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The Many Melodies of Preeti Sagar: Songs, Jingles, and Soundtracks from a Golden Voice
A vivacious young woman in a green swimsuit gleefully bathing under a waterfall and humming the instantly earwormy ‘la, lalala, la, la, la…’ jingle. It remains one of India’s most enduring advertising icons. Created by ad agency Lintas and late advertising guru Alyque Padamsee, the ad captured the imagination of an entire generation with its pure, carefree essence and the evocation of ‘tingling freshness’ – a creative choice as much visual as sonic. Though the face on screen was Karen Lunel, her legs cavorting in the cold water igniting the imagination of an entire generation of young men, it was the light, memorable humming, rendered by Preeti Sagar, that gave the ad its unforgettable soul and helped cement its place in advertising folklore
The year was 1975 and for Preeti Sagar it was to be the year. Though her stint with jingles had started a few years ago, the Liril hum would cement her place as an icon when it came to ads. That same year, she would provide Hindi cinema with a timeless number like no other: My heart is beating, in Julie. And as if to prove that she was not just about peppy westernized ditties, she would render the classical gem Piya baaj pyala in Nishant the same year.
In an era ruled by Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosle, it isn’t surprising that despite this golden streak in 1975, Preeti Sagar’s career in Hindi film music is more about flashes of brilliance rather than a long arc of mainstream playback success. She was never a ‘prolific’playback singer in the conventional sense, but her handful of songs – whether in mainstream films like Julie or in arthouse and middle cinema projects, primarily with Shyam Benegal and Vanraj Bhatia – carry an extraordinary distinctiveness. Her voice was fresh, nuanced and unafraid of playfulness. Across a small but remarkable range, she could be effervescent, soulful or bitingly satirical. A handful of songs, from different moments of her career, bring out her versatility, providing a fascinating mosaic of a singer who brought character, wit and authenticity into every assignment.
And when the playback assignments dried up – the musically terrible 1980s had no place for a singer of her calibre, though it is surprising that composers did not capitalize on the modernity in her voice for the disco era – she turned her attention to singing for children and revolutionized that space with her nursery rhymes.
Piya Baaj Pyala – Nishant (1975)
Among the many quiet yet powerful musical moments in Shyam Benegal’s film, Piya baaj pyala written by Quli Qutub Shah, stands out as an exemplar of the director’s collaboration with composer Vanraj Bhatia. Set within the grim and oppressive atmosphere of feudal exploitation that the film portrays, this composition creates an intimate space of inner yearning, an almost private register of desire that seems to run counter to the violence and control dominating the narrative.
The ethos of the song is one of restrained sensuality and classical dignity. Unlike mainstream Hindi film songs of the mid-1970s, designed for immediate melodic appeal and chart success, Piya baaj pyala belongs to a different world – steeped in the grammar of Hindustani classical music. Its very phrasing draws upon the structure of a thumri, with its slow, languorous unfolding of emotion, its interplay of intoxication and absence. The lyric, piya baaj pyala piyajaaye na, is simple, almost proverbial: a cup of wine has no meaning without the beloved’s presence. The metaphor of the pyala (goblet) connects love, longing and intoxication into one seamless evocation of incompleteness, a theme that resonates with the film’s atmosphere of suppressed desire and stifled agency.
Vanraj Bhatia, who had been trained rigorously in both Western classical music and Hindustani traditions, gives the song a remarkable delicacy. The composition avoids the lush orchestration of commercial cinema. Instead, it employs a spare yet evocative arrangement – gentle strokes of the sitar, the shimmer of the tanpura, a restrained use of table – to create an ambience at once intimate and timeless. This minimalism heightens the song’s emotional intensity. Bhatia’s great gift lay in his ability to bring classical idioms into the cinematic form without reducing them to cliché. Here, he crafts a soundscape that seems both rooted in the raga tradition and perfectly in tune with the naturalistic realism of Benegal’s film-making.
