Music lessons

I have never been formally instructed in music. Yet I constantly sing or whistle to myself. My ex-colleagues have long suffered this habit while we drove all over the United Kingdom on marine accident investigations. I once shared a flat with a friend in Southampton. When I was moving out, he said to me,

“I will miss your 5 am singing!”

As a young marine engineer, I lived with my parents in Mysore when I came home from the ships. One morning, as I observed the placid and sleepy world pass by from the comfort of an easy chair, someone opened the front gate. A man in the traditional South Indian garb of a spotlessly white dhoti and veshti across his bare upper body came through to the veranda. He had the characteristic marks of a scholar – three vertical lines in sandalwood paste on the forehead and an elegant kudumi at the back of his neatly tonsured head. He looked to be in his sixties and exuded an air of authority. Large brown eyes set in an instantly endearing face, commanded instant respect.

“Namaskaram Sir, I’m a music teacher,” he announced, “If there are any children in the house, I give them some lessons?”

I told him that I was the youngest of the household. At 26, I could not call myself a child. He was not dissuaded. He clearly read my mind or at least read the disappointment on my face.

“Adults can learn music too. I’ll teach you if you like.”

Now, I had never considered taking music lessons. My life being split between the sea and land, there was no opportunity to embark on such a learning project either. I replied,

“Unfortunately, I work on ships. I have only 3 months before I rejoin.”

“That’s plenty of time. Start tomorrow and you’ll be giving a concert before you leave.” He was persuasive and pulled all my strings. I always suspected there was a musician trapped somewhere inside me and here was my Guru come to let my talent loose.

I didn’t need further encouragement. I agreed. He asked me to be ready the next day with a picture of Saraswati, a coconut and the other paraphernalia for conducting a Guru pooja. His fee of 3000 rupees was to be paid in advance. He could teach me instrumental or vocals. If I wanted to learn an instrument, I had to buy two violins- one for me and the other for him! At ten grand a piece, the violin option was expensive. I went for the cheaper alternative – singing. The Guru left with a smile, the morning sun eclipsed by the glow on his beaming face.

My mother had only seen him leave and asked me who he was. I informed her that he was to be my music teacher and we were embarking on a project to turn me into a professional Karnatic music vocalist in three months. Could she please get everything ready for the Guru pooja while I run up to the bank and withdraw his fee.

“Are you mad?”, she asked, her hand on her partly open mouth in the typical Indian gesture for incredulity.

She couldn’t believe my naïveté and quickly convinced me that I was being had. As a young woman, she had been formally instructed in South Indian classical music for over a decade. I couldn’t argue with her.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” she reassured me.

The teacher arrived early the next morning. The conversation between him and my mother was along these lines:

“Sir, did you tell my son he would be giving a vocal performance in three months?”

“Hmm, ah .. but .. actually. Yes.”

“You know, after seven years of vocal training, my Guru told me my swaram was just coming under control. How can you train my son to give a public concert in three months?”

“Amma, your son was very keen. I have six children to feed.”

Mother gave him a fresh coconut, a brand new veshti and one hundred and one rupees. He left, a nimbus cloud darkening his amicable face. I emerged from behind the fridge. To this day, I remain an everywhere musician without an audience – an uncut, unpolished diamond.