When the restored version of the 1981 classic Umrao Jaan released last year, theatres were operating at full capacity. Rekha’s eyes, filled with longing, were on every second Instagram story. During one such screening in Mumbai, I observed something that surprised my parents but not me: there were barely any men in the audience. Women had come with their friends and visibly queer folks filled the rows.. When Asha Bhosle’s ‘Dil Cheez Kya Hai’ came on, everyone sang along in sync like a live concert, with Rekha’s graceful moves coming to life in restored 4K clarity. As the song progressed, some started to mirror Rekha’s moves, imploring some imaginary, illegitimate lover, reminding him that he must always return to this gathering of desire: Iss anjuman mein aapko aana hai baar, baar.. When Asha Bhosle passed away yesterday at 92, it was a poignant reminder, if one were needed, that she was the first contemporary singer in India to give shape to queer desires. Across India, drag queens and kings continue to stretch their vocal cords singing her songs before hitting Cher’s high notes. In pride marches, there is always a group of gays with a portable boombox blasting ‘Piya Tu Ab To Aaja.’. What is it about Bhosle’s oeuvre that lends itself to queer life so clearly? For one, her music felt like a soundtrack for queer men’s lives: unaffected by public morality, not confining the definition of desire to just husband and wife, acknowledging that the ‘other woman’ existed and that we were fooling ourselves if we turned an ignorant eye to her. I remember reading how Umrao Jaan was first offered to Lata Mangeshkar, who turned it down because she wasn’t sure how she could give voice to a courtesan. Bhosle, who filled in for her and was meant to sing only one song, eventually ended up lending her voice to the entire Umrao Jaan album, which earned her a National Award. She read the Urdu novel the film was based upon, understood a courtesan’s life and gave it her best shot.. The characters for whom Bhosle sang were usually considered ‘misfits’—a label that queer folk have been encumbered with for years. Consider the parts Helen played, the seemingly Anglo-Indian outsider, never the wife, always the spectacle. In the 1971 film Caravan, ‘Piya Tu Ab Toh Aaja’ is where the story peaks. Helen plays Monica, a cabaret dancer, and in the song, her moves toe a fine line between seduction and rebellion. Sunita, played by Asha Parekh, is present in the audience and has just discovered that Monica is involved with her husband. It’s a reality queer folk know all too well: married men dipping in and out of their lives, purring sweet nothings in private and ignoring in public.
