It has been almost three weeks since Asha Bhosle passed away. Her voice, however, refuses to recede into the past. For many, she was an icon. For those who knew her closely, she was far more layered. She was a woman who lived and loved without filters. In this deeply personal note, Filmfare’s Editor-In-Chief Jitesh Pillaai talks about the Asha Bhosle he knew beyond the songs.

In his words:

Everyone has a favourite Asha Bhosle story. I was fortunate to have many. Most of them will go to the grave with me. The ones that I can write about? Let me hark back to the time I saw her as a child on the rerun of a black and white Yeh Hai Asha programme on Doordarshan, I was hooked. One rainy day in Prabhu Kunj, we forged a bond. Must have been 2003-2004.

I adored her, I revered her, I loved her. There was just some karmic connection. She imitated people, including how I spoke on the phone, to perfection. Over the years, often those closest to her hurt her, and she would shrug it off.

She regaled me with Pancham stories, how he would sulk if she had another recording that day. It happened when she was singing Pal Mein Tola Pal Mein Masha song for a Mehmood film. Pancham was recording the song, but she had to rush off for another recording, and he was most miffed. She would also say those closest to him caused his ruin, and because she would point it out and call their bluff, she became unpopular with some of his teammates. She shot from the hip and didn’t hold back, risking unpopularity with her own family or important musicians.

Asha aai was love. She whipped up the most exciting biryani and fish dishes and served them up with dollops of her affection. I think her greatest quality was her lack of hierarchy. She would shower as much love and affection on her maid as she would on an important minister. She would equally lash out at both without any filters. She loved Queen-Size, like she lived Queen-Size.

I was fortunate enough to travel to Delhi with her once, where she was being felicitated with an award by Pandit Jasraj. I remember the late Dr Balamurali Krishna telling her that they must work on an album together! What a great album it would be. While asking me to help her fold her saree, she would casually tell me shocking stories, which made me wonder how cruel people could be with easy facility. And often I’d wonder if, the great Asha Bhosle, whom I adored to bits, was sharing private moments from her pain to me.  

Over the years, she camouflaged her hurt with humour. She would tell me about a music director she was closely associated with but hadn’t paid her a single penny in the twelve years she sang for him. She refused to comment on his obituary piece I was writing. In the same vein, she would happily contribute to a piece I was writing on the Beatles and would hum It’s Been a Hard Day’s Night.

Sometime in the late ’90s, on a wintry evening in Pune, an invisible arc of magic wove its spell around us as she belted one Natyasangeet after another Bhavgeet- Panduranga Kanti, Jiwalaga, Gel Dyayche Rahun, and Tarun Aahe Ratri coalesced into plenary perfection. Perhaps subconsciously, my love and command over Marathi stemmed from my love for her, and my love for Bengali stemmed from Pancham’s music. Arguably, their combination of Bangla pujo songs was infinitely superior to the Hindi rip-offs which RDB did- sample Chokhe Chokhe, Phoole Gondho Nei, Mohua Mon Jomeche and scores of others which shone inside the Durga pujo pandals.

Often I think Ashaji’s voice, along with RDB’s music, saved me during the roughest times of my teens and adult years- heartbreak, professional crisis, deaths- nothing that an Asha or Lata song couldn’t salvage. The sisters held you close to their bosoms; it’s almost like their breath comforted you.

I had one bone to pick with her. In the last twenty-odd years, her playlists were more about RD Burman than any other music director. While I loved my favourite music director’s oeuvre, Ashaji was more than the sum of Pancham’s music. Asha belonged to Ravi’s Aage Bhi Jaane Na Tu as much as she belonged to Jaidev’s Jahan Mein Aisa Kon Hai. She belonged to Khayyam’s Woh Subah Kabhi To Aayegi as much as she belonged to Bappi Lahiri’s Raat Baaki. Her Nakshatranche Dene with her brother Hridayanath Mangeshkar isn’t a landmark; it is a life force breathing into our souls. Her songs with Sudhir Phadke, like Dhundi Kalyana or C Ramachadra’s Eena Meena Deeka or Malmali Tarunya, are as inviting as Sharada Sundar Chanderi, composed by her own son Hemant Bhosle. Who can forget her smashing album with Adnaan Sami- Kabhi Toh Nazar Milao. I remember it with as much warmth as I do her bouquet of splendid non-film songs with Jaidev.

Can we ever ignore OP Nayyar or Dada Burman’s contribution to the Asha Bhosle juggernaut?  OP made her shine with Akeli Hoon Main Piya from Sambandh as much as he did with Yehi Woh Jaga Hai. Isharon Isharon Mein from Kashmir Ki Kali has as much joy as Yeh Hai Reshmi Zulfon. The Asha Bhosle story can never be complete without a mention of Nayyar’s contribution, as it can be without Dada Burman.

Ab Ke Baras Bhej from Bandini is as forceful as Oh Panchi Pyaare or Kali Ghata Chhai from Sujata. The playful Ankhon Mein Kya Jee jostles for room space and vim as much as Chhod Do Anchal and Acha Ji Mein Hari.

