Birdsong

While the characters written about here are real people I’ve met along my journey, their names have been changed for the sake of privacy.

In the world of Carnatic music, one may well expect to meet the divine — notes that seem to ascend to the heavens, rhythms that seem to emerge out of pure mathematics, and voices that resonate with every soul in the universe. But, as I waded deeper into this classical ocean, what I found was not just the divine, but an ensemble of friends and people whose lives were as melodious as the art itself. They became my birds of a feather, each one contributing in their own unique ways to the cacophony that was my journey in Carnatic music.

First among these characters was Ramesh, easygoing and eternally jovial, friend and guide. He had the remarkable ability to switch from discussing complex calculus problems to singing a raga with equal enthusiasm. His voice was always on point, though his humor was often offbeat. One day, while we were learning the lyrics to Ayigiri Nandini, he found the word “Sumukhi” in my printout, and, with his characteristic flair, decided to bestow that name upon me. It was a fitting tribute, though I always felt that “Sumukh” had a more harmonious ring to it. When we were learning Endaro Mahanubhavulu, I became the youngest to pass the junior exam, and Ramesh made an uncanny connection between a certain line of swaras and the Kannada term for “little kid.” To this day, I can’t help but smile a little when I sing that line. His cheerful spirit and effortless camaraderie made him not just a great friend, but also an essential part of my musical journey. This boy, who provided us with endless entertainment and fun in class, somehow landed at IIT Madras.

Then there was Mrs. Subbulakshmi—no, not the legendary singer, but the one from my music class. She was a woman of indeterminate middle age, who arrived at every class in the most flamboyant attire imaginable. Each session, she’d sweep in, draped in a saree that could blind you with its brightness, and a bindi the size of a small planet, strategically placed between her thickly lined eyebrows. When she first walked in, dressed in a striking yellow saree fit to compete with the sun, we all collectively turned our heads towards her, eager to see what gold and silver may drop from her mouth. One might expect a voice as colorful as her wardrobe, and one would be right—if by colorful, you meant ear-splitting. We all collectively clenched our lips in a disastrous attempt to hide our laughter and turned away. When she sang, it was as if a herd of donkeys had invaded a particularly serene temple. She had the uncanny ability to take a melodious raga and render it unrecognizable. But what she lacked in vocal talent, she made up for in enthusiasm. She would sing with such gusto, her hands swaying in perfect rhythm, her eyes closed in deep concentration—as if convinced that her next note would indeed shatter the boundaries of musical convention, or at the very least, a few eardrums. Perhaps her singing was correct, the notes themselves were wrong.

The kids in my music class were a different story. They were picture-perfect images of disciplined musicians — at least when they were sitting down, with their chests protruded and heads held high as if they were posing for a photograph. They all had the makings of prodigies — at least, until they opened their mouths. They would assume these proud postures, their small faces arranged in expressions of earnestness and perhaps pride, but what emerged from their lips was a chaotic medley of off-key notes. Their doting mothers sat behind them, swelling with pride, as if to say, “Look at my child—he’s the next Thyagaraja!” while in reality, the child was more like the next sensation in abstract musical art. Their confidence was, however, unshakeable. They’d finish a particularly dissonant rendition of some unrecognizable piece and look around as if expecting a standing ovation. And honestly, you couldn’t help but applaud—partly out of encouragement, but mostly out of relief that it was finally over.

Then there was another middle-aged lady who, despite her vocal shortcomings, was a marvel to behold. If you were to close your ears and simply watch her, you would think that she was deep in the throes of a grandiloquent celestial concert. Her posture was impeccable, her gestures were graceful, her facial expressions were so animated — her vision was one that could have been mistaken for a masterclass in classical dance. The singing, however, was a different affair. It sounded like a valiant and courageous attempt to play a broken violin using a twig in place of a bow — an earnest effort, but decidedly off-key. One day, she raised the stakes of her musical quest by asking our teacher a question so absurd it was almost poetic: “To indicate the beats, should the hand be raised to a height of 5 inches or 10 inches?” This question, which seemed to exceed any sensible consideration of rhythms or practicalities, left the teacher momentarily speechless. With a mixture of exasperation and pity, the teacher suggested that she might find greater success in painting or stitching, where the precise height of one’s hand was less critical, thus diplomatically advising her to explore realms where her talents—or lack thereof—could shine without disrupting the musical universe.

Finally, there was my teacher, Mrs. Gayathri — a woman who was the polar opposite of her students. She was humble, almost to a fault, and spoke with a quiet authority that made you sit up and listen, even if you were as tone-deaf as a stone. She wasn’t one for grand gestures or flamboyant attire. Her presence was simple, her sarees cotton, her bindi modest — a woman who let her music speak for itself. And speak it did. Her classes were homely affairs, often spilling into conversations about life — her own musical journey, her experiences, our school life, and everything in between. Her voice was akin to a finely tuned instrument, each note crystal clear and delivered with such ease that you’d be fooled into thinking Carnatic music was the simplest thing in the world. She was, to us, the embodiment of what we aspired to be, even if some of us were light-years away from getting there.

I passed the senior exam under her tutelage, but by then, my journey with Carnatic music had reached a turning point. As I prepared to leave, I looked back at the years of practice, the memorable encounters, and the dedication of my teacher. Through the chaos of her classes and life itself, Mrs. Gayathri remained our anchor. She would listen to us patiently, correct our mistakes with a smile, and somehow manage to find a sliver of melody in our otherwise discordant attempts. And when she sang, all our squawking and screeching seemed to fade away, leaving behind a pure, unblemished note that soared above us all—a true birdsong. The kind we all hoped, in some distant future, to emulate.

In the end, it wasn’t just the music that I learned from these people — it was the sheer joy of being part of this chaotic, colorful journey. The world of Carnatic music may be one of discipline and tradition, but for me, it is also a world of laughter, eccentricities, and the realization that the path to perfecting a song is often paved with hilarious, tuneless detours.