On August 4, 2025, we celebrate what would have been the 96th birthday of Kishore Kumar-the legendary singer, actor, and filmmaker whose unparalleled talent and eccentric charm left an indelible imprint on Indian cinema.
In this three-part series, we explore the multifaceted life of this enigmatic genius, delving into his complex relationships with love, marriage, money, madness, and fame.
This part explores how his voice and financial quirks intertwined, reflecting both his personality and the era he lived in. You can read and here.
For many years after Independence, KL Saigal was India’s most reliable alarm clock, and Kishore Kumar the payday reminder.
Every morning at 7:30, Radio Ceylon would broadcast old Hindi songs. Precisely at 7:57, Saigal’s magical voice would stream through radio sets, uniting the country with a melody. Kishore’s voice greeted listeners on the 1st of every month with the song, Khush hai zamana aaj pehli tarikh hai, a celebration of payday. Money, thus, became synonymous with Kishore’s voice-a bond that defined both his songs and his life.
In Subhash Ghai’s cult classic Karz, Kishore belted out Paisa Ye Paisa with infectious zest. Many in the film industry quipped that when he lamented, “there’s nothing like money-it’s trouble when you have it, it’s trouble when you don’t,” Kishore was singing a personal anthem.
Paisa Ye Paisa
Kishore Kumar’s love for money was no secret in the film industry. Stories of his financial demands were legendary, often tinged with his trademark eccentricity.
He was known to insist on upfront payments before recording sessions, sometimes refusing to sing until cash was quite literally in his hands. Anecdotes abound of producers arriving at his doorstep with briefcases full of cash to coax him into the studio.
This insistence stemmed not just from a desire for wealth but from a deep-seated mistrust of the industry’s payment practices, where delays and defaults were common.
While shooting for many films, he often shaved off either one side of his hair or his moustache if payment was delayed. In one such film, Bhai-Bhai (1956), Kishore reportedly shaved off one side of his moustache after a payment dispute. With no hat or quick fix available, the shoot was stalled until the producer scrambled to arrange funds. Crew members recalled Kishore sitting calmly on set, sipping tea and humming tunes, while the production team scrambled to resolve the issue. His half-shaven look became a visual ultimatum: pay up or halt the film.
In another instance, while filming Miss Mary (1957), the producer made him shoot wearing a hat to hide his eccentric protest.
Paisa do, gaana lo!
Producers knew that stepping into his recording studio without cash or a confirmed payment was a gamble. One oft-repeated tale involves a prominent producer who arrived at Kishore’s home for a recording session, only to find the singer lounging in his garden, refusing to budge until payment was cleared. When the producer offered a cheque, Kishore reportedly quipped, “Cheques bounce, but my voice doesn’t!”Only after a frantic dash to arrange cash did the session proceed.
Another incident that showcased Kishore’s financial eccentricity occurred during the making of a low-budget film in the 1960s. When the producer failed to pay Kishore’s acting fees on time, he decided to take matters into his own hands-quite literally.
Kishore drove to the producer’s office, parked outside, and began honking incessantly while shouting, “Paisa do, gaana lo!” (Pay the money, get the song!). After a few minutes, Kishore drove off, leaving behind a trail of laughter and a lesson for the industry: never cross Kishore Kumar on payment day.
His brother Dadamoni Ashok Kumar claimed this wasn’t mere greed; in an industry notorious for delayed payments and broken promises, Kishore’s demands were a pragmatic response to financial uncertainty.
His frugality was equally famous. Kishore reportedly kept meticulous records of his earnings and expenses, a habit that reflected both his business acumen and his anxiety about financial security. Despite his immense success-singing for over 1,000 films and commanding some of the highest fees in the industry-he lived with a paradoxical fear of losing it all.
One popular tale, often shared by industry insiders, describes Kishore keeping stacks of cash at home and personally tallying his earnings, not out of greed but to maintain control over his finances. His third wife, Yogeeta Bali, claimed Kishore counted money repeatedly throughout the night, a claim the singer denied as a joke.
Paanch Rupaiyya Barah Aana
Kishore’s financial woes were exacerbated by his frequent clashes with India’s Income Tax Department, particularly during the 1970s, when tax rates for high earners could exceed 90 percent.
His substantial earnings from playback singing, acting, and producing films made him a prime target for tax authorities. The government’s aggressive tax policies, coupled with Kishore’s unconventional approach to financial dealings, led to several high-profile disputes. Kishore responded to tax notices with songs mocking the authorities: Meri Lottery Lag Jaane Waali Hai and Jai Govindam Jai Gopalam.
To fool the tax authorities, Kishore produced films with the aim of losing money, so that his earnings could be offset against inflated losses. But, to his surprise, some of these films, like Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi, Jhumroo and Door Gagan Ki Chhaon Main became bumper hits.
Ye Jeevan Hai
Despite these challenges, Kishore’s relationship with money was not purely materialistic. Having grown up in a modest family in Khandwa, Madhya Pradesh, Kishore understood the value of money from an early age.
His initial years in the industry were marked by financial struggles, especially after his first marriage. His rise to stardom did not erase the memory of leaner times, and his financial caution was as much about self-preservation as it was about accumulation.
His love of money was not just about hoarding wealth but about securing the freedom to live life on his own terms-whether that meant producing quirky films or retreating to his beloved Khandwa to escape the chaos of Bombay.
Kishore’s generosity was less publicised but equally significant. He often helped struggling artists, quietly funding their projects or offering them work in his films.
Money never muzzled his principles. During the Emergency, he refused to sing for the Congress party or endorse its schemes. When warned about the wrath of Sanjay Gandhi, the then Prime Minister’s son, he dismissed it with a terse question: “Woh kaun hai (Who is he)?” Despite a backlash that affected his earnings, Kishore did not budge.
Kishore’s story is a uniquely Indian tale-of a man whose voice united a nation in song and whose life reflected the complexities of navigating wealth in a rapidly changing country. His love of money was not just a quirk but a reflection of his times, where financial security was both a dream and a battle.
Through it all, Kishore sang on, his melodies rising above the chaos, reminding us that even in the face of trouble, there was always a song to be sung. Especially on the first of every month.