of the rights of the downtrodden by anyone more powerful, the establishment, the government or simply a majority of the general populace. A higher purpose, which deserves a no-holds-barred support from the human race. And this must have held true in the initial days of this movement, which, to all intents and purposes began as a struggle for equality, against exploitation in general.

Unfortunately, there exists something called too much of a good thing. Much in the manner of the demon Bhasmasur trying to devour Lord Shiva who had granted him his special status in the first place, wokeism, which began as a quest for the greater good is now being looked at with skepticism, especially by those who have fallen prey to its twin minions of cancel culture and call out culture. Because, thanks to it, anyone can vociferously (read in a shrill rant) seek attention on anything which they perceive to be wrong, their actual and factual knowledge of the situation be damned!

Where there was one trial and one system of justice (whether the verdict was right or wrong is again a totally different story), there now exist two. The second, or rather the first trial which any misdemeanor warrants, is a media trial, and it is much swifter, and many a times much more vindictive than the first. It bases itself on the popular perception of any issue and thus can be far removed from facts. It involves setting the tone of how a situation is perceived by the general public, irrespective of the actual on-ground situation and literally travels like wildfire. A battle of ‘my truth is right and yours wrong, even if you are an expert in the field concerned’. And this is where all cockroaches cry out, for they have their spot of the limelight.

Calling out mistakes, especially if they are blatant and carried out with a misplaced sense of hubris or entitlement can help as a reality check at the time, but digging out those mistakes of the distant past, from where the person concerned has moved on, and/or is trying to better is simply a case of flogging the dead horse and serves no purpose! In addition, calling out something just to be seen as being with ‘it’ is simply wrong. It merely indicates a mob mentality and a need to be validated. Forwarding an opinion on an opinion on an opinion given by someone famous might seem very important, but sadly carries little value. On the contrary, if done irresponsibly, especially on matters of say, for example state policy, without understanding the finer nuances can be more of a hindrance than help. But alas, the wheels of social media run on the grease of the constantly churning opinion mill which, in turn is fed by the cat-calls of calling out!
Everyone likes to strike a blow for a cause and what better when it can be done safely cloaked under the blanket of ‘mass opinion’? Because, most of the times this is what the calling out culture is reduced to. Retweeting popular tweets, forwarding posts without verifying their substance, without trying to hear out the other side, without the formation of a balanced opinion in which the crime merits the punishment. It sadly finds itself in the quagmire of vicious name-calling, mud-slinging and personal attacks, defeating its own purpose. Cancel culture involves blanking out those people who do not share your opinion on any given subject. If ever there was a sworn enemy of a civilized discussion, this is it! Since people now lead socially active lives more on social media rather than actual society, this can serve as the proper tool to school those fools who do not toe your line.

The less said about the shifting goal posts for these social media marauders, the better. When you try to pin them down for a discussion or make the fool hardy mistake of questioning their motives (which were dubious in the first place), you are called out again for being an oppressor, for siding with the powers that be, who on occasion just might be right. We Indians, see this happening on a daily basis. It hits us in the eyeballs and in the gut whenever we switch on any of the news channel sponsored debates, leaving us with ringing ears and spinning heads.

In this day of instant opinions, where a hundred celebrities are made and marred at the drop of a hat, a fight for what is right has become a mere means to get ahead. It will do us good to remember to plumb any issue, whether social, political, or environmental (that’s another hot topic these days, literally, what with global warming and things) a little deeply, before jumping onto the bandwagon just because everyone else is doing it. Wokeism, cancel culture and calling out may have started out with the best of intentions but unless they serve their purpose honestly, they will be looked at with cynicism, which might turn into down- right revulsion. Because, pushed to the wall, people might choose to cancel calling out and cancel- culture itself!

Pretty much like me, who did not waste much time in rearming myself with my Laal Hit canister and did NOT call out before silently cancelling clever cockroach and other critters to reclaim what was rightfully mine!

“Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there is also a love of humanity”

—–Hippocrates

I am feeling beleaguered at the moment. Not just beleaguered but put upon, picked on, brow-beaten, but most of all, haunted. All by virtue of my profession. Rather ironic because I chose the noble profession of healing. If I had had any inkling that I, myself, would sicken in my pursuit of health for others, I perhaps would not have chosen to be what I am. But paradoxically, I would not be myself! Never has being a doctor been so much of a teetering precariously on a knife edge as it is today. And never before has our profession been so sullied and reviled.

What was once one of the most respected vocations (I won’t even call it a profession) in society has some- how degenerated into a moral morass, rife with suspicion and mistrust. And where exactly did the rot begin? Perhaps with the inclusion of health-care in the ‘services’ falling under the ambit of the Consumer Protection Act, where the patient morphed into a ‘consumer’ and the health care provider into just another ‘service provider’, perhaps placed slightly higher than wholesale and retail businesses or mechanics, plumbers or electricians. Don’t get me wrong, it is in no way my intention to deride these service providers, they play a sterling role in improving the quality of life. I just want to say that qualified doctors are very different because they save that very life, more often than not.

Since times immemorial, the cornerstone of the doctor- patient relation has been trust. Because taking the responsibility of another human-being’s health is much more than just a service. It is not something which ends with the termination of the contract, which in this case is the patient either being restored to health, leaving in search of greener pastures (read better doctors) or unfortunately succumbing to the condition. It would not be unfair to say that any doctor who treats (and believe me almost all of us do so with the utmost care), puts a part of himself in the form of his expertise, experience and time into the patient. In fact, many ancient cultures would say that this forms a bond for life. I am pretty sure that most of us have had the happy experience of being suddenly accosted out of the blue by a patient whom we have helped pull through, and about whom we have forgotten, who then proceeds to sing peans about us to anyone who cares to listen. I doubt whether such treatment is reserved for the other ‘service providers’ whom the patient has needed from time to time.

Until all of us become realized souls who identify ourselves with nothing other than our animating energy, the body remains our sole identity, while providing an identity for our souls (pun totally intended). And it is no mean task to take charge of putting right whatever has gone wrong in such a precious object. There of course, is also the small matter of the fact that the final blueprint of what you are trying to (for want of a better word) repair is not available at the click of a button.

There is no ‘single gold standard’ in this vast realm. The permutations and combinations which on occurring, can cause diseases or complications are so numerous, that they are enough to give keep several mathematicians simultaneously busy for several lifetimes. I really have no idea who put us on this pedestal of divinity and demanded that we have a solution to all the problems which human health can face, and not just any old solution, but one which can restore and rejuvenate the patient to his prime, no matter even if he or she is in the final throes of a terminal disease.

The proverbial ‘Bhagwan ka Roop’ (while saving lives) gives way to ‘Doctor ya Kasai’, in the blink of an eye, should anything go wrong. This scenario is becoming commoner these days, much to the detriment of all parties concerned. While it is to be agreed that the illness or unfortunate demise of a loved one is a cause of deep anxiety, sorrow and stress, it is by no means an excuse to make the treating doctor a punching-bag to relieve it. All that it leads to is a stressed- out, defensive doctor who can no longer look ahead to provide the best possible care since he is too busy looking over his shoulder for any brick-bat coming his way, ducking and weaving to avoid the same. While there is the instantaneous pleasure of having ‘scored one over the know-it-all doctor’, the long- term effect will only be detrimental to the patient, because the doctor will no longer be as deeply invested in health care, preferring instead to pay more attention to finding out how he can best work out his defense, should anything untoward happen.

