When news spread that Asha Bhosle is no more, something very strange happened in our homes. Radios were switched on with unusual reverence, playlists were dusted off like old family albums, and suddenly people who had not hummed a tune in years began to nod thoughtfully, as if they had personally coached her through every note.
We grieve. Of course we do. But not entirely because she is gone.
We grieve because we will not see her again.
Because somewhere deep inside, we are terribly visual creatures. We like our legends alive, walking, smiling, waving from balconies, and occasionally appearing on television shows where judges press buzzers and pretend they understand music.
But then something even stranger happens.
Her voice refuses to die.
It floats out of speakers, glides through car windows, slips into kitchens, and settles comfortably into our evenings as though it has signed a long term lease with humanity. You realise very quickly that a singer may leave, but her song has absolutely no intention of going anywhere.
Which brings me to Jim Reeves.
The gentleman passed away in the 1960s, yet if you enter certain homes even today, you will hear him crooning as though he has just finished his morning tea and decided to sing a little before lunch. Sixty years later, and there he is, refusing to retire, still holding notes better than most of us hold conversations.
The singer dies, but the song lives on.
And then, like all uncomfortable truths, the question turns quietly and points its finger at you and me.
What about us?
Now before you look around to see if someone else has been asked this question, let me assure you, it is you. And sadly, also me.
When we go, what will remain?
Our bank balance will not sing. It will be divided, debated, possibly disputed, and eventually forgotten.
Our arguments will not echo like melodies. Thank goodness for that, because if they did, most of us would be remembered as a series of loud, unpleasant background noises.
But the love we gave may linger.
The kindness we showed may hum softly in the lives of others.
The way we lived may replay itself in the hearts of those who watched us closely, even when we thought nobody was watching.
And here is the real test.
When your neighbours remember you, will they recall the man who fought over parking spaces as if they were pieces of disputed territory, or the one who smiled, shared, and occasionally pretended not to notice that their scooter was taking up half your space?
Because unlike singers, we do not leave behind recorded albums.
We leave behind remembered moments.
So as we listen to Asha Bhosle tonight, let us enjoy her songs, yes, but also quietly compose our own.
Because one day, we too will leave.
And it would be nice if something of us continued to play on…!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