The rendition by Preeti Sagar is another striking element. In a total contrast to My heart is beating, Sagar reveals here a different register of her voice – deeply trained, controlled and sensitive to the demands of classical music. Where My heart is beating, projected a girlish effervescence, capturing youthful energy in English lyrics and airy orchestration, Piya baaj pyala is anchored in gravitas. Sagar’s voice moves with measured grace through the long, drawn-out notes, infusing them with restrained passion and an almost aching vulnerability. The contrast between the two songs, released in the same year, is illustrative of her versatility and of the different musical universes coexisting in Hindi cinema at the time.
Mero Gaam Katha Parey – Manthan (1976)
Rooted in the soil of Gujarat, the song has an earthy, folk ethos – simple in melodic structure yet profound in its evocation of community life, tradition and belonging. The director-composer duo of Shyam Benegal and Vanraj Bhatia were committed to creating a filmic idiom that was at once rooted in Indian cultural traditions and responsive to contemporary socio-political realities. Music in Benegal’s cinema rarely functions as escapist relief; it deepens character, mood and theme. This song, written by Neeti Sagar, becomes an island of personal, almost subversive, expression. It is a rare glimpse into the emotional undercurrents beneath the social surface.
Preeti Sagar’s voice is stripped of artifice here: pure, plaintive, almost anonymous, as if it rises from the very women of the village rather than a trained playback singer. The restrained orchestration, with folk instruments and minimal embellishment, mirrors Shyam Benegal’s realism, anchoring the song in authenticity. Unlike the urbane freshness of Julie, this rendition emphasizes collective identity over individual charm. It is less about display and more about evoking the lived rhythms of rural life, making it an emblem of India’s parallel cinema and a milestone in how songs could serve storytelling. So pastoral and passionate was the track that it even left Prince Charles enthralled.
Preeti Sagar in Bhumika (1977): Three Voices, Three Worlds
When Shyam Benegal made Bhumika (1977), inspired by the turbulent life of the Marathi actress Hansa Wadkar, he was already established as one of the leading voices of India’s New Cinema. With Ankur (1974), Nishant (1975) and Manthan (1976), he had carved out a space for films that were rooted in Indian social realities, yet experimental in form and style. Music in his films was never an afterthought; it was part of the storytelling. His collaboration with Vanraj Bhatia, the Cambridge- and Paris-trained composer who had returned to India steeped in Western classical training but equally grounded in Indian forms, became one of the most fruitful in Hindi cinema. Together, they forged a musical vocabulary that was intimate, restrained and organically tied to narrative rather than ornamental spectacle.
In Bhumika, perhaps more than in any of Benegal’s other films, music becomes an integral means of evoking period, character and inner life. The story spans decades and traverses the protagonist’s trajectory from a child singer to a leading actress, from one relationship to another, and from confinement to a tentative freedom. Music, therefore, had to bear the weight of historical authenticity, cinematic emotion and thematic subtlety.
Vanraj Bhatia rose to the challenge with a remarkable score. But the true revelation of Bhumika lies in Preeti Sagar’s contribution as a singer. In three distinct songs – the lavani Mera ziskila balam na aaya, the romantic duet Saawan ke din aaye sajanwa aan milo with Bhupinder Singh, and the plaintive Tumhare bina jee na laage ghar mein – she demonstrates her astonishing versatility. Each number belongs to a different genre, mood and performance context, yet all carry her stamp of clarity, precision and emotive power. These three songs, taken together, make a strong case for Preeti Sagar as one of the most distinctive and underappreciated playback voices in Hindi cinema.
The first striking instance of Preeti Sagar’s range in Bhumika is the lavani, Mera ziskila balam na aaya. Rooted in the earthy performance tradition of Maharashtra, lavani songs are known for their sensuous lyrics, fast-paced rhythm and suggestive gestures. In Marathi folk theatre and cinema, the lavani is a crowd-puller, embodying both erotic appeal and social satire.Preeti Sagar, still basking in the success of her urbane, lilting rendition of My heart is beating, seemed an unlikely candidate to render a lavani with conviction. Yet what she achieves in Mera ziskila balam na aaya is remarkable. She modulates her voice into a huskier, more robust timbre, matching the rhythm of the dholki-driven beat. The inflections are playful, almost teasing, carrying the theatricality the form demands.
