Our Last Refrain For Suman Kalyanpur
· Free Press Journal
It is impossible to process the disbelief of your passing. To think that it all began when you were just a sixteen-year-old art student here in Mumbai, discovered by the gentle titan Talat Mahmood, who was so spellbound by your talent that he insisted on singing with you. Later, your voices would melt together in that remarkable, tender duet Kahiye Suniye Aao Dono Iqrar Karen, announcing a rare star had arrived. For someone of your immense talent, the collective feeling today is a profound sense of deprivation; you should have sung more, much more. The industry should have cleared a wider path for a gift so pure. Yet, you never complained. When music directors like SD Burman, Shankar-Jaikishan, Roshan, Khayyam, and Kalyanji-Anandji brought you their most complex compositions, you delivered them flawlessly, precisely. We can still hear you matching Mohammed Rafi’s boundless energy in Aajkal Tere Mere Pyaar Ke Charche and the grand, soaring romance of Tumne Pukara Aur Hum Chale Aaye. Then there is that deeply playful, memorable duet, Thehriye Hosh Mein Aa Loon To Chale Jaiyega, where you, soft and hesitant, perfectly balanced Rafi's persistence. You gave these songs a distinct, shimmering warmth that belonged entirely to you.
Yet, your journey was constantly shadowed by a double-edged sword. The world endlessly obsessed over your vocal resemblance to Lata Mangeshkar. If we are to close our eyes and listen today to your haunting solo Na Tum Hamen Jaano or your rare, legendary face-off with Lata herself in Kabhi Aaj Kabhi Kal, we would find it hard to distinguish between the two of you. But whenever we brought up the comparison, your response was pure humility. You were never bitter; you dismissed the talk, choosing to call Lataji an immortal friend. You soared above the fierce politics of the playback industry, choosing a quiet family life over the clamour for the spotlight. That peace defined your independent work too. Our thoughts drift, and we find ourselves humming the non-film gems you left behind. We remember Yogesh’s beautiful lyrics in Kitni Baar Mile Tum Mujhse, where you captured the gentle hesitation of love with such delicate grace. We look at the honours left behind and cannot help but feel a familiar ache. Your Padma Bhushan recognition came so incredibly late, arriving only when you were 86 years old, a lifetime after your voice had already shaped our history. There is now only this quiet, empty space, the lingering echo of your tanpura, and the dry ache of realising that a truly golden voice, fragile and crystalline, has fallen silent. As the shadows lengthen, your own famous Marathi melody returns to console us: Sang kadhi kalnar tula, bhav mazya manatala...Tell me, when will you ever understand the unspoken feelings deep within my heart? We finally do understand, Suman ji. Fare thee well!
Visit moryak.biz for more information.