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Usha Mangeshkar: The Music, The Years, and The Legend_我的网站

一 |     AI摘要      近期上市厦企频推中期分红与股份回购，以真金白银回报投资者。    There are people whose lives unfold quietly alongside history. They do not interrupt it, do not demand attention, and do not ask to be framed as milestones. Yet, when you pause long enough to listen, you realise they have been present all along, shaping the texture of the time they lived in.Usha Mangeshkar belongs to that rare category.For over seven decades, her voice has travelled through Indian cinema, devotional spaces, regional theatres, private listening rooms, and beyond. It has sung celebration and surrender, playfulness and prayer. It has adapted, endured, and remained relevant without ever seeking to dominate the frame. In a family where sound itself became legacy, she learned early that presence does not require volume, and significance does not require spectacle.Born into a household where music was both inheritance and discipline, she grew up listening not only to compositions but to silences between them. Her father, Master Deenanath Mangeshkar, a classical vocalist and thespian of his time, passed away when she was still a child, leaving behind unfinished compositions and an atmosphere where music became memory, responsibility, and continuity. What followed was a life shaped by listening closely to mentors, to siblings, to her own hesitations, and responding with patience rather than urgency.Her career spans Hindi, Bengali, Tamil, Assamese, and Marathi cinema, devotional music that reached millions, playful popular songs that became cultural markers, and collaborations across languages and generations.          At ninety, Usha Mangeshkar does not speak of milestones. She speaks of moments. Of learning how to stand at a microphone. Of recognising when a note needed more breath or less force. Of choosing restraint over ambition, and instinct over comparison. Listening to her is not an exercise in nostalgia. It is an education in how a life is built when attention remains firmly on the work rather than the applause.I first met Usha aunty, as I fondly call her, years ago in circumstances that were professional but gradually became personal. I had entered her home not as a chronicler of her life, but as someone still learning how to observe a life honestly. What struck me was not the weight of her career, but the lightness with which she carried it. She spoke without embellishment, without rehearsal, without performance.Over time, our conversations deepened. They were thoughtful, humorous, occasionally searching, always grounded. On the occasion of her ninetieth year, I returned to those conversations with a different intent. Not to recount achievements, but to understand how one builds a life when comparison is inevitable, recognition is uneven, and legacy exists before one has even begun.          What follows is not a catalogue of success. It is a record of endurance, clarity, and quiet authority.You grew up surrounded by music. Did that environment shape you naturally, or did you have to carve your own relationship with it?Music was part of the air I breathed, but every relationship with art is personal. I listened far more than I sang in the early years. Sitting in the recording room and listening to Didi (Lata Mangeshkar) was a learning experience every single time. Listening teaches you proportion, balance, when to step forward and when to hold back. We learned the art of breathing into the microphone, when to release a phrase and when to sustain it. Nothing was rushed. I never felt pushed into music. I felt I was being prepared for it, slowly and properly.Was there a moment when you realised that music would not just be an inheritance, but also your life’s work?That understanding came gradually, and I am grateful for that. When things come slowly, they settle deeper within you. I never woke up one morning deciding to become a singer. Singing simply stayed with me year after year. My father was a great singer, so were Didi, Asha Tai, Meena Tai, and Hridaynath as a composer. My surroundings were not only inspiring, they were also demanding. We were constantly learning, constantly evaluating, and we were all honest critics of each other. That honesty shaped my journey more than encouragement ever could.In a family of strong musical personalities, how did you understand your own place?Every voice has its own nature. I learned early that comparison is unnecessary when clarity exists. We each had our own individual style of singing, and there was never a sense of competition among us. I focused on understanding my own voice, its colour, its strengths, its temperament. Once you understand that, your place becomes very clear. We were never trying to overtake one another. We were always helping each other grow.          