Her songs covered themes of teenage romance, forbidden love her tunes always remained the epitome of desi femininity. In this nine-day period of revelry, whether you were sharing iced lollies or riding pillion with bae on your papa’s Bajaj Chetak, it was Pathak playing cupid. For suburban kids at the peak of their hormonal angst who viewed Navratri less as a celebration of song-and-dance and more as an excuse to meet their crush late at night, Pathak’s songs provided the soundtrack to their first brushes with romance. Pathak became as synonymous with Navratri as the flamboyant dhotis, cholis, and decorated dandiya sticks. Before she exploded into public consciousness, Navratri celebrations were a relatively low-key affair for middle-class families in Mumbai – restricted to dancing in the building compound to songs that were played on a screechy loudspeaker. Pathak after all transformed the way we garba. Definitely not for Gujju families the world over.
It’s been more than 20 years, but even today the place Pathak holds in our lives has not faded. Even today when I meet relatives at shaadis, all my childhood tales begin with, “We still remember your Falguni Pathak performances.” My uncles and aunts would ask us to do a Falguni and two of us would just need a bit of coaxing to dish out some moves.
Our little performance became a ritual of sorts.
#Falguni pathak tampa tv#
My cousin and I would stand in front of our boxy Onida TV and try to match the dance steps – she’d borrow my mumma’s dupatta I’d just follow her lead. If you were glued to music channels like I was, the background score to your adolescent years was in all likelihood, Pathak’s “Maine Payal Hai Chankai” and “Meri Chunar Udd Udd Jaaye”. But none among them had the appeal of Falguni Pathak. My dose of pop culture came from music videos on MTV and Channel V and I gushed over locally grown stars like Alisha Chinai or Bombay Vikings. Growing up in the ’90s in Vile Parle, I wasn’t exposed to English music like the other “ cool kids ”.
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