Asha Bhosle: A voice for all ages

The versatile singer made every era of music her own

Alok Tiwari

When someone lives to be 92, you kind of anticipate their passing. Not immediately, not tomorrow, maybe not for another decade if they are in good health. But it is something that can happen anytime. Yet, when Asha Bhosle passed into history last Sunday, it felt strangely remiss, like something that should not have happened. It even felt as if it could not happen. For a lot of us, her voice was like seasons, that was always around. From long before we were born.

Perhaps, it was her longevity, or longevity of her career. She had been singing for nearly eight of her nine decades on this earth. Perhaps, it was the fact that she continued singing almost till the end. We could never call her a singer of yesteryears. Perhaps because she appeared to be the last link to a musical age that seems well and truly over. With her passing there is finality to that end. A handful of people from that era may still be around but it is a token presence. Asha Bhosle’s name was among the biggest.

Funnily she was not thought of as such for much of that time. This was because of her relationship with another name that was just as big—Lata Mangeshkar. No discussion on Asha’s career, contribution, or repertoire could be complete without reference to Lata. Asha was far too original to remain under the shadow of her more celebrated elder sibling. But because of Lata’s presence, she had to work much harder to create an identity for herself.

Their so-called rivalry has been discussed often. That is fine. There will always be an element of competition when two people are operating in the same space. But there is little evidence publicly of any bitterness. The two spoke little about each other. When they did it was always with fondness and respect. There is also little doubt, though, that throughout their very long and illustrious careers, Lata remained an undisputed numero uno. She was always lauded more, appreciated more, regarded more. And this was a little unfair on Asha.

Lata lived up to that role to the hilt. She carefully cultivated her image as an elder statesman. She was someone who overcame adversity and made it big while remaining spotlessly clean in a dirty industry. She was always the pious goddess. Clad in white, away from controversies, above the fray of the industry, a kind of austere ascetic. Her stature meant that she could take the pick of songs. This often left others, including Asha, on the margins.

But if there was anyone who refused to be on the margins, it was Asha. She imbued whatever came her way with a rebellious energy that was exhilarating for her times. In many ways, Lata, despite being supremely talented, was a bit of a unidimensional singer. She was like Ganga in the plains—majestic, vast, serene, and sacred. It was the first voice in Indian film music you could bring home, the demure bride, the dutiful sister, the sacrificing mother. Asha, on the other hand, represented an unstoppable mountain stream that turned and twisted, broke into a waterfall, gathered itself and flowed again. It never stopped surprising you. You could bring this voice home too, but it needed courage; it was of a challenging lover.

She lived her life like her music. Perhaps, they both shaped each other. Asha went through the gamut of what life was about. She never was, neither projected herself in the stereotype of a perfect woman. Right from her elopement to her rocky marriages, she remained on a scary emotional roller-coaster. The wounds, including seeing death of two of her three children, would have destroyed a lesser person. They made Asha a more complete artist, giving her craft both a depth and an edge. Her voice could be coquettish, playful, and naughty, but also filled with devotion, pathos and longing. She was never an unattainable ideal. She was what we are, with all our hopes and desires, confusions and contemplations, follies and foibles.

Asha was an undeniable part of golden age of Indian film music, but she was hardly confined to that. During her peak, she could sing anything that was thrown at her, a versatility matched only by Mohammed Rafi on the male side. She could do tuneful romantic songs just like playful dance numbers. She could sing qawwalis with gusto and handle difficult classical compositions. She could breeze through the cabaret songs set to western tunes as easily as plaintive, philosophical ones. Asha’s range together with Lata’s perfection ensured that sun never really set on the reign of the two sisters. Everyone else had their ups and downs but for close to four decades, these two probably sang four of every five film songs in female voice.

Asha lent herself to experimentation, fusion, reinvention long after her contemporaries, including Lata herself, had stopped being relevant. She was at home in the age of melody and continued to waltz her way through the time when rhythm and beats reigned. She spoke on equal terms with Ghulam Ali with whom she partnered for an album of ghazals. When age of TV dawned, she took to remixing her old songs and making music videos.

In interviews she spoke nostalgically about the music of 50s and 60s. She sometimes bemoaned the lack of originality among the new artists. But she never regretted the change, she embraced it. She saw evolution where others saw decline. Unlike some who blamed falling music standards and audience taste for their obscurity, Asha rarely disparaged the new to glorify the old. She quietly became part of the new.

That is why age seemed to sit lightly on her. Nature spared her the pain and indignity that often comes with living that long. That is why, even at 92, her passing seems untimely.

This column appeared in Lokmat Times on April 16, 2026