In 2003, I started teaching French. A few years later, I was asked to conduct a special conversation workshop for two children who wished to learn the foreign language as a hobby. Since the nine-year-old twins could not attend regular courses designed for adults, I would have to teach them at their residence. I reached the address, an apartment on the last floor of a building in Bandra, and rang the bell. A short, elderly lady opened the door. A pastel crepe sari with a floral burst. She seemed familiar. She pointed to the sofa, hinting that I take a seat, and she sat opposite me, making calls on the landline and humming Hemant Kumar’s ‘Pukar lo’. I froze in my seat. That’s when I recognised—the voice! I somehow managed to maintain a professional distance and silence, all ears, until Mrs Anuja Bhosle came. She greeted me, ‘Hello Miss.’, and introduced us, ‘Meet my mother-in-law Mrs Asha Bhosle.’ Strangely, this time, before I realised, words tumbled out of my mouth, ‘Of course. My aunts have worked with you. Rekha and Chitra.’ Hearing that, Asha tai’s eyes gleamed. My maternal aunts were stars of Marathi Cinema in the fifties and she had sung for many of t heir films. Naturally, she asked, ‘Kusum kashi ahe?’ How is Kusum? I was tickled to hear t hat name from her. After years I had heard it that day. Many do not even know it, and almost no one used it except my grandmother. Kumud and Kusum were their real names, and Rekha and Chitra their popular screen names. I smiled. Just then two podgy, joyous, impossibly cute children bounced in, with big wonderstruck eyes. Zanai and Ranjai. We commenced our French lesson. Asha tai kept coming to me to enquire about my aunts and their families. I updated her about their whereabouts. Next, she came and stood there to learn the alphabet. She asked me how to spell her name in French. It was surreal. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to behave professional or informal. A Francophone tutor or just another Marathi fangirl! The next class, my pulse raced as I stood at the door and rang the bell. Would she…? Our language workshop continued for two years, once a week, until my son Alyosh was born. Before every class I would wonder… T he twins and their school friend would be engrossed in French conversation, language games or songs. Sometimes, the doorbell would ring three, four times, incessantly, till the door was opened. Their grandmother would march in matter-of-factly, frugally dressed in a flowing printed sari and sunglasses, returning home from a routine day at work, through hot and humid Mumbai weather. She would pause to chat with us before going in to rest. Pulling my leg impishly, she would pretend to roll her eyes at the children, ‘Hya baai khup kadak ahet. Neet abhyas kara.’ ‘This Madam is very strict. Study well!’ We all laughed. She would break into mishti Bangla with the twins’ Bengali friend. I would listen mesmerised; it was impossible t o focus back on the class. Being particular about punctuality, I would often reach early and wait. If Asha tai was at home, she would sit with me. She would reminisce about her early days in Marathi Cinema, and how she would pick my aunts from their home in Dadar. ‘Chalaa ga mulinno!’, Come on girls! She would put them in a car and take them along to rehearsals and recordings. My grandmother’s house flashed before my eyes. An old landmark building next to Plaza Cinema. One day suddenly, she asked me, ‘Do you want chicken sandwiches?’ I hesitated politely. She said, ‘I’m craving some, let’s order from Candies.’ And we relished decadent chicken sandwiches and tea over chitchat. Was this the same diva of Bollywood, the charmer, the heartthrob of generations? Asha-ji to t he world!She would often ask me to join for lunch. Usually seafood. I would refuse shyly. Once she insisted I taste her chicken curry with bhaat. It was extremely creamy and delicious. I couldn’t help asking if it contained coconut milk. She shared her simple secret: not coconut milk, just milk. Wow! No idea why I would always carry a box of kheerkodom for her. Perhaps because it is my weakness. She looked at me with amusement, observing knowingly that no one prepares this delicacy quite like the Bengalis.One day, I entered the house to see that the drawing room was full of people. The air was tense. I stood watching quietly from afar. Zanai was rehearsing her first song to be recorded for a film. It was a lively children’s song on rain but the little girl was not enjoying it. Over the next few minutes, I became a part of the wall and witnessed something I cannot express in words. The legendary playback singer herself mentored her granddaughter cheerfully. She was cajoling her, asking her to