The problem with being brought up in a ‘music environment’ is that everyone thought you too would sing, appreciate music, identify ragas and so on. If that did not happen, you were in trouble! Take my household for instance. Mother sang divinely. The three elder sisters had a music master to teach them, one aunt was proficient in playing the veena, another aunt on father’s side had graduated to singing on stage.
In short, I belonged to what one would call a ‘musical family’.
Everyone of us has studied literature where the Shakespeare chap wrote those ‘immortal lines’, ‘The man that had no music in him was capable of this, that and worse including stratagems…..”. Look, a man may not be interested in music, but why call him names like ‘stratagems’? What gems were they? But the tradition in Hindu Brahmin families was whether one liked it or not, one at least expected to learn music. A bhagavathar (music teacher) visited the house thrice a week to teach us (my three elder sisters and I) music.
At the time of this ordeal, I think I was around eight or nine. ‘Catch’ em young’ was my parents’ view on this issue. The ‘Music Sir’ arrived every Friday evening, taught us two sessions each on Saturdays and Sundays and greatly enjoyed his visits where his perks included enormous meals, endless cups of filter coffee, in-between snacks and vethilai paku (paan or betel leaves with all ingredients). Before the coaching began, he tested our voices. My sisters’ voices were okay. He was certain that they would perform in kacheris (public platforms). Whey my turn came, I sang the first two lines of a popular film song. The Bhagavathar looked as though someone had socked him in the jaw with a Joe Louis punch.
“No, no film songs, they are cheap and vulgar”, gasped the Vadhyar. “Something in classical music, expand a raga and then sing a tukda (light classical number)”, he said. I was delighted because it was my ambition to annihilate the learned guru with my own rendering of the Karahara priya raga which was supposed to be among the tougher ragas. Vadhyar looked at me doubtfully and nodded. I let go with a full-throated rendering of what I thought was the Karahara priya raga. Vadhyar’s eyes became glassy, he took his head in his hands and moaned, “I am not feeling well, sudden headache”, he muttered, and finished the lesson for the day.
The lessons continued but faced a new obstacle. Our drawing room where the music lessons were held was visible from the staircase. Our landlord’s son and friends (around a dozen of them) who came to know about my music lessons assembled there and went on making faces at me. I often could not control my laughter despite stern looks from mother. Well, a couple of more pranks followed with the same disastrous results. My mother and grandmother explained to the Vadhyar, “Usually he sings very well. Yaro kannai potirukal (Someone has cast the evil eye on him)”, and my music lessons ended. ‘Ended’ may not be the proper word, because music was everywhere and I could not avoid it. During the nine-day long Navratri festival, Brahmin homes organised the Kolu (arrangement of dolls), invited people to visit their homes and sing, and distributed tasty prasadam. The snacks were good but not the singing. Most of it was offkey, but you had to grin and bear it.
One could not avoid music. The films in those days were ‘musicals’ and the dialogues were mostly in songs. The films ran for long periods so that people could keep awake, say their prayers and go to bed. I remember watching a film Aayiram thalai vaangi Apoova Sinthamani, which went on for nearly five and a half hours hours and had around 42 songs.
Those were the days!
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V. Gangadhar
The writer is a well-known satirist.[/column]