You have always shared a very close bond with your nieces and nephews and often speak of them as your own children. What does that bond mean to you?Yes, my sisters’ children, my own nieces and nephews, have always felt like my own. This closeness did not start recently; it has been there since they were toddlers. We shared so many moments together, simple joys that became lasting memories. I would take them to restaurants, beaches, forts, picnics, even safaris. We laughed, we explored, and over time, a truly special bond formed.I remember one little incident with Rachana, Meena Tai’s daughter. She had long hair, and I took the liberty of giving her a fringe. Even now, forty years later, she keeps that style. It makes me smile, but it also reflects the trust and love we share. They respect me deeply, value me, and have always been a part of my life in ways that go beyond words.Even today, whenever I need support, they are my pillars. Adinath takes care of so much, and there are Radha, Bingo (Baijnath ), Yogi (Yogesh), Anand, and everyone of them. Their children also continue this circle of closeness. It is a gift, a joy, and a responsibility I cherish every day. Their love and presence in my life have been as profound as any melody I have sung, steady, enduring, and deeply grounding.Audiences often noticed similarities between your voice and Lata Mangeshkar’s. How did you view that association?Similarity is not something one manufactures. It simply exists. What matters is what you do with it. I was always conscious that sincerity is more important than distinction. If the intention is honest, the voice naturally finds its own identity. I never tried to sound different deliberately. I tried to sound true.          Did carrying such a well-known surname ever feel like a responsibility?Responsibility, yes. Burden, never. It reminded me to maintain standards at all times. In a family where work is taken seriously, casualness is not an option. We were taught that ethics, culture, and devotion are the foundations of any career. Our work was always seen as an offering to our parents, to the Almighty, and to the audience. When you see your work that way, you cannot treat it lightly.Your repertoire moves easily between devotional music and popular songs. How did you maintain that balance?Both require the same foundation. Whether a song is light or contemplative, it demands understanding its nuances. Devotional music asks for surrender, while popular music asks for timing and restraint. I enjoyed moving between these spaces. I also believe learning never stops. We are all students for life. I kept observing changes, trends, and new expressions. That curiosity kept my work alive.Your devotional songs became deeply embedded in people’s lives. Did that surprise you?I never thought about reach. I thought about truth. Devotional music responds to sincerity, not strategy. Perhaps people felt that the voice was not performing belief, but resting within it.          You have sung in many languages and musical traditions. What did that diversity give you as an artist?Perspective. Every language teaches humility. You listen more carefully. You respect the word, the emotion, and the culture it comes from. That awareness keeps an artist alert and grounded.Your bond with Pandit Hridaynath Mangeshkar is often spoken of with admiration. What defined that for you?Trust and ease. We understood each other without explanation. He knew I would be honest, and I knew he valued clarity over agreement. Those are rare conditions, and they make creative work deeply fulfilling.You have also expressed yourself through painting. What does that medium offer that music does not?Silence. Painting slows thought down. It allows you to sit with an idea without sound. I have painted interpretations of Ghalib, of Meera, of emotions that do not need words. Painting complements music because it asks for contemplation rather than expression.When you look back at your career, what gives you the greatest satisfaction?Continuity. The ability to work steadily, to adapt without losing myself, and to remain curious over decades. Longevity requires care. It does not respond well to urgency.Did you ever feel the need to chase recognition or redefine your image?No. I trusted the work. Recognition follows its own rhythm. I preferred consistency over restlessness.Many artists struggle with self-doubt. How did you maintain confidence over such a long journey?Confidence comes from preparation. When you know you have done the work sincerely, doubt finds very little space to stay. I believed in readiness more than reassurance.Your life has included both joy and deeply personal moments. How did you maintain balance?By understanding that life does not demand commentary at every turn. Some moments ask for expression. Others ask for stillness. Balance comes from knowing the difference.          