The years Dada didn’t record with Lata were a goldmine for Ashaji’s vocals. Her crowning glory also came in the form of Meraj E Ghazal with Ghulam Ali, the legacy album with Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, Abshaar E Ghazal with Hariharan, Dil Padosi Hai with Pancham and Gulzar, and of course, the monumental Umrao Jaan albums. Do wait for Muzaffar Ali to release the songs of Zooni. Sung by almost 60-year-old Ashaji, her cognac vocals ooze love and pathos, composed by Khayyam.

There was one song by Pancham, which she had rehearsed for which ultimately some other singer sang and sang it beautifully, and Ashaji acknowledged that. For me, Ashaji in the low notes of Ustad Vilayat Khan in Ambar Ki Ek Paak or Kanu Roy in Naina Yeh Pyaase Mere or in Ajit Varman’s Man Anand Anand in Vijeta or Pancham’s Ab Jo Mile Hai Toh are more than life’s lessons.

Also, when you do have time, do check out the criminally neglected Vanraj Bhatia’s output with Ashaji in Mandi, Sardari and Junoon.

A solid raconteur, she would casually tell me how, after being severely beaten up by her first husband and made to stand out in the rain all night, she went the next day to the studios and recorded a fine “item” number. How, when her kids were toddlers, her heart would wrench when she had to go away to the studios to record 4-5 songs… How her heart broke when she had to admit her older son, five-year-old Hemant, to boarding school much against her wishes, and she always felt that was the beginning of her distance with her older child.

Her daughter Varsha’s passing away was another setback which she would never recover from. I’ve seen the stormy but strong and solid mother-daughter relationship, which could have been a page from Bergman’s Autumn Sonata.

It’s been almost a month since she’s gone, and I keep thinking she will call me again for some actor’s number or remember a forgotten song, a careless whisper or yet another delicious piece of recording room gossip.

One of my life’s greatest regrets will be not doing the book on Ashaji. Someday I shall tell that story in my autobiography, as many other showbiz stories buried deep in my heart for now.  

On the rare day that I work out to alleviate layers of hurt and pain, it’s always Kya Ghazab Karte Ho Ji or Kaanp Rahi Main from Joshila and Tum Jaiso Ko from Garam Masala. She gave items girls josh and sum. 92-year-old Ashaji’s voice had more Dum than all the Prada gals’ pretty babies.

Dum Maro Dum isn’t a song; it’s an LGBTQ salvation. Piya Baawri isn’t a sequence; it’s a meditation. Mera Kuch Samaan isn’t a lament; it’s a reminder that, despite all the hurt, a voice will come to soothe you and then seduce you. Asha isn’t an unfinished poem. It’s a hope for everyone who’s stranded on the beach. And she will comfort you with a voice that says not everyone who’s wandering is lost.

Also Read: Editor’s Take: Cinema With a Soul, Revisiting Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s Timeless Oeuvre

The Devil Wears Prada 2 has everyone in a chokehold, especially journalists of the digital age caught between content and quality. In this constant tug of war between editorial instinct and algorithmic demand, legacy media is still trying to find its footing.

As Meryl Streep steps back into the formidable role of Miranda Priestly, inspired by Anna Wintour, the film moves beyond fashion spectacle into a commentary on survival, relevance and the slow erosion of editorial authority.

Filmfare’s Editor in Chief Jitesh Pillaai reflects on a story that mirrors the realities of modern media more closely than we might like to admit.

In his words:

For anyone who has tried to stay relevant and straddle the world of AI and digital challenges while working with a legacy brand, The Devil Wears Prada 2 will strike a chord. The formidable Meryl Streep returns in fabulous form in the eponymous role as Anna Wintour. Her magazine, Runway, is in hot soup as they goof on a story and are faced with social media trolling; her publisher rings the alarm bell. Anne Hathaway, who’s been downsized at her previous job, rejoins Runaway to give it an image and perception lift.

For those of us who have grappled with marketeers and salespeople showing us how it’s done, we plod on like soldiers. In a landscape of dwindling magazine sales, digital algorithms and crazy barters, it’s time to shred your souls and march to the rhythms of your beat.

The art of reinvention does not mean shredded magazine copies you can use as toothpicks and advertisers telling you- if there’s no us, there’s no you. Through it all, there’s Madonna’s Vogue playing in the background, a wonderful cameo by Lady Gaga, lots of blink-and-miss appearances by celebs, including Donatella Versace.

The fervid landscape of fashion from the original Devil Wears Prada has changed to a more grave meditation on corporate chicanery, advertisers calling the shots and old warhorses desperately trying to tell the world not to lose their art because journalism still matters.

Yes, there are beautiful clothes on display, there’s the best of couture that the characters wear, and above it all, there’s a bleeding heart and womb trembler of a story.

The return of The Devil Wears Prada marks a return to frills, fustians and a load of smart repartees and one-liners. Like good old Nigel, who toils and labours away at a thankless job, he too finds redemption in one of the most moving scenes of the film. And according to me, despite not having an author-backed role, Emily Blunt, with her savage one-liners, steals the show.

As for the wonder Meryl Streep, she shows us yet again, beneath all that jazz and couture, why she’s the best actor of her generation. The Devil Wears Prada 2 does full justice to the world of fashion while shining a light on whether journalism as we know it has reached its cul-de-sac. Miss this jewel at your own risk. 

Read Filmfare’s Review Here: The Devil Wears Prada 2 Review: Twice the fun