A marked difference in the attitude of the public at large to the people offering intellectual services in general and doctors in particular has been noted in the recent past. Several factors contribute to this. With a mere two percent of the GDP being spent on public health, the ‘strapped for everything’ government machinery can hardly be expected to provide costly services for peanuts, leading to an increasing burden on private services. Here again, what patients and their kith and kin fail to realize that many hospitals, especially those that offer tertiary care are corporatized and it is NOT the doctor who is responsible for the humungous bill which they may have to foot. In a personal aside, I think that we as a society, still suffer from a socialistic hangover in which certain professions which exist merely to serve the people while eking out a penurious existence, subsisting on the tremendous ‘good karma’ that they generate, medicine being a prime example have no right to seek a good living. In addition, I also believe that many Indians live in such perpetual dread of ill health, that they would rather believe in the ‘Great Indian Jugaad’ or temporary quick fixes got from all kinds of charlatans who run a thriving parallel health care industry so as to form a minor branch of the economy all by themselves. They only think of when things get out of hand, turning up at the qualified professional’s doorstep after exhausting all their resources, and then expect miracles like a complete cure. It is difficult to convince them that the doctor is not a magician and cannot pull the rabbit of complete recovery from his bag of tricks!

Add to this several unscrupulous denizens out to make a fast buck, like the friendly local strong men (most often with political leanings and protection), ready to swing into muscle- might mode at the drop of a hat or shall we say, imagined malpractice by a doctor. About the great Indian fourth estate, I shall only say that hyenas in the wild have been known to be more merciful than these fearless individuals who conduct media trials so vituperative and vicious so that several generations of the concerned doctor’s family are scarred for life. To add some more spice to this already zingy mix, there exist many movers and shakers of society, ranging from social media influencers to popular actors who are only too keen to jump onto the bandwagon keen on indulging in their favorite sport of good old ‘doctor bashing’, which they are then quick to justify, saying that doctors indulge in large scale malpractice and fool the gullible public and thus asked for their just desserts!

At the end of the day, we doctors are human. We try to tend to superhuman feats, if the sheer efforts that we put in from early teenage, just to make it into medical school are to be believed. We forgo a lot, from the simple pleasures of life like indulgent evenings off with friends and family, to working through our own ill-health without a break. We may not be incarnations of the divine, but neither are we the devil incarnate. We are fallible and fragile human beings, seeking to do our jobs the best we can, many a times carrying responsibility above and beyond our job descriptions. We do not wish to be put on unnecessary pedestals, feted, cosseted and have every whim indulged. But, at the same time, we do not wish to be singled out for unfair blame, victimized, threatened or harmed either.

It is time society gave a serious thought to what fruit the seeds of mistrust which are being sowed will bear, for constantly faced with threat to life, limb and property, forget the best and the brightest, but even the below average will think not just thrice, but a trillion times before choosing to study medicine, and then again, only by circumstance, and not choice. The consequences of giving oneself into the care of such reluctant healers will be the ultimate price paid for turning a blind eye and deaf ear to the pleas of a profession, which works for the benefit of humanity.

In the wake of a highly qualified, competent doctor, driven to suicide for no fault of hers, after being slapped with attempt to murder charges at the behest of an unholy nexus, it is time for us doctors to decide whether we choose to stand united, or fall divided. It is time to form a clique rather than compete, and make sure our demands for an immediate ceasing of unnecessary witch-hunts and strict enforcement of the many laws which have been passed ostentatiously for our benefit, are met promptly by indifferent authorities and lay populace alike. For, it is only when we have healthy and safe work environments that we will be able to ensure the optimum outcome in our efforts of ensuring a healthy nation.

To my fellow medical brethren, I would like to say that though it is our duty to care for our patients, it is time that we cared for ourselves as a fraternity too, deciding and dictating that there will be no more mayhem in Medical Mohalla….