The song’s function within Bhumika is also layered. It is not merely entertainment but part of Usha’s professional world as a performer, a scene where she sings to an audience, embodying the archetype expected of her. Yet, beneath the performance, the lyrics hint at longing and absence. Thus, while the song dazzles as a period-authentic lavani, it also resonates with the film’s central theme: the woman caught between performance and reality. Preeti Sagar makes this possible by not over-stylizing. She avoids caricature and delivers a rendition that is at once folk-rooted and cinematically effective. It is perhaps one of the few instances in Hindi cinema where a lavani in Hindi carries the rustic energy of its Marathi counterpart.
If Mera ziskila showed Sagar’s capacity for earthy folk exuberance, Saawan ke din aaye sajanwa aan milo reveals her mastery over the delicate romantic idiom of Hindi film music. This duet with Bhupinder Singh is one of the most exquisite love songs of the 1970s, yet it never became a mainstream chartbuster – perhaps because it belonged to a Shyam Benegal film rather than a commercial potboiler.
The song unfolds with a gentle lilt, evoking the monsoon’s romance. Vanraj Bhatia’s orchestration is minimalist: a soft string section, understated percussion and melodic flourishes that never overwhelm the singers. Against this canvas, the two voices entwine. Bhupinder’s deep, slightly grainy voice provides the grounding, while Preeti Sagar’s light, airy timbre floats above it. The result is a duet of perfect complementarity.
Sagar’s singing here is defined by restraint. She does not indulge in vocal gymnastics or decorative flourishes. Instead, her phrasing is measured, allowing the emotion of longing and intimacy to seep through. The clarity of her diction – always one of her strengths – ensures that every word lands with impact. The song is suffused with romantic yearning, yet never becomes cloying. In the film’s context, the song carries a poignancy: Usha’s romantic life is never stable or fulfilling, and songs like this highlight the fragile hopes she clings to. The monsoon, traditionally associated in Hindi cinema with union and fertility, becomes here both a metaphor for love’s promise and its transience.
If the first two songs showcased Preeti Sagar in externalized modes – performance and romantic expression – the third, Tumhare bina jee na laage ghar mein, is turned inward. It is a song of absence and yearning, marked by stillness and melancholy. Here, Vanraj Bhatia strips the arrangement down even further. The instrumentation is sparse, almost bare, allowing the weight of the melody and lyrics to fall entirely on the singer’s voice. Sagar rises to the challenge with a performance of extraordinary sensitivity. Her voice is gentle, almost fragile, carrying the ache of separation. Unlike the robust projection of the lavani or the lilting joy of the duet, here she adopts a tone that borders on conversational – intimate, personal, and confessional.
The song functions in the narrative as a reflection of Usha’s loneliness, her inability to find fulfilment in her personal life despite her professional acclaim. It is a private lament, standing in contrast to the public performance of Mera ziskila. Together, they chart the paradox of the protagonist’s life: adored on stage, abandoned in intimacy. For Preeti Sagar, this song was perhaps the most demanding, because it required her to communicate not through volume or flourish but through nuance and restraint. The tremor in her voice, the unhurried pace of her delivery, the quiet sigh embedded in the phrasing – all contribute to the atmosphere of longing. It is one of her finest performances in playback singing, though often overlooked.
What makes these three songs stand out is not only their individual excellence but also their collective range. Within a single film, Preeti Sagar sings in three distinct idioms: folk-theatrical (lavani), romantic-classical (duet), and introspective-ghazal-like (plaintive solo). Each requires a different vocal approach, a different emotional register, and a different relationship to the narrative. Sagar not only adapts but excels in each, making the Bhumika soundtrack one of the most diverse and artistically rich in Hindi cinema.
If Bhumika stands today as one of Shyam Benegal’s masterpieces, much of its resonance owes itself to Vanraj Bhatia’s score and, crucially, to Preeti Sagar’s voice, one that could be playful, tender and aching, often all at once.
