It has been about a year since I began my music lessons. It is very different learning experience compared to those when I was younger. The path seems considerably steeper, much more strewn with boulders.. Perhaps this is why I appreciate the opportunity to be able to learn more than ever.
I often feel I need to thank life - and my music teacher (Soumitro Sir as he is called) for adding this unexpected new dimension to my life, and my home.
It began, as many things do nowadays, with my son Nayan who does have a gift for music and a tendency to disregard his gifts. I searched hard for a music teacher for him, and am glad I finally found the perfect one for Nayan: someone who could introduce him to music gradually, systematically and playfully. My son often doesn't realise how much he is learning or how gently he is being prodded to continue with his practice when all he wants to do is to veg out.
I began to learn a little later (at the suggestion of the teacher) to support Nayan's music and help him at home. Thus Hindustani music found its way into our house.
We had always heard all kinds of music but now we were actually singing (and playing the tanpura and harmonium), and it had a different kind of energy. Nayan and I practiced singing; my husband periodically searched for similar kinds of music to what we were learning, and other songs that he thought we might like to learn.
For Nayan, singing is almost effortless. He glides in and out of notes, with minimal practice and complete confidence.
I am completely the opposite. I plod along, repeating each step innumerable times and I always feel I have a long way to go before I can sing something properly. Soumitro Sir understands. He just sits quietly, waiting for me to gather my confidence before I embark. It is an online class, so he offers to switch off his video so I don't see him there but I say that closing my eyes is an easier option. Once the momentum builds up and I stop thinking about how I sound, notes flow in a happy way.
Our classes are oft interrupted as both of us are working from home. "Ek minute, Madam, aap gate rehiye, main abhi aa raha hoon" ("One minute Madam, please keep singing, I am coming") or "Soumitro Sir, the gas person is here with a cylinder refill," or "The washing machine repair man has finally come. I will just be back." Or "I could not practice today. We had a dinner for ten people and I was cooking."
Our classes are filled with discussions of life, philosophy, family anecdotes and even food. Soumitro Sir knows I relate well to food (as he does), so I often hear, "Add a little sweetness Madam, not too much or it will get sickening, just a tiny bit.." Or, "When you make prawn curry, you need to mix the ingredients in the perfect proportions for the right taste. Music is like that. It's not just getting each note right, it is the mix of sound and feeling." He emphasises bringing softness and the right kind of emotion to each composition, which is something I would love to achieve. It's like breaking a sheet of ice of uncertainty and hesitation and allowing the warm, spontaneous feelings to burst through. (I am trying.)
Our classes are varied, keeping in mind a broad theme - streams of notes learnt in different ways that somehow fit into a greater whole that was not obvious to me at the outset. Often improvised depending on the mood (after months of practicing classical ragas, I have suddenly embarked upon learning a Bengali folk song written by Tagore. Soumitro Sir sang it for Nayan and the song resonated so much within me that I thought I would look into it, and there's no turning back now).
No turning back. For months I was full of doubts about my ability to learn singing. To be able to play the harmonium (and now, my son wants a tabla for his practice, there's no knowing where this journey is taking us). Now, I know there's no turning back. I would like to continue and I hope one day to sing freely, with all my heart. I hope, someday, to lend a voice to all those notes which float in my mind. Like writing, the words (or notes) seem to have a life of their own- and keeping them true to form while bringing them to paper (or in the air) to be read (or heard) is the main challenge.
When I write, there is no one looking over my shoulder, but when I sing, I am aware that everyone around can hear me. That is a big difference, and that is what makes me hesitate as I sing. But then, I remember Soumitro Sir's questions from an early class.
"When you are singing in the class or at home, who are you singing for?" My invariable answer would be, "I am singing for myself."
"And when you are facing an audience who has come especially to listen to you, who are you singing for?"
I falter. The prospect of facing an audience is unnerving. I say with some hesitation, "For the people who have come?"
"No! You are singing for yourself. You are always singing for yourself."
It is something I never forget. I sing because it opens up something vast and wonderful within me. I sing because I am filled with joy when I approach the right notes. I sing to air melodies that linger in my mind. I sing in deference to extraordinary composers, to the grace of classical music and the spontaneity of folk music. I sing in memory of all the love and beauty of Nature and of Life itself. I sing because I want to.
