In Bengali, Kiney De Reshmi Churi from 1977 remained a beloved staple well into the mid-1980s. For the 1980 blockbuster Shaan, she delivered the disco-tinged Pyar Karne Waale Pyaar Karte Hain
Nirendra Dev
Asha Bhosle began her journey in 1943 with her first film song — four years before India’s independence — and never truly stopped.
In Bengali, 'Kiney De Reshmi Churi' from 1977 remained a beloved staple well into the mid-1980s.
For the 1980 blockbuster Shaan, she delivered the disco-tinged Pyar Karne Waale Pyaar Karte Hain alongside Jaanu Meri Jaan, both composed by Burman with lyrics by Anand Bakshi.
She even sang the devotional Sancha Naam Tera in Julie (1975) as a duet with her sister Usha Mangeshkar.
The Voice That Refused to Stand Still
From dance numbers for Helen to ghazals for Gulzar — and a “good laugh” with Lata Mangeshkar about their so-called sister-rivalry — Asha Bhosle was always more than Bollywood’s second sister.
She was never meant to be anyone’s footnote. And she never was.
Asha Bhosle, who passed away on Sunday, at the age of 92 in Mumbai, defied every label that Bollywood tried to fix on her — the dance-number specialist, the sister in Lata’s shadow, the voice too versatile to be pinned down. Over seven decades and more than 12,000 songs across 20 languages, she simply outlasted every category and outlived every era.
The vintage playback singing club — Rafi, Mukesh, Lata, Kishore Kumar and Asha — is now complete in its silence. Theirs was an era that will never return.
The Dance Floor Was Just the Beginning
Any major film with a song picturised on Helen, and it was Asha’s voice behind it. Piya Tu Ab To Aa Ja from Caravan, Ye Mera Dil from Don, Dum Maaro Dum from Hare Rama Hare Krishna — she owned the dance number genre in Bollywood for over two decades. But to reduce her to that would be the gravest injustice. She constantly evolved — into ghazals, into classical-adjacent compositions, into regional music, into duets that became national memories. Her two National Film Awards tell the story best: one for the seductive restraint of Dil Cheez Kya Hai from Umrao Jaan, another for the quietly devastating Mera Kuch Saman from Ijaazat. Two poles apart. Both unmistakably Asha.
The Voice That Adjusted to a 15-Year-Old
In 1984, when she was 51, she was asked to lend her voice to Neelam — a teenage actress born in 1969 — for Tu Rutha To Main Ro Doongi in the film Jawaani. Industry insiders wondered whether a woman of her age could convincingly carry the timbre of a college-going girl. The song became a hit. The question was never asked again.
Her duets with Kishore Kumar were a universe unto themselves — from the playful banter of Haal Kaisa Hai Janab Ka in Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi to the breeziness of Aaj Rapat Jayein To in Namak Halaal. Each one felt effortless, which is the ultimate illusion of craft.
No account of Asha Bhosle is complete without R.D. Burman — Pancham — whom she married and with whom she created some of Hindi cinema’s most enduring music. Burman, who composed scores for 331 films between the 1960s and 1990s and collaborated with lyricists Majrooh Sultanpuri, Anand Bakshi and Gulzar, found in Asha a voice that could match the restless ambition of his compositions. The RD-Asha partnership was not just a marriage; it was arguably the most consequential creative alliance in the history of Bollywood music.
She began her journey in 1943 with her first film song — four years before India’s independence — and never truly stopped. In Bengali, Kiney De Reshmi Churi from 1977 remained a beloved staple well into the mid-1980s.
For the 1980 blockbuster Shaan, she delivered the disco-tinged Pyar Karne Waale Pyaar Karte Hain alongside Jaanu Meri Jaan, both composed by Burman with lyrics by Anand Bakshi. She even sang the devotional Sancha Naam Tera in Julie (1975) as a duet with her sister Usha Mangeshkar.
On Lata, on Rivalry, on the Good Laugh
The so-called sibling rivalry between Asha and Lata Mangeshkar was Bollywood’s most durable piece of gossip — and by Asha’s own account, mostly fiction. She once spoke about it with characteristic candour: “People did carry tales and try to create trouble, but blood is thicker than water. I remember, sometimes both of us would be at a function and some industry types would ignore me and interact only with her, as if to prove their loyalty. Later, didi and I would have a good laugh.”
In 2023, speaking to the Hindustan Times, she admitted she had stopped listening to contemporary music entirely. “If I have to listen to songs, I hear Bhimsen Joshi’s songs, classical songs and ghazals — I get to learn and simultaneously polish and practice my singing through that.”
Dubai and the Bitter Pill
There is also a lesser-known Asha — the citizen, the Mumbaikar, the woman with opinions. During my years with PTI in Mumbai, a colleague and I — both Asha fans — had to file a story that gave us pause. Asha Bhosle, despite being a Marathi, had publicly voiced her protests over the Pedder Road flyover project and its disruption of local life.
She had threatened to move out of Mumbai to “some other country… maybe Dubai.”
As my colleague Jacinta D’Souza whispered with a soft smile: “Bitter pills have to be swallowed.” That is both the beauty of journalism and of life — even your heroes can surprise you.
She received the Dadasaheb Phalke Award in 2000 and the Padma Vibhushan in 2008. In 1997, British band Cornershop released Brimful of Asha — which topped the UK Singles Chart in 1998 — a tribute from an entirely different musical world to a voice that had crossed every border it encountered.
The surname Bhosle came from her first marriage to Ganpatrao Bhosle. The legend, she built herself.
She is gone. The songs are not.
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