Do Nightingales Have Languages?

When Lata Mangeshkar, the legendary Bollywood singer, died, the headlines read: “The Nightingale of India has passed away.” Last week, when S. Janaki, an equally accomplished singer, passed away, the headlines read: “The Nightingale of South India has passed away.” Even the Amul ad said: Last Song of the Nightingale of South India

The distinction seems harmless. Perhaps even affectionate. But look at it for a moment longer, and a question emerges.

Why is one the Nightingale of India, while the other is the Nightingale of South India?

This is not about whether Lata Mangeshkar was better than S. Janaki, or whether S. Janaki was better than Lata Mangeshkar. Such comparisons are pointless, especially with artists whose voices have become part of the emotional memory of generations.

Nor is it really about numbers.

Popular accounts have credited Lata Mangeshkar with as many as 50,000 songs and S. Janaki with around 48,000. The actual numbers are considerably more complicated. In 2011, Guinness World Records recognised Asha Bhosle as the most recorded artist in music history, crediting her with up to 11,000 solo, duet and chorus-backed songs in more than 20 Indian languages. Since 2016, the record has belonged to P. Susheela, with at least 17,695 recorded songs in over six languages—not counting some early recordings that have been lost.

In short, India has produced some of the most prolific singers anywhere in the world.

But this is not about numbers.

It is about perception. And perspective.

Lata Mangeshkar sang predominantly in Hindi and became the Nightingale of India. S. Janaki sang predominantly in South Indian languages and became the Nightingale of South India.

Why?

Does Hindi somehow carry an automatic claim to Indianness, while Kannada, Tamil, Telugu or Malayalam must first declare their geography?

The question reminded me of an interview I once watched with the Egyptian feminist writer and activist Nawal El Saadawi. She strongly objected when the interviewer referred to Egypt as part of the Middle East.

Middle to what? Middle to whom?

The term, she pointed out, came from a colonial worldview in which London was the centre. Egypt became the Middle East. India became the Far East. Everything was named according to its distance and direction from somewhere else.

To expose the absurdity, she would joke that when travelling to London, she was going to the Middle West. And when visiting the United States, she was travelling to the Far West.

The geography had not changed.

Only the point of view had.

And that is why I think her question is relevant here.

We, too, operate through perception—often without realising it.

A singer who becomes immensely popular singing in Hindi can become the voice of India. A singer of comparable stature who sings predominantly in other Indian languages somehow requires a regional qualifier.

This is the quiet undercurrent that unsettles me. It is not a colonial legacy in the same way that Middle East or Far East is. It is something we have created ourselves in independent India—and, perhaps, something that has quietly seeped deeper into the Indian psyche over time.

Words shape perception. Labels reveal perspective.

And sometimes, a single missing qualifier tells us as much as the qualifier itself. Can India not simply have nightingales, without attaching linguistic borders to their voices?

Why can’t India have two Nightingales? Perhaps the answer depends on the optics we operate with.

A related reflection

This question does not begin or end with two singers. It is part of a larger conversation about language, identity and the stories we quietly accept. I explore that further in Language and the Quiet Rise of Cultural Hegemony.