The legendary singer passed away late on Monday night; a fan looks back with respect, gratitude, and love.

A light winter breeze wafted through the ground at Sathaye College, Vile Parle, Mumbai, where Kishori Amonkar took the stage last year. After she had performed two ragas, a request from a member of the audience came in. A slight frown betrayed her brief helplessness; like she understood where this was coming from, but still couldn’t fathom why it came to her. “I have trained for years in Indian classical music. Why don’t you make the best of it? Why come here if you want light music?” The resignation soon gave way to a powerful assertion, characteristic of her. “Raag Kedar,” she said, firmly, and proceeded to sing.

At other times, in other concerts, there would always be requests for ‘Sahela Re’ in Raag Bhoop. Or the Meera bhajan, ‘Mhaaro pranam.’ She would invariably give in. Even if the stage lights hurt her eyes, if the tabalchi’s pace had to be repeatedly corrected, or if the smell of fish from the sea nearby was overpowering. Power, mathematics and raw emotion would meld seamlessly in the performance.

And then, there was the discipline.

At 84, she could hold herself straight on stage. The pallu of her sari would always be drawn securely over the shoulder, the big, round bindi would be firmly in place on the forehead, and she would ever be the teacher to the students accompanying her on the tanpura, now encouraging, now admonishing. She once performed at the NCPA, despite a bad cough and high fever, apologising to the audience for not being her usual self. For that was the performer’s dharma, and it came before everything else.

Whether it was Kabir she sang, or a bada khayal in Raag Hamsadhwani, she would always be one with the song. Her rigorous training in the Jaipur Atrauli gharana with her mother, Mogubai Kurdikar, would show in the quicksilver taans. Her tantrums, her immense love for her students, the illustrious disciples she has sent out into the world, the recognition she received over the years — the Padma Bhushan in 1987 and the Padma Vibhushan in 2002 — and even her break with tradition, in her performances and her brief stint with Bollywood, are the stuff of legend.

But what few can document is the impact she has had on generations of singers.

In my own class, years ago, references to her eclecticism would be a common topic of discussion. “Every note has to be like pearls strung on a necklace,” our teacher would tell us, “The way Kishoritai does so effortlessly.”

One rainy day, as we sat down for our lesson, the doorbell rang, and a shiny tanpura was delivered into our teacher’s hands. As the class looked in amazement, our teacher asked us, “Guess who this belongs to?” Who would have imagined? “Kishoritai.” And from that moment, everyone wanted to touch it, tune it, just sit with it: her tanpura held her notes, and therefore, her.

To get that close to her soul could only have been grace.