On Music

It's been a while since I "penseived" my thoughts here. 

I have realised I have a ritual I never paid much attention to. 

There's a fantastic book called The Music Room by Namita Devidayal. I first read it in 2008. Since then, I have gone back to the book once every 4 years, re-read the book and soaked in the amazing nostalgia the book evokes. Namita, in my opinion, has written a magnum opus of a tribute to music teachers. As a girl, she was sent to learn music under Dhondutai Kulkarni. Through 25 years of learning music and a lot more from her, in the book, she chronicles the lives of a music form her teacher practiced that's now almost in oblivion. 

Every time I read the book, I am reminded of Carnatic music classes from my childhood.

The thing is, I never hated it and neither did I love it. I just did it as a task. Years later, I know for a fact I took more from those classes than I choose to admit. The many hours spent listening to the shruti box tunes the ears to catch the right pitch. And that small skill in itself is precious - it helps you play any random tune on instruments, helps you give nuanced comments on music reality show participants, appreciate music more in general and in my case, surprisingly good whistling skills.

But I don't remember it being like this when I was actually learning music. I recently asked my Mom why I stopped learning and when I heard the reason, I had a flashback to a major highlight of my short-lived music career.

I was never the best in the class, but I could definitely hold my own. After learning for a few years, I once participated in a music competition. Dressed in six pocket pants and a bright yellow sweater, I looked very out of place in the Kannada temple where the competition was being held. When the other participants started singing, I realised that the song I had prepared was quite a popular choice and worse still, it was being sung differently. It was a keerthanam called Rama Mantrava Japiso, which on recent research I learnt, was composed by Saint Purandharadas in two different ragas - Madhyamavati and Jaunpuri. My teacher had taught us in Jaunpuri, but all other participants were singing the Madhyamavati version. For a 13 year old child, that was too overwhelming. By the time I went on stage late in the evening, I had muddled up the tunes and ended up singing a fusion that sounded really bad.

But that was not the worst part. The day after when I went for my class, the teacher laughed about it and remarked in front of everyone that I had messed up and made a fool of myself. That was that. 

I remember now that she had made a similar comparative comment a few days later again and made me feel very small. That was all I needed to lose interest in something I could have actually loved. I gradually stopped going for classes and used Board exams as a convenient excuse to stop altogether.

In hindsight, maybe I overreacted. But maybe, I didn't. I would never have become a great singer. It's a counterfactual I don't know about. But, I do wonder, if all my intense love for classical music all these years later comes from this memory I chose to hide. I have strong opinions about how teachers should treat students - not everyone is the same, comparing is the worst thing they can do. Because, noone knows the counterfactual! Maybe a student is not picking up at the pace the teacher wants, but maybe the student still loves learning - not now, maybe in 20 years, she will learn?

Anyway, so that's what happened. 20 years later, after many many years of listening to and appreciating classical music, the student decided to try and learn again. I decided to sign up for Carnatic Violin classes. Will I last? Will I be able to play? I don't know. But I do know I am ready to see the counterfactual and experience what happens. 

At the very least, I am now mature enough to differentiate between feedback and a teacher's judgements. That's a step up.

Wish me luck!

Cheerio

Preeks