“Cruelty must be whitewashed by a moral excuse and a pretense of reluctance”

— George Bernard Shaw

The colors of Holi intend to stick this year. The appeal of the pristine white of purity is fast fading. For, behind its seemingly innocent façade hides the hideous color of ‘willful concealment’. Like the bond with color, we Indians have a bond with cinema too, a colorful appeal to our colorful selves. But you know something is far wrong when the so called proponents of the freedom of expression and cinematic liberty target a single film which deviates from the ‘official version’ and attempt to sabotage it by all means available in the arsenal of social media.
A ‘propaganda film’ has at least brought an uncomfortable truth out into the open, made us think of what lies beneath (pun unintended). The emerging picture is dirtier than imagination permits (pun again unintended). A veritable night of the walking dead, if you will. For there was a night in the history of modern India when even the dead had to walk, carrying the burden of their souls on their broken shoulders, through the ruins of their lives, rendered invisible and mute by the powers that were. And they stayed that way for more than three decades.
I am, of course talking about ‘The Kashmir Files’ by maverick director Vivek Ranjan Agnihotri. A film which you can either hate or love, but cannot ignore. A film like this, which cocks a snook at the established narrative and tries to find an alternative and inconvenient one is of course, asking for trouble. Like they say, there is your truth and there is my truth. The universal truth does not exist.

‘The Kashmir Files’ was released under an adult certificate. I will not comment much on the acting and the cinematography and the screenplay. There are people who are much better qualified to talk on such things. At the risk of sounding cliched, what struck me was the unapologetic belligerent rawness with which the film has been handled. There is nothing soft and soppy about it. The picturesque visuals of Kashmir clad in pristine snow exist purely because the story demands it.

The reason why I chose to watch it because I was genuinely curious about the Kashmir issue. Conveniently blanketed by childhood when the Pandits were driven from their homes, there was not much to know except that Kashmir had become a hot bed of terrorism. The makers themselves claim that it is a work of fiction, but also emphasize that the story was written AFTER interviewing several (700+ to be precise) displaced Pandit families, still haunted by the trauma after a couple of generations. As far as the community, on whom unthinkable atrocities were perpetrated by the Muslim Jihadis, (some home-grown and some in Pakistan) is concerned, the film is the turning of a corner. They are no longer numbers but real people with stories which have at least been acknowledged.

Of course, one cannot talk about such a sensitive subject and not stir up the controversy pot. I watched an analysis by a senior journalist formerly associated with a leading vernacular daily who claimed the film to be a mere smoke screen, cleverly spread by the ruling dispensation to hide their true nefarious designs of selling the country, your personal property and you (not necessarily in that order) for personal gains after causing heightened communal tensions and a ‘charged’ atmosphere. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so miffed at his low opinion of the intelligence of the average Indian. The film has been running to nearly full houses for a week now and as far as I know, all is quiet on the communal front. Yes, people seethe quietly or vocally when they leave the theatre, but if there are any communal mobs running amok anywhere with swords and scythes, I have yet to see or hear of them. All that I would like to say to Mr. Senior Journalist is that going by your logic, ethnic Germans should have been wiped out wherever and whenever ‘Schindler’s List’ was screened and to please stop comparing our brains with his!

Perhaps this is where the film really wins, by exposing the contempt with which we, the common citizens are treated by the so called ‘masters of narrative’, for make no mistake, as the lead character says in the film itself, ‘Knowledge is Power’. Don’t we have a right to know the facts? A right to interpret them and analyze for ourselves? Or are we to remain little more than sheep forever? Incapable of independent thought? The film in no way absolves Pakistan of its role in the occurrences, it even highlights Benazir Bhutto’s incendiary speech. In fact, it even acknowledges those moderate Muslims who sheltered their neighbors against horrendous odds and were put to the sword themselves. And shows the spinelessness of the rulers in great detail, from the local police to the home-minister of India. I hope the detractors are listening.

We have watched several films glorifying terrorism without batting an eyelid or degenerating into a sordid mess. Not just watched, but also heaped all parties concerned with awards and what-not. ‘Haider’ being a prime example. But, make a film too close to reality for comfort and suddenly everyone is personally involved, as if they are the ones who lost family, homes and a way of life. It surely begs the question why this particular film is to be dissed when you have guzzled enough codswallop to last you several lifetimes before this?