Tum Itni Sundar Ho – Anand Ashram (1977)
Preeti Sagar’s duet with K.J. Yesudas remains a memorable highlight of her brief playback career. A song brimming with tender romanticism, it brought together two distinct voices: Yesudas’s devotional gravitas and Sagar’s fresh, delicate tone. This duet allowed Preeti Sagar to step into the mainstream idiom of Hindi film love songs. Her voice here is gentle yet assured, blending seamlessly with Yesudas while retaining its own brightness, suggesting innocence and emotional intimacy. The song’s success offered her recognition beyond experimental or arthouse contexts, situating her briefly within the mainstream musical landscape of Hindi cinema. Though her playback career was not prolific, Tum itni sundar ho endures as testimony to her ability to create lasting impact with limited but distinctive contributions.
Khota Paisa Nahin Chalega – Dooriyan (1979)
Another overlooked number, this reveals Sagar’s facility with satire and social commentary. Dooriyan, directed by Bhimsain, was an early attempt at middle cinema exploring family relationships and the strains of modern life. The song, however, is biting and playful, a parody of corruption and hypocrisy. Its refrain, ‘Khota paisa nahin chalega’, instantly evokes the idea of counterfeit both in currency and in morals.
Preeti Sagar delivers the song with wry relish, letting her voice carry irony and mischief. There is laughter in her singing, but it is never frivolous – it has the edge of critique. Much like her advertising jingles, where she could slip between registers and moods within seconds, here too she negotiates satire with a deceptively light tone. The result is music that comments on society while staying utterly memorable as melody. Listening to it today, one can almost hear the echoes of her career in jingles, where a simple phrase becomes unforgettable through inflection and timing.
What’s Your Problem – Kalyug (1981)
It is telling that in Kalyug, Shyam Benegal’s contemporary reworking of the Mahabharata set in a corporate milieu, Preeti Sagar sings barely two lines: ‘Kya hai tera gham bata, what’s your problem?’, and yet manages to encompass the characters’ ethos more than reams of dialogue could. On the surface, these lines might seem like a throwaway, almost jingle-like insertion, but their impact is considerable. In a film about corruption, ambition and fratricidal conflict within a business family, the voice comes across as intrusive, mocking and faintly sardonic. Sagar delivers the phrase with a teasing lilt, almost like an advertising jingle, and this lightness underlines the grotesque nature of the world Benegal is depicting.
The brilliance lies in how this short refrain becomes a defining motif for the characters – ambitious men in power suits, blind to values, treating human tragedy as dispensable. The song is an ironic commentary, and Sagar’s urban, conversational tone, neither heavy nor melodramatic, makes it sting all the more. This is music used not for embellishment but as a scalpel, and Preeti Sagar’s voice, feather-light yet pointed, cuts deep.
Shamsheer Barahna Maang Ghazab – Mandi (1983)
Preeti Sagar’s rendition here is a striking fusion of classical elegance and quiet intensity. Set to the evocative verses of Bahadur Shah Zafar and composed by Vanraj Bhatia, the song emerges as a haunting, lyrical pause within a film rich in social satire.
Sagar’s voice weaves a delicate balance, both airy and grounded, breathing life into the ghazal’s sensual imagery. Her nuanced delivery conjures both yearning and quiet rebellion, never tipping into melodrama. Her rendition offers an intimate, introspective counterpoint to the film’s larger themes of power, prostitution and societal pretence.
Tum Sundar Ho – Katha (1983)
In the same year as Mandi, Preeti Sagar delivers a completely different register in Katha. Tum sundar ho is tender, melodic and suffused with innocence. The film, a modern-day reworking of the tortoise-and-hare fable set in a chawl, has Farooq Shaikh and Naseeruddin Shah embodying two sides of human nature. In this context, Tum sundar ho comes as a moment of unselfconscious admiration and sweetness.
Sagar’s voice, often associated with crisp diction and urbane timbre, here becomes translucent with gentleness. She eschews ornamentation, instead stretching each note with affectionate clarity. The result is a song that feels almost like an intimate whisper, a personal exchange, rather than a performance. It is perhaps one of the finest examples of how her singing could bring out simplicity without lapsing into sentimentality. Where What’s your problem was satirical, Tum sundar ho is disarmingly direct – a love song that breathes with sincerity.
