I clearly remember the moment I noticed Asha Bhosle. “Iske aage hum aur kya kahen… jaanam samjha karo.” It was everywhere. I must have been in Class 10.
The album played on loop on television, the video instantly recognisable, and there she was, Asha Bhosle herself, not just as a voice, but as a presence. She was stylish, effortless, completely at ease. That, I think, was the first time I connected the voice to the person.
Which is strange, because I had already been listening to her for years.
Growing up, music was always playing at home. My parents had a deep love for old Hindi songs, so names like Asha Bhosle, Lata Mangeshkar, O.P. Nayyar, Rafi, and Kishore Kumar were part of the everyday soundscape. The songs were constant, almost like a background score to life. You didn’t stop to ask who was singing. You just absorbed it.
It’s only later that you realise how much of it was her. That’s the thing about Asha Bhosle for many of us, especially those who grew up in the 90s and early 2000s. You don’t discover her in one moment; rather, you circle back to her again and again.
After “Jaanam Samjha Karo”, I began noticing her more consciously. Not in a structured way, there was no deep dive, no curated playlist.
Just YouTube searches during long commutes, clicking from one song to another. One day it would be something playful, the next day a ghazal, then something completely unexpected. And slowly, the range becomes impossible to ignore.
She doesn’t stay in one mood for too long.
Even now, when I go back to her songs, it’s rarely out of nostalgia alone. It’s because they still hold up. You can put on an Asha Bhosle track in the middle of a busy workday commute, and it doesn’t feel dated or distant. It just fits.
A few other songs come rushing back just as easily. “Piya Tu Ab To Aaja,” that infectious “Monica… oh my darling,” was something you heard long before you understood its context.
And then something like “Dil Cheez Kya Hai” from Umrao Jaan, slower, measured, completely different in mood. The same voice, but quieter, more controlled. It’s in these contrasts that you begin to realise just how much ground she covered.
And maybe that’s why her passing feels different. Not like the loss of someone you admired from afar, but someone who was always around, on the radio, in the car, in the background of conversations, and later, in your own headphones.
You don’t remember when she entered your life. But you know she never really left.