On October 13, 1987, something felt off in the Kumar household. Kishore Kumar, India’s most celebrated, most enigmatic voice — was unusually restless. The man who brought joy to millions through his timeless melodies and larger-than-life antics seemed anxious. But what unfolded that day was more than mere unease. It was a premonition, perhaps even a farewell in disguise. In an interview with journalist Vickey Lalwani, recalling that fateful day, Kishore’s elder son, Amit Kumar, revealed startling details. His father, though appearing outwardly cheerful, was unusually tense. Kishore was waiting for Amit’s flight from Canada to land. He seemed preoccupied with the time, repeatedly wondering if his son would make it back before something happened — something he couldn’t quite articulate, but clearly felt.
To his younger son Sumeet, Kishore gave an abrupt warning: “Don’t go swimming today.” To his wife, Leena Chandavarkar, he joked that he might be having a heart attack. She laughed it off — used, perhaps, to his theatrics. After all, this was a man known for staging pranks even during tense moments. But minutes later, Kishore Kumar collapsed. For a brief moment, Leena believed it was another one of his jokes. Then reality struck- the prankster, the poet, the powerhouse; had fallen silent.
It was as if he knew. As if his instincts — often dismissed as eccentricity — had sounded the last alarm.
Well before that fateful day, Kishore Kumar’s eccentricity had become the stuff of legend. Among the strangest stories? That he kept skulls and bones at home.
His son, Amit Kumar, recently debunked the myth, explaining they were just African souvenirs from a family trip to Nairobi — not symbols of madness, just curios. “He loved African culture — music, art, even beads,” Amit said. “Those skulls are still with the trust.” Still, the tales persisted. Filmmaker S.D. Narang once stomped around Kishore’s floor, hunting for a rumoured trapdoor. Kishore simply laughed. “Theek hai, duniya kehti mujhe pagal, main kehta hoon duniya ko pagal… bolne do pagal… achha hai, kyun na?” Kishore Kumar’s life was a performance — on stage, in films, at home. He recorded over 2,900 songs in multiple languages, lit up screens with his comic timing, and composed musical moods like no one else could. He worked with the greatest — R.D. Burman, Laxmikant-Pyarelal, S.D. Burman — yet remained delightfully untrained, untouched by the rules of formal music.
To those who heard him sing, Kishore Kumar was immortal. But to those who knew him, especially his sons, his final moments were a masterclass in how even legends sometimes know when their curtain call has come. He didn’t just sing about life. He sensed its end — and left the stage, one last time, on cue.
To his younger son Sumeet, Kishore gave an abrupt warning: “Don’t go swimming today.” To his wife, Leena Chandavarkar, he joked that he might be having a heart attack. She laughed it off — used, perhaps, to his theatrics. After all, this was a man known for staging pranks even during tense moments. But minutes later, Kishore Kumar collapsed. For a brief moment, Leena believed it was another one of his jokes. Then reality struck- the prankster, the poet, the powerhouse; had fallen silent.
It was as if he knew. As if his instincts — often dismissed as eccentricity — had sounded the last alarm.
Well before that fateful day, Kishore Kumar’s eccentricity had become the stuff of legend. Among the strangest stories? That he kept skulls and bones at home.
His son, Amit Kumar, recently debunked the myth, explaining they were just African souvenirs from a family trip to Nairobi — not symbols of madness, just curios. “He loved African culture — music, art, even beads,” Amit said. “Those skulls are still with the trust.” Still, the tales persisted. Filmmaker S.D. Narang once stomped around Kishore’s floor, hunting for a rumoured trapdoor. Kishore simply laughed. “Theek hai, duniya kehti mujhe pagal, main kehta hoon duniya ko pagal… bolne do pagal… achha hai, kyun na?” Kishore Kumar’s life was a performance — on stage, in films, at home. He recorded over 2,900 songs in multiple languages, lit up screens with his comic timing, and composed musical moods like no one else could. He worked with the greatest — R.D. Burman, Laxmikant-Pyarelal, S.D. Burman — yet remained delightfully untrained, untouched by the rules of formal music.
And perhaps that’s why his death, like his life, was dramatic — filled with intuition, laughter, and an unsaid goodbye.
To those who heard him sing, Kishore Kumar was immortal. But to those who knew him, especially his sons, his final moments were a masterclass in how even legends sometimes know when their curtain call has come. He didn’t just sing about life. He sensed its end — and left the stage, one last time, on cue.