I think what has irked several establishments the most is that sinking feeling which comes with a weakening of the grip on power. When you have carefully crafted your life on being the ONLY version of events and thus controlling the emotions of a billion people, the specter of people escaping your clutches and feeling what THEY want to is definitely going to haunt you for a long time to come. For propagating freedom comes easy. Actually giving it to people? Not so easy! Perhaps it is because the director makes no bones about digging up all that is rotten in many of the premier institutions of the country. And laying it out in its full stinking glory for all to see.

And that is what I, personally found most disturbing, the gory scenes notwithstanding. The casual ease with which those, trusted by parents like you and me to mold the minds of our children who are on the cusp of adulthood, abuse this trust. A rather ponderous dialogue “Toote hue log bolte nahin, unhe suna jaata hai” has been touted as a watershed one. But what gave me the goosebumps was quite another, “Unke ke paas power hai to kya hua? System to hamare paas hai na? We will never allow Kashmir to be an integral part of India, chahe uske liye humein desh me aag kyon na lagani pade!” casually mouthed by a pre-eminent college professor, no less.

And then can retribution be far behind? We have already seen social media flooded with the usual questions on why this film is a blatant attempt at polarizing communities, references to the Sikh massacres and Gujarat riots and several RTIs showing that the number of Pandits actually killed were only a hundred and sixty- nine as compared to the thousands of Muslims who have been victimized. What people who raise such non sequiturs fail to realize is that NOBODY is condoning the Sikh massacres or the Gujarat riots. But these events have been acknowledged, investigated, at least brought before a court of law and have several cinematic versions made on them, ranging from ill-informed to downright tripe. What happened in Kashmir, while perfectly planned and executed down to the last gory detail, has not been granted this privilege. As far as the polarization comments go, well if you are that easily influenced, then you need to send the rest of your life in isolation, preferably in a padded cell.

What really shocks, is the brutality with which the organized massacres were carried out by Jihadis hand-in-glove with a covetous and complicit Pakistan. And thus, we have Justice Neelkanth Ganjoo and Pandit Tikalal Taploo murdered in broad daylight and Girija Tickoo, gang raped and sawn in two while still alive, reduced to a mere statistic in a dusty file moldering in a government office somewhere. And then, we have Yasin Malik, who after confessing to murdering several innocents finally ‘sees the light and embraces peace’ shaking hands with Dr. Manmohan Singh, the then Prime Minister of India and addressing the India Today conclave as a peace icon and messiah of the poor misguided Kashmiris! Irony just died a very painful death.

It has taken courage, a couple of fatwas and thirty- two unending years for us to merely acknowledge the Kashmir Genocide. I am not even dwelling on the innumerable number of security personnel whom we have lost to the place once called heaven on earth, all because of a way of life built on greed and terror. And this is where it hits those outraged Indian citizens, that there are those who believing themselves to be above the law, carve their own narrative and force it down our throats, which we are then expected to swallow without demur, even though the stomach maybe heaving.

We, who shout ourselves hoarse at brutality perpetrated in the far corners of world (yes, that is wrong too, without doubt) should now get to grips with the pain of our own. It is time to ‘take the knee’ for all those innocents who wanted nothing more than to live in harmony in their little patch of heaven. At the moment, ‘The Kashmir Files’ has sparked outrage among common citizens and is riding high on its swelling wave, bucking the establishment. How long the magic lasts however, remains to be seen, cursed as we are with notoriously short memories, minds straying ahead in search for the next piece of salaciousness, undermined by the subversive narrative which the truly divisive will start putting together in a short matter of time. It is only when the Kashmiri Pandits find peace, satisfaction with government actions and closure, will justice truly be done and the movie will have served its purpose.

I am optimistic about my fellow Indians though, who will see the crimson peeping through the whitewash and will teach the ruling dispensation to never ‘underestimate the power of the common man’ in the memory of the thousands of victims of massacre, the real ‘Keepers of Kashyap’.

‘Music is what feelings sound like’

Sound can mean many things. It perceives depth and measures the shallows. It imparts security and warmth. It soothes and it torments, it laughs and cries and it lives and dies. If the universe itself was born in sound, there is hardly room to escape it, because it pervades every being either consciously or subconsciously. Some familiar sounds are so much a part of life that they tend to be taken largely for granted until silenced, at which point, they turn haunting by their very absence.