visualise the vibrant choreography on a big screen, showing her tirelessly how to feel that rhythm in her body, and pour joy into the words and notes. What a moment! T he room felt heavy with her sheer genius and years of experience, yet so light with affection and that playful voice. In a second, it also decoded all her breezy numbers that were waltzing in my head—Aankhon mein kya ji, Paanch rupayiah bara aanaa, Deewana mastana hua dil, Raat akeli hai, Jaraassa jhoomloo mai… So many… After that, to return to reality and conduct a class was a true test of focus. Just a few French lessons were enough to reveal my students’ ease at picking up accents and tongue-twisting pronunciations, emulating them intuitively with a sense of humour. I began to teach them speech, through rhymes and songs, more than reading and writing. In December, we were learning about French festivals and celebrations, working on the theme of Christmas. The children were making posters and singing carols. Asha tai appeared and began tapping her foot. For her, I quickly scribbled the French lyrics of Jingle Bells in the phonetic Devnagari script, and she joined in the festivity with enthusiasm: Vive le vent, Vive le vent, Vive le vent d’hiver! What a riot that workshop was! The presence of celebrities often leaves me shy and awkward but I looked forward to that assignment. When news reached Alliance Française, they asked me to interview the students’ grandmother for the cultural magazine Impressions. I loved the idea of writing something on t he Cabaret Queen’s French connection. Asha tai agreed immediately and one morning, she called me to her place. I went with some broad questions in mind. A box of kheerkodom in hand. I asked the multilingual singer which language I should interview her in, Marathi, Hindi or English. She retorted wittily, with her smug face, ‘Mala phakta French yeta.’ I speak only French! We laughed helplessly. As the informal adda unfolded, she brought alive memories of her early visits to Paris. She fondly recalled her tribute to the Louvre despite her knee pain, the overwhelming Impressionists, and her first lunch with a view from the Eiffel Tower, with her small children. She continued talking, about Gigi—her favourite film based on Colette’s French novella, the exquisite creams and fragrances of L’Occitane, the Can-Can, and above all, the incomprehensible language. Often she would have to resort to signs and gestures to communicate, she laughed. At the same time, the soft sounds would tickle her ear like feathery whispers. And she would listen… It was her dream that her grandchildren speak French— t he world’s sweetest language. Said the lady with the world’s sweetest voice. And I listened… Speaking of French cuisine, she smacked her lips wistfully remembering the croissants at Gaylord in Churchgate, praising a French chef who worked there back in the day. That day, I learnt about her deep connection with Gastronomy—her popular Indian fine-dining restaurants, Asha’s, dotted across Asia and England. By then, I had witnessed her passion for cooking and feeding everyone. A spirit of hospitality and affection mirrored by my friends in France. Our conversation flowed for a long time that day, meandering from one topic to another. She kept saying, ‘Ask me more…’, losing herself in the exotic perfume of those glorious times. That glittering reverie ended with a flourish—an anecdote of her packed concert in Spain followed by a rendition of Guantanamera… I was riveted, and transported, to the land of my dreams. T hat piece was An Evening in Paris with Asha tai. A gem. For many days, I was steeped in t he afterglow of her joie de vivre and my tête-à-tête. With a legend. The following summer, she took the twins to feel the magic of Paris. For linguistic immersion. She had always been a stoic woman, a single parent to her three children, ‘Asha Aai’ t o her loved ones. In the past decade, she suffered immeasurable personal loss yet continued her work, her music, and her exuberant public life. After Alyosh was born, whenever we met, she never failed to ask, ‘Tujha porga kasa ahe?’ How’s your kiddo? In March, we saw her grace the performance of an old Marathi comedy. She sat through the three-hour play and addressed the audience in the interval. Her words were, ‘We must watch plays and encourage T heatre. I will do a concert here soon.’ The auditorium resounded with awe and applause. On 12 April, the nation was stunned into silence when such an indomitable spirit passed on, at 92. My mother and I went to pay our last respects, and we met the family after many years. Zanai saw me and all she said was, ‘She wanted to learn French.’ I just hugged her tight. Adieu Asha Aai. We love you.
