Among Suman Kalyanpur’s many recordings, none achieved greater popularity than ‘Aaj kal tere mere pyaar ke charchay’ from the Bollywood film Brahmachari [The Celibate, 1968].

Composed by the legendary duo Shankar-Jaikishan, written by Hasrat Jaipuri and sung with Mohammed Rafi, it was picturised principally on Shammi Kapoor and Mumtaz in one of Hindi cinema’s most exuberant romantic sequences.

The song emerged from an interesting accident of history. The tune, reportedly discarded elsewhere, was rescued by Shammi Kapoor and incorporated into the film, becoming one of the decade’s defining songs. Even today, many listeners mistakenly assume the female voice belongs to Lata Mangeshkar — a tribute not to confusion but to the extraordinary technical perfection of Suman’s singing.

Suman, who died aged 89 on May 30, 2026, belonged to that melancholy fraternity of artists whose greatest distinction became inseparable from the collective musical memory of the Subcontinent. Her vocal resemblance to Lata was extraordinary: the same delicately balanced high notes, the same emotional restraint, the same ability to sound youthful and wistful at once.

The singer, who passed away on May 30, belonged to that melancholy fraternity of vocal artists whose greatest distinction became inseparable from the collective musical memory of the Subcontinent

Yet, Suman was never merely a substitute for a more famous singer. She was among the most refined playback artists of Hindi cinema’s Golden Age, a singer whose voice quietly accompanied millions of ordinary lives across South Asia.

However, for my generation, her music was not encountered through film magazines or record collections but through the radio. In the 1970s, my mother would prepare breakfast in our Karachi home while programmes such as Taameel-i-Irshad gave way to Binaca Geetmala and other music broadcasts. She had a particular fondness for Suman’s voice. Whenever one of her songs came on the radio, my mother would pause momentarily from her work in the kitchen, listening with a concentration usually reserved for prayers or family news.

My father, born in Bombay in 1932, would respond with stories of the city he had left behind. He remembered tea shops in the 1940s and 1950s, where gramophones played the latest film songs while students, workers and political activists argued over tea. For him, these songs were not mere entertainment; they were fragments of a lost homeland.

Born in Dhaka in 1937, then part of British India, Suman eventually moved to Bombay, the city that had become the centre of South Asian cinema. Bombay, in the 1950s, was one of the world’s great cultural laboratories. Urdu poets from Lucknow worked alongside Punjabi composers; Bengali musicians collaborated with Gujarati financiers; Muslim lyricists wrote bhajans while Hindu composers arranged qawwalis. Playback music emerged from this atmosphere as perhaps the most democratic art form in the newly independent Subcontinent.

Among Suman’s most beautiful recordings was ‘Dil aik mandir hai’, the title song from Dil Aik Mandir [The Heart is a Temple, 1963]. Composed by Shankar-Jaikishan and sung with Rafi, it accompanied the emotional climax of the film starring Rajendra Kumar, Meena Kumari and Raaj Kumar. The song is heard as the story reaches its tragic conclusion, transforming a conventional film melody into a meditation on sacrifice and love. Few singers could combine devotion and heartbreak with such restraint.

Equally memorable was ‘Na na kartay pyaar tumhien se kar baithay’ from Jab Jab Phool Khilay [Whenever the Flowers Bloomed, 1965], composed by Kalyanji-Anandji and picturised on Shashi Kapoor and Nanda. The song captured the innocence of romance before Bollywood discovered irony. Generations of listeners associated it with first love, youthful hesitation and the optimism of the 1960s. It remains one of the finest examples of Suman’s ability to sound playful without losing elegance.

Then there was ‘Tum ne pukara aur hum chalay aaye’ from Rajkumar [Prince, 1964], composed by Shankar-Jaikishan, and picturised on Shammi Kapoor and Sadhana. Few romantic duets better demonstrate the chemistry between Rafi and Suman. The song floats rather than marches, allowing the voices to carry the emotional weight. It became one of the most beloved radio favourites of its era.

Another gem was ‘Na tum humain jaano’ from Baat Aik Raat Ki [A Tale of One Night, 1962], composed by S.D. Burman and picturised on Dev Anand and Waheeda Rehman. Though overshadowed by bigger commercial hits, it remains among the most atmospheric songs of the period. Suman’s voice seems almost to emerge from mist, perfectly matching the mystery and romance that defined the film.

Listeners with a taste for lyricism often point to ‘Parbaton ke paeron par shaam kabasera hai’ from Shagoon [Omen, 1964], composed by Khayyam and picturised on Waheeda Rehman and Kamaljit. The song possesses the unhurried beauty of an Urdu nazm [poem] set to music. In it, one hears Suman at her most delicate, navigating Khayyam’s sophisticated composition with effortless grace.

Part of Suman’s rise owed to circumstance. During the 1960s, disputes over royalty payments created a temporary distance between Lata and Rafi. Music directors suddenly required another female singer capable of pairing effectively with Rafi. Suman became the natural choice. Cynics later reduced her success to this industrial incident, as though she had flourished merely because of a quarrel between giants. Yet, the industry is full of temporary replacements who vanish quickly.

Suman endured because listeners genuinely loved her voice. By the time I reached college in Karachi during the 1980s, the soundtrack of urban life had shifted from radio to cassette tapes. Long journeys in overcrowded mini-buses became bearable because drivers invariably played compilations of old Hindi songs.

The speakers crackled, the buses rattled and the traffic crawled. Yet, songs by Suman somehow survived the distortion. ‘Aaj kal tere merepyaar ke charchay’ or ‘Na na kartay pyaar’ would suddenly emerge from the noise, transporting passengers into their own memories.

Many travellers probably did not know the singer’s name. Yet they knew every word of the songs. This was the paradox of Suman’s career. She may never have enjoyed the overwhelming fame of Lata or the flamboyant versatility of Asha Bhosle, but she possessed something equally valuable: durability. Her songs became part of ordinary life across South Asia. They crossed borders more easily than people. They survived wars, censorship, nationalism and technological change.

Today, my children are grown up. They live in a world of streaming platforms, playlists and infinite musical choices. Yet, I sometimes wonder whether abundance has come at the cost of attachment. We waited for songs. We heard them unexpectedly on radios and on bus journeys. We associated them with places, people and moments.

Suman Kalyanpur’s voice still carries me back to my mother’s kitchen in the 1970s, my father’s memories of Bombay, and Karachi’s crowded roads in the 1980s. History will remember Suman Kalyanpur as one of the finest playback singers of Hindi cinema’s Golden Age. I shall remember her for something simpler: the soundtrack of family memories.

Her songs continue to play long after the gramophones have fallen silent, the radio programmes have disappeared and the cassette tapes have worn out. I only wish younger generations could experience them with the same sense of wonder that we once did.

The writer is a columnist, educator and film critic. He can be reached at mnazir1964@yahoo.co.uk

Published in Dawn, ICON, June 7th, 2026