On the morning of Sunday, the sixth of February, India was literally stunned into silence because the much- loved sound of a much- loved voice, which was part of the collective humming of the nation had been muted forever. It had everything to do with a diminutive figure all of five feet and one inch, emblazoned in the collective conscience as normally clad in a white saree with a large colorful border, an endearingly chubby face and eyes which not only sparkled with intelligence, but also a wry humor. This lark in human form held sway over a billion people. A voice which literally meant the sound of music to four generations of Indians.
When the right tunes meet the right lyrics and emerge from the right throat, magic is created. We were lucky to hear this happen. Lucky enough to be born in an era when recording was possible. The way in which the recordings were conveyed to the masses of course varied with the times, starting with the gramophone followed by the radio, portable transistor, cassette player, music system, CD player, I-pods and topped by Spotify in recent times. But the silken voice remained the same, everchanging yet never changing, momentary but eternal. It had the power to make to make some weep with joy, while others swayed to the same tune, some quietly hummed, others warbled and yet others shouted from the roof-tops.
While a good bit of credit can be given to the superb lyrics and innovative music which was the norm in the heyday of this voice, it had that inherent quality which can only be a blessing: the ability to become what the listener wanted to hear. For many, the memories of the songs remain deeply personal. You could be a trained vocalist or a bathroom singer, unable to carry a tune beyond ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, when you crooned along with the voice, for just a few glorious moments, you shed the rest of your persona, the lyrics and the music seemed to be written for you alone. You became what your heart said you were…a mother, a bride, a lover, a devotee, a patriot.

There were those songs which identified themselves because of the voice and yet others which remained obscure, like the unknown vein of diamonds in a secret mine, waiting for the right person to come along, find and appreciate them. If ‘Aayega Aanewala’ was a haunting song from a film about the haunted, ‘Bol ri Kathputli Dori’ was an easy way to talk about the philosophy of the bonds of human life. ‘Bachpan ke Din Bhula na dena’ carried one back to the largely innocent world of childhood and ‘Duniya Mein Hum Aaye Hain to Jeena hi Padega’ talked of the loss of this very innocence and the hardships of the underprivileged. There were moments never to be forgotten in ‘Do Ghadi Woh jo Paas aa Baithe’ and forgotten moments in ‘Mohe bhool Gaye Sawariya’.

On and on the voice flowed, much in the manner of Tennyson’s poem, ‘The Brook’, for men came and went, but the voice went on forever. It knew no barrier of caste and creed, nor of religion and race. It just did what it was meant to do and made the world a better place. It embraced several languages, even composed its own tunes under a pseudonym, ‘The Cloud of Happiness’ and lived up to the name. The message of the saints from Tukaram to Dnyaneshwar and Tulsidas to Meera sounded that much truer when conveyed by it. From ‘Sundar te Dhyana’ to ‘Khel Mandiyela Valavanti’ and ‘Shree Ramchandra Krupalu bhaja Mana’ to ‘Mhara re Giridhar Gopal’ it not only touched divinity, but also made avid listeners understand divinity that much better.

