Namaskar, Namaskaram, Sat Sri Akaal, Salaam Walekum!” is how Usha Uthup greets you. Her robust voice resonates with her persona and philosophy. From being the highest-paid nightclub singer in 1969 to over 1000 songs in 17 Indian languages and across continents, India’s first pop icon, Usha Uthup, is an eclectic ensemble. Kanjeevaram sarees, oodles of silver, blossoms in her braids, bindis creative and curated... Her full-throated voice spellbinds audiences to join the chorus. “Forty years later, I’m still singing Hari Om Hari, One two cha cha cha, Ramba ho... I can’t do a single show without these songs. That’s what we call recall value,” she smiles. Also, I believe the song is much bigger than the singer. The song will live on,” says the septuagenarian. Yet, away from the signature exuberance, there’s another Usha braving the most excruciating test of her life in dignified surrender. Nothing had prepared her for the reality of her son, Sunny, now 52, undergoing dialysis every single day. She views the ordeal spiritually, saying, “Yeh mat kaho Khuda se meri mushkilein badi hai. Yeh kaho mushkilon se mera Khuda bada hai (Don’t tell God that your trials are huge. Rather tell your problems that my God is bigger than them.” Her journey in Usha Uthup’s words...

Being different got me noticed I grew up in a middle-class, secular Tamil home in Mumbai. My parents enjoyed music, from Western classical to Hindustani. My neighbours were Muslims, Jameela and Shamim Pathan. I was influenced by their way of life, even observing roza and performing namaz. Studying in a convent, the atmosphere there was Christian. That’s the India I’d love to have one more time, where there are no differences based on religion. Coming back to school, I was once thrown out of class because my music teacher, Ms. Davidson, believed my voice didn’t suit the choir. But realising I had musical talent, she gave me the triangle and clappers to play. I began as a live performer. There were only print media and radio in those days. The media largely covered film stars. Recognition came gradually, which is why I’ve survived so long without a godfather. I began singing at the Nine Gems nightclub in Madras in 1969. Later, I sang at the hotel Savera. Then I received a letter from the Ritz Hotel in Mumbai inviting me to sing. This was followed by the hotel Trincas on Park Street, Kolkata. People came to see and hear me through word-of-mouth. When BK Karanjia (an ex-Filmfare editor) saw me perform, he appreciated it. I began to be written about—the fact that I was a South Indian girl, draped in Kanjeevaram sarees, belting out English numbers. In those days, it was the privilege of the Anglo-Indian community, looking marvellous in beautiful gowns and wigs, to sing in nightclubs. But being different won me over. It’s not how good or bad you are; it’s how original you are. When I saw people from different communities in the audience, I rendered a song in their language. The connection was immediate. My repertoire of English, Hindi, Marathi, Tamil, etc. songs grew.

Hare Rama Hare Krishna was path-breaking

Once, the Navketan unit, including Vijay Anand and Dev Anand, along with RD Burman, Sanjay Khan and Shashi Kapoor, came to the Oberoi Continental in Delhi to hear me sing. Soon, I was offered Hare Rama Hare Krishna (1971). However, Shashi Kapoor gave me my first chance in Bombay Talkie (1970). Jennifer Kapoor and I wrote the lyrics for Good times, which were beautifully set to a tune by Shankar-Jaikishan (SJ). I sang another number, Hari Om Tat Sat, too. I’m grateful to filmmakers James Ivory, Ismail Merchant, and SJ for the big break.

If someone were to ask me about Dum maaro dum (Hare Rama Hare Krishna), it was written that Ashaji (Bhosle) would record it, though I went first for the rehearsals. After that, RD Burman gave me the English song I love you. I never held it against anyone. Because even now people think Dum maaro dum is my song. So it doesn’t matter who sang before you. I was in awe and admiration of Lataji (Mangeshkar). But I could never be like her in ten births. I sing her Bindiya chamkegi (Do Raaste) and Ajeeb dastaan hai in my style. I was inspired by Harry Belafonte’s Matilda, Matilda (1956). I wanted to connect with my audience like he did.

Having been around for 54 years,  I have to be as good as my last moment. I’m a nervous wreck before every show. Especially when you’re singing the same songs a million times. Music is not my business; communication is. Also, I believe the song is much bigger than the singer. The song will live on. Were songs taken away from me? Oh, so many! I take it with a laugh. But I was never in the rat race. There’s always another song from the universe. Gaane gaane pe likha hai gaanewale ka naam. There’s room for everyone. Of course, it would have been nice if I’d gotten more songs and earned more money. But there’s no end to wanting.

