13/04/2026
My tryst with Hindi cinema began with Maine Pyar Kiya. To me, Bhagyashree was the epitome of all things a heroine should be. I was 5. Ma was busy producing the younger sibling, and in those fleeting moments of being “unattended,” I managed to watch the Salman–Bhagyashree starrer.
As I grew up, I graduated to Aamir–Juhi films, and the effervescent Juhi found her way into my fangirl universe.
Until one day, when the stars aligned, and I watched “Tanha Tanha Yahan Pe Jeena” on TV.
Just that one song—because watching the whole of Rangeela at 11 was strictly off-limits.
I was at an age where we called dresses “frocks.” What Urmila wore didn’t qualify as one. It was a sando genji’s longer, audacious cousin.
The woman. The sea. The gallop on sand. Everything in between.
I was speechless.
We belong to an age where “I want to become like her” almost always meant heroines.
At family gatherings, my go-to performance used to be “Dil Deewana bin Sajna ke.” My cousins still remind me how ridiculously “dnepo” I was for my age.
Post Tanha Tanha, “I want to become like Bhagyashree” began to sound like choosing potol-er torkari over mutton biryani.
“Tanha Tanha” shut doors to naivety and flung open gateways to my elevated pakamo.
I still remember every word of that song. It felt like tasting forbidden fruit. Even without watching the whole film then, that one song stayed.
And that song was sung by Asha Bhosle.
Much later, I wondered—was it Urmila, or was it Asha Ji who offered me that forbidden fruit, sliced and served on fine china?
Not to take anything away from Urmila or her sando genji—it was Asha Ji.
The whiskey in her voice. The way she gave sound to female desire, eroticism, pleasure!
As a friend said: “The paradox of a world that loves the sexualisation of women but remains oblivious to their sexuality.”
Asha Ji gave voice to that truth.
Among the many songs I discovered later—somewhere between “Aage Bhi Jaane Na Tu” and “Mera Kuch Saamaan”—this one song will always remain my doorway to you.
I love you for your music and for emotionally sponsoring me.
But I am indebted to you for teaching me what “Sexy” is.
Not skin. Not spectacle.
But something far more intimate. Unmistakably powerful.
Happy journey, Asha Ji—wherever you’re headed.
“Koi toh bane humsafar… raahon mein teri…”