While it gained fame through its renditions mainly in Hindi, about forty other languages were rendered with the same care. Marathi perhaps ran a close second to Hindi, it being the mother tongue of this golden voice. Ranging from ‘Ghanashayam Sundara’, the eternal morning song which made at least two generations of the Marathi Manoos leave his comfort zone in search of expanding horizons, to ‘Airanichya Deva Tula’ that anthem of laborers everywhere to ‘Latpat Latpat Tuzha Chalna’ to a rather bold and feminist song ‘Mi Raat Takali, mi Kaat Takali”, it further embellished an already rich language. It drove in certain home truths in the rather philosophical rendition ‘Jan Pal Bhar Mhantil Haaya Haaya’ and spoke of a deeply personal story in ‘Kalpavriksha Kanye Sathi’, which made it tremble with its own underlying pathos. It captured angst, castigation and ultimately resignation perfectly in ‘Maj Sang Lakshmana’ in G.D.Madgulkar and Sudhir Phadke’s timeless classic Geet Ramayan.
The secret to its timelessness lay in its adaptability, diction and emotive capability. For every girl who frolicked to ‘Ja Ja Ja Mere Bachpan’, there existed a woman with a crushed dream shedding quiet tears to ‘Yun Hasaraton ke Daag’. For every woman who found the night a reflection of a thousand stars and romance in ‘Yeh Raat Bheegi Bheegi’, someone somewhere lamented to ‘Tumhe Yaad Karte Karte Jayegi Rain Saari’ or ‘Raina beeti Jaaye’. And so ‘Jo Vaada Kiya Woh Nibhana Padega’ melted into ‘Piya Bina Piya Bina’. Dawn turned to dusk with ‘Bhor Bhaye Panghat Pe’ and ‘Jaago Mohan Pyaare’ to ‘Mora Gora Ang Laile’ and ‘Woh Chand Khila’.

The moods of the voice were many. Playful, as in ‘Dhundo Dhundo re Saajna’ and ‘Mila hai Kisi ka Jhumka’, hopeful in ‘Do Sitaron ka Zameen par Hai Milan’ and ‘Aaj Phir Jeene Ki Tamanna’, plaintive in ‘Tumhi Mere Mandir’ and ‘Rula ke Gaya Sapna Mera’, entreating in ‘Tadap ye Din Raat ki’, full of joy in ‘Aaja Sanam Madhur Chandni me Hum’ and ‘Kuch Kehta Hai ye Sawan’ nostalgic in ‘Who Bhooli Dastaan lo Phir Yaad aa Gayi’ and laced with subtle sorrow in ‘Rahte the Kabhi Jinke Dil Mein’ and ‘Yaara Seeli Seeli’.

There were songs for every season, feeling, memory and age. The monsoon would not be the same without ‘O Sajna Barkha Bahar Aayi’ and ‘Sawan ka Mahina Pawan Kare Sor’ The actor on screen could have been sixteen or sixty, the voice adapted itself to them with an almost other -worldly ease. And so, we found it difficult to believe that ‘Maye ni Maye’, ‘Arre re Arre Yeh Kya Hua’ and Mehndi Laage ke Rakhna’ were rendered when the voice was more than twice the age of the actors on screen. The body shrunk and grew frailer, outings and live performances were rarer, but the play back as evidenced by these songs retained its youth and playfulness. It seemed as if the rest of the being had been consumed by the voice.

This voice remained true to its values from refusing to perform to cabaret numbers, ‘Aaaaaa Jane Jan’ being a notable exception, to becoming THE voice of patriotism in the performance of the haunting ‘Aye Mere Watan Ke Logon’, as well as the rousing ‘Jayostute Jayostute’ and ‘Ne Majh si Ne’ by the revolutionary freedom fighter and poet, V.D Savarkar.
The voice wanted to convey everything and nothing. Did it really have an idea about how much of a household name it had become and what power it imbibed? These questions will probably remain just questions. But people will pay heed to its entreaty, ‘Chupa lo Yun Dil Me Pyaar Mera ke Jaise Mandir me Lau Diye Ki’. Music will never be the same as India bids adieu to its most famous, revered and ethereal voice. To paraphrase Dr. Anand Ranganathan’s tweet, “She was not a queen or a president, yet she ruled the hearts and minds of a billion people. Don’t ever ask again what real power is”.

With Lata Mangeshkar’s golden voice silenced forever, it can be said,
“Tere bina zindagi bhi lekin zindagi toh nahi, zindagi nahi…” because as she herself said in one of her songs,

“Kuch Dil ne Kaha, Kuch bhi Nahi,
Aisi bhi Batein Hoti Hai,
Aisi bhi Batein Hoti Hai”