Lataji was responsible for my first plane ride

I HAVE had the privilege of meeting Lataji, one of the five greatest singers the Indian industry has ever known, twice as I reflected in my book, 250 Bollywood Encounters in 2011.

In 1985, still going strong at 55, with a voice matching that of a 20-year-old, she was also indirectly responsible for my first flight on a plane to another country, even if it was just to neighbouring Swaziland, less than an hour away!

Lata and her troupe had arrived for a show in Swaziland because at the time strict sanctions by India against the minority white government in South Africa would not allow any artists to perform in the country.

I was contributing then to the fledgeling radio station for the Indian community in South Africa, Radio Lotus, from Johannesburg, although the station was only broadcasting in the greater Durban area.

Isabel van der Linde, then in charge of Radio Lotus, asked me to prepare urgently for an interview with Mangeshkar, who was arriving in Swaziland for performances there because she was not allowed into South Africa until many years later. This was because India had banned its citizens from coming to South Africa as it led the international fight against apartheid.

A special flight was arranged the same afternoon to meet the singer, who had already become a legend by then.

I was also expected to file some audio material urgently for the station, which in the end was not very much. But it drew a huge response and resulted in hundreds of people flocking to Swaziland for her shows.

Mangeshkar had a limited command of English and, speaking through an interpreter, did not say very much except to thank the many fans she knew she had in South Africa – urging them to find ways that would eventually allow her to perform for them on their home turf.

It was a guarded statement that carefully avoided any direct political remarks that might have resulted in the apartheid government of the time easily blocking visas for South Africans to attend her shows in Swaziland.

Many years later, I was station manager at Radio Lotus, which had become a national broadcaster by then, when Mangeshkar held a workshop with local musicians and singers at the then University of Durban-Westville.

Mangeshkar was on her first tour of shows across South Africa, which was on the cusp of democracy under Nelson Mandela.

One of the requirements that had been introduced by the authorities was that any overseas artists performing in South Africa had to undertake some development of local artists.

I asked her whether she would not consider re-recording some of her great hits of the past in her own voice again, using the new technology that was available to produce them in better technical quality than had been the case in the past.

Nahin! Kabhi Nahin! (“Never! Never ever!”) was the very emphatic and immediate answer from her.

Explaining herself, Mangeshkar lamented today’s studio conditions with their pristine technical environments as, she said, singing was not just about standing in front of a microphone and going through the motions.

“There was an almost religious dedication and commitment by every participant in those days, whether it was one of the dozen violinists or 10 percussionists on traditional Indian instruments, not just keyboards simulating them.

“There was also passion from the singers that spurred on the musicians and vice versa, and the same went for the technicians. That ambience can never be recreated, so even if we were to redo those same songs again with the same people, they will never be the same.

“Just continue to listen to the originals and appreciate them,” Mangeshkar added.