 

RD Burman was ahead of his time

RD was way, way ahead of his time, which is why his music is still relevant. When Bob Dylan wrote Blowin’ in the wind (1962), he wouldn’t have imagined the song would be eternal. Nor did John Lennon when he rendered Imagine (1971). Music needs time to grow into a classic. RD stood out because he was different. In the flurry of so much music, he composed numbers like Kuch toh log kahenge and Raina beeti na jaaye  (both Amar Prem). He could assimilate the good attributes of world music and make it his own. Sadly, Pancham was not appreciated as much during his lifetime. Today, he’s heard and remixed so much. Chura liya (Yaadon Ki Baarat, 1973) is based on the song If it’s Tuesday, this must be Belgium (sung by Bojoura in 1969). I had the privilege of sharing this song with him, like many others. SJ used a lot of brass and Laxmikant-Pyarelal had an amazing violin string section, while RD introduced the mood synthesiser, percussion, bass guitar, 12-string guitar, etc. For instance, imagine getting that tone out of the keyboard in the introduction music of Shaan (1980). Also, his last score was not 1941: A Love Story (1994). It was the Bengali song Kolkata te bati nei with me, released years later.

Bappida loved gold jewellery

Bappi Lahiri was the first to bring disco music to India. Initially, he was guided by his father, Aparesh Lahiri, who had a strong hold over folk music. His mother (Bansari Lahiri) and his wife (Chitrani Lahiri) were supportive. Theirs was such a ‘family’ family. He created amazing songs apart from disco numbers, including Chalte chalte (Chalte Chalte,1973), Maana ho tum (Toote Khilone, 1978) and many more. Bappida loved gold jewellery. If one had even a quarter of his gold, it would be such fun. He’d walk in with the expression, ‘How do I look?’ He had some amazing pieces: an Om pendant, a Ganesha, a huge chain with big links... Kalpana Iyer, a dear friend, danced beautifully to the numbers (Hari Om Hari, Ramba ho). People appreciate her more today. Like I said, why don’t you give me a rose when I can smell it more than when I’m dead and gone? Vishal Bhardwaj is a fantastic composer. I thank him for giving me Darling, apart from the chance to act as Aunt Matilda in Saat Khoon Maaf (2011). One of the husbands in the film is a Russian. Darling is based on the Russian song Kalinka. It’s one of my best songs. I got the Filmfare Award for it.

Bangles, bindis, flowers, sarees are my fashion statement

My attire has always been written about. Coming from a traditional home, I wore sarees. Those days, we painted bindis out of a liquid bottle. Later, I drew my own designs with fabric paint. They didn’t smudge during the shows. Once I was at Benzer stores at Breach Candy when the owner said, “College students, aapki bindi pe fida hai. Please make a design for us.” I drew an alphabet in Bengali. He made bindi stickers out of it, and it became a rage. I also design bindis in Tamil and Malayalam scripts. Now I get my bindis from Emran Varsha’s shop in Bandra. My flowers were created by Ila Chaudhary from a certain material. Also, I’m an attar freak. I blend oud and amber for a unique fragrance.

In many ways, you could call me a fraud

My songs are an extension of me. Full of life. But of course I have low moments. In fact, I have them every day. My son Sunny was diagnosed with kidney disease in 2015, which has been the biggest blow to me. He undergoes dialysis every day. We have a home unit. To see it as a mother every single day has taken a lot from me. When Sunny’s condition was first diagnosed, my reaction was anger, though I’m someone who never gets angry. The anger was because I’d never heard of terms like creatinine before. I felt so inadequate to deal with what my son was going through. The next day, I had a show in Kolkata. After the show, I called someone to help me down as I feared fainting. Luckily, there was a doctor in the auditorium. That’s one night I’ll never forget. When Sunny had a transplant in Cochin (sadly, it failed), I’d be sitting on the sofa day and night. My daughter, Anjali and Sunny, seeing my state, said, ‘Amma has to sing’. I’d stopped singing for some time. During that time, I sang Hoi kiw for Rock On 2 (2016). Listening to it, you wouldn’t imagine that I was going through such a terrible time. In many ways, you could call me a fraud. I look strong, but I am vulnerable.

I advocate crying for everyone Before entering Sunny’s room, I cry every day. I ask God, ‘Is there anything to look forward to except

his next dialysis?’ But when I open the door, I’m a changed person. I greet him, ‘Hi Sunny, how are you feeling? Lovely day to go out!’ You’ve got to accept what God throws at you. I advocate crying for everyone. 

It’s therapeutic; it’s cathartic. It helps deal with pain. I’m not religious, but spiritual. I am an old soul. I’ve realised that you don’t hold the remote to anything. It’s God’s grace that I have music. Or else it would have been impossible for me.  More on: Usha Uthup

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