At ninety, how do you see the arc of your life and work?With calm and satisfaction. I did what felt true to me. I honoured my voice, my family, and my values. That feels complete.What would you say to younger artists who admire your journey?Pay attention. To your craft, to your instincts, to the people you work with. Excellence grows quietly. Let it.As the conversation draws to a close, there is no sense of finality in the room. At ninety, Usha Mangeshkar does not speak like someone summing up a life. She speaks like someone still inhabiting it fully. There is no dramatic pause, no attempt to crystallise wisdom into slogans. And yet, as she continues, something settles into place with unmistakable clarity.What becomes evident is that her genius was never performative. It lay in precision, in restraint, in the long discipline of showing up prepared when no one was watching. In an age that rewards immediacy, she chose patience. In a world quick to measure success by visibility, she measured it by integrity. Her voice did not seek to rise above others. It learned instead how to arrive exactly where it was needed.Listening to her, one understands that endurance is not accidental. It is built through thousands of small decisions made correctly. The decision to listen more than speak. To practise before performing. To remain curious rather than defensive. To let recognition come, but never let it lead. Her journey reminds us that greatness is not always loud. Often, it is exacting, consistent, and quietly uncompromising.When asked what remains essential after all these years, her answer does not point outward. It turns inward.“Stay honest with your work,” she says, almost gently. “If you do that, everything else finds its place. The moment you start performing for approval, something becomes fragile. But when you perform out of understanding, it lasts.”There is something profoundly instructive in that calm certainty. Here is an artist who lived alongside legends, who witnessed eras change, technologies shift, tastes evolve, and yet never altered her core. Her voice adapted, but her values did not. She did not hurry to define herself, nor did she resist change. She simply stayed attentive.That attentiveness, sustained over seven decades, is her true genius.For younger artists navigating a world that demands speed, comparison, and constant reinvention, her life offers a different map. One that values preparation over publicity. Depth over display. Continuity over noise. It suggests that it is possible to build a life in art without exhaustion, without bitterness, without erasure of self.As the conversation ends, there is no sense of conclusion. Only continuity. The feeling that some voices do not belong to a moment, or even to a generation. They belong to a discipline. To a way of being. To the quiet confidence that comes from knowing one has honoured the work fully.Usha Mangeshkar’s life …..It asks to be understood. And once understood, it leaves behind something rare and enduring: the reassurance that a life built with clarity, humility, and unwavering commitment does not fade. It settles. It stays. And it continues to teach, long after the song has ended.Also Read: Usha Mangeshkar Recalls Winning Her First Filmfare Trophy at Filmfare Awards Marathi 2025。吉比特等企业派发高额红利，多家公司实施注销式回购提升每股收益。此举彰显企业盈利信心，有助于稳定市场预期。         近期，上市厦企在回报投资者方面动作频频，多家企业披露中期分红预案或股份回购进展，以“真金白银”传递市场信心。    中期“红包”陆续派发。吉宏股份拟向全体股东每10股派发现金红利1.4元（含税），预计总派发金额6270万元。厦钨新能拟每10股派发现金红利3元（含税），预计派发现金红利1.51亿元（含税）。通达创智拟向全体股东每10股派发现金红利4元（含税），预计派发现金红利4525万元。    作为厦门上市公司中的“分红王”，吉比特每10股派发现金红利100元（含税），合计约7.18亿元。亿联网络拟向全体股东每10股派发现金股利5元（含税），预计总派发金额6.33亿元。厦门钨业拟向全体股东每10股派发现金红利4.2元（含税），预计派发现金红利6.67亿元。    业界认为，常态化分红是展示自身经营成果的方式之一，能够提振投资者信心，稳定投资者预期。上市厦企通过分红派现持续加码投资者回报，体现了良好的盈利能力。    真金白银回购彰显信心。闽灿坤B发布公告称，8月17日，公司首次通过回购专用证券账户以集中竞价交易方式回购公司股份88800股。截至8月20日，学大教育以集中竞价交易方式累计回购公司股份数量294.97万股，支付总金额人民币9894.89万元（不含交易费用）。    相较于回购规模的增长，更引人关注的是回购用途的变化。8月18日，厦门国贸发布公告称，回购注销546.26万股限制性股票，注销日期为8月21日。8月5日，艾德生物披露以集中竞价交易方式回购股份，明确用于注销并减少注册资本，截至7月31日已回购855.43万股（占总股本2.19%），耗资约1.61亿元。

二 |     业界人士分析，相较于暂时作为库存股或用于股权激励，注销式回购将永久减少总股本，在盈利不变的情况下可增加每股收益，更有助于提升股东回报。（厦门日报记者 林桂桢）。

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