This week, Sadiq Saleem, a prolific UAE-based writer who explores the many layers of South Asian entertainment and nostalgia, reflects on a childhood shaped by music that was never just background, but a constant presence. In this deeply personal piece, he revisits the voices, memories, and moments that stayed with him long after the songs had ended.
By Sadiq Saleem
Growing up in Pakistan in the 80s and 90s, dramas, films, and music were not just entertainment, they shaped the rhythm of everyday life. For us kids, it was the usual early to bed rule, while the adults claimed the night. After dinner, my parents would settle into their ritual, a familiar playlist featuring legends like Lata Mangeshkar, R. D. Burman, Asha Bhosle, and Mehdi Hassan.
One of my strongest childhood memories is of being tucked into bed with retro Bollywood songs playing softly in the background. It was a nightly ritual, almost sacred, except on weekends. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, the voices of Lata and Asha began to seep into my consciousness, shaping my senses in ways I did not fully understand at the time.
As the tape recorder hummed along, my father would point out the smallest intricacies, how Mohammed Rafi sang “yeh jahan mil gaya” in Tum Jo Mil Gaye Ho, or what made a duet special simply because it brought together two giants like Rafi and Kishore Kumar. Without realising it, I picked up that habit of listening closely.
I began to find my own moments in Lata’s songs, like the way she lingered on the word “mulaayam” in Yeh Kahan Aa Gaye Hum from Silsila. Or how Asha introduced me to words I had never heard before, “dayaar” and “gubaar” in Yeh Kya Jagah Hai Doston from Umrao Jaan. These were not just songs anymore, they were discoveries.
And then there was the story of the two sisters, so alike, yet so determinedly different. Asha, often sidelined in the early years, carved her own path with quiet resilience. She had her share of struggles, of being typecast, of being compared. Growing up, we too were guilty of that comparison, placing Lata on a pedestal and wondering if Asha belonged there at all. But Asha herself once said she worked for years to create a voice and identity distinct enough to escape her sister’s shadow.
I remember being fascinated by Saaz, a film that dared to explore the unspoken tensions between two singing sisters, portrayed by Shabana Azmi and Aruna Irani. Whether or not it mirrored reality did not matter. For someone like me, it opened a window into a dynamic that had always been whispered about. Even the smallest detail stayed with me, that Lata held her notebook in her right hand while Asha held hers in her left, their faces turned slightly away, making it harder to anticipate each other while recording.
Asha’s journey, in many ways, was the story of persistence. Singing for smaller films, taking on songs others would not, balancing the demands of life, she kept going. Her breakthroughs came with O. P. Nayyar in films like Naya Daur and Tumsa Nahin Dekha, and later when S. D. Burman turned to her during his rift with Lata. Even when she became synonymous with playful, westernised tracks like Dum Maro Dum, it was the haunting grace of Umrao Jaan that immortalised her.
For many millennials, Asha might be remembered for songs like Sharara Sharara or Radha Kaise Na Jale. But for those of us from a pre-internet era, her music was an emotion in motion. It could make you dance with abandon in Jawani Janeman or leave you quietly shattered with Mera Kuch Samaan.
Just as I once chose Sridevi over Madhuri Dixit without hesitation, I tried to apply the same binary to Lata and Asha. But this time, I could not. And eventually, maturity taught me something simple yet profound. There is no obligation to choose. You can admire both, celebrate both, and carry both with you.
Years later, in Dubai, I had the privilege of meeting and interviewing Asha Bhosle.
I presented her an old photograph of her with Lata Mangeshkar and Noor Jehan. The moment she learnt I was Pakistani, her face lit up as she fondly recalled her days with Noor Jehan.
She had the memory of an elephant and the spirit of a lioness.
She recalled: “I met Noor Jehan on the sets of the film Badi Maa, and I remember Lata Mangeshkar didi and I would just watch her in awe. I didn’t know Hindi then, so we would simply keep looking at her. Lata didi also had a small role in the film. We used to address Noor Jehan as ‘Badi Apa,’ and I would always feel intimidated by her. I remember that later in my life, I released an album of ghazals titled Kashish, which included the very famous ghazal Neeyat e Shauq, originally sung by Noor Jehan. I gave the cassette to her when I met her in London. The next morning, when I went to see her to get her feedback, she hugged me and said, ‘Shabaash beta, you sang it better than me.’ That was her way of giving her blessings.”
Luckily, I have watched her perform live three times, each show packed, each moment electric. At one concert, after she took her final bow with Piya Tu, the hall erupted into a standing ovation.
Some wondered why she had not sung Umrao Jaan or Taal or Rangeela. But the truth is simple, no matter how many songs she sings, it never feels like enough.
And maybe that is what legends do. They don’t just leave behind music, they leave behind memories that continue to play, long after the song has ended.
As the line in her song goes, Jo khatam ho kisi jagah, yeh aisa silsila nahin…
The author leads a well-rehearsed double life, reading balance sheets by day and writing on pop culture by night. Equally at ease with numbers and narratives, he moves between spreadsheets and star interviews with effortless ease, proving that you can balance books and punchlines. He can be contacted on Instagram, here.
Header image: Shri Raman Krishnaiyer