A Symphony called Life

“Music, they say, is the panacea for many things. Among what plagues us humans most, I think nostalgia tops the list. It goes for the jugular, meaning sentiments”. As I write these lines, music wafts from the object of new attention at home - a dusty pink Amazon Echo Dot.

It was my birthday gift when I hit another remarkable milestone. I had arrived halfway on what is a century’s journey, with miles more to go. Hopefully, I shall succeed in tricking my genes to believe so. But even after six months when my gift sat unopened, pristine in its packaging, my boys raided it. Truth was that I shied away from talking to virtual “Alexa” (software like Siri).

Now it sits on the kitchen countertop, spitting “guttural” raps or screaming English chartbusters non-stop. Perhaps, to add some zing to daily drudgery of doing dishes (a much hated chore doled out to the sons by mommy dear) or to attain a musical nirvana, who knows?

But it does not help me when likes such as Ed Sheeran, Billie Eilish, Adele or the rap artists with catchy names that sound more like limericks, seem to have parked themselves in my kitchen on a permanent basis. Not that I had anything against them personally.

It was just that I was not quite familiar with their songs. Most simply twisted and knotted in my mouth and refused to remain in my grey matter. By the time I could actually identify a few words of what sounded like prayers in an alien language, it would be replaced by the “latest” and the “newest”. And it started all over again.

Add to this a monotonous droning from the telly at the opposite end of the room, where the spouse decided to plonk down and soak up some global news. I sometimes got my vendetta by playing albums from yester years such as ABBA or Cliff Richard or even popular western, classical symphonies. The boys howled in mental agony as we “wined” on weekends over instrumental Jazz or Jagjit Singh's ghazals.

Recently, while attending a community program, a mini escape from COVID restrictions, the music blaring from the loudspeakers caught my attention. I suddenly realized how unpronounceable the words seemed to be. Perhaps, it was bound to be.

Coming from a language with 56 letters consisting of 14 vowels and 42 consonants - Malayalam (vernacular language of southern state of Kerala, India), is spoken with a speed that beats Elon Musk’s airships. A new listener might even think that he had stumbled on the lost twin of Latin.

After the initial shock had washed over, I found my foot tapping to the music. I even seemed to be enjoying them. That was when I switched my allegiance. Typical of a parent wanting their children to discover and reconnect with their roots, I started my weekend “retro” musical routine.

But alas, it had few takers. The children clearly could not understand the lyrics or delve into its meaning. Forget the hidden depths, they did not even want to touch the top layers. The boys simply vanished, quoting vague excuses.

Our scores were even now. I sat under the quiet evening stars, bewitched by the melodies over a bottle of wine and a tossed salad or a pasta or two. Friday evenings were soothing, both, to body and soul.

Weekend mornings were a bit different though. No, I do not refer to the hangover here. When I called out to Alexa to play my favourite playlist, the atmosphere at home turned electric. I could feel the family siding up against me.

Dreary talks such as the day’s repast, school tasks and uni projects took over. Spouse yelled “pause” a million times at Alexa that in the end, Alexa forgot what playlist it was playing. Between the mundane banter and the commanded “pause”, silence remained pregnant and music hung on a thin line. My ears twitched in convulsive anger.

Perhaps, I should shift the blame to my late mother, God bless her soul. When I was an infant, she went about doing household chores after placing the radio at my bedside. Daily dose consisted of South Indian classical concerts in the morning. Afternoon siestas were courtesy Radio Ceylon and Malayalam songs. Hindi romantic hits at night worked well as lullabies. As they say, I slept well like a baby.

Growing up, I hated all the genres. I tuned to radio stations to attune myself, figuratively and literally. Of the two that I regularly listened to, I did splendidly by learning both languages and their nuances. Alas, Malayalam was not one of them and even today, I confess, it is not my forte.

I ardently worshiped English Pop, Jazz Blues, country hits, ballads and even church choral. I faithfully belted many of them out in my private amphitheatre aka the shower cabinet. The briefest half-hour radio broadcast of Western music had me hooked for life, be it the “Dancing Queen”, “Ra, Ra, Rasputin”, “Rocky Mountains High” or “Islands in the Stream”.

Mom instead came from a family of ardent music lovers and three generations solely of Carnatic music teachers. While she continued to teach (language and not music), I neither sang nor became a teacher of any sorts.

Or perhaps, I could shift the blame to my late father. It did not help that he was an excellent singer. In fact, he and his siblings could collectively put together a theatrical troupe. Ranging from classical instrument players to dancers and singers, they were a talented lot.

Some of them were renowned artists who toured and performed during the 1950s’ in culture capitals such as France, Italy and Austria. In years to come, even the onset of dementia could not dull their performances, though a little out of sync and now confined to the four walls of their ancestral home.

Being an only child, I felt I was certainly a disappointment to both families. And they made no bones about it, either during my summer holidays or whenever an occasion presented itself. My rowdy cousins too now took music lessons just to rib me.

At home, walls and shelves were tiered with medals, cups and plaques that dad won in music competitions and galas. Musical instruments such as the violin, veena, tabla, guitar, harmonium and the now almost forgotten bulbultara (a stringed instrument like guitar but with keys) took up most of our living room.

I slinked around these self-consciously, often stung with shame. “Musical genes' ' were not passed to me by some nature’s quirk. With no one to play or cherish the instruments, my father sadly sold them off to budding young musicians when he retired. I secretly revelled with joy as the weights were lifted off my shoulder. The living room looked larger and I could now stride with some self-pride.

That was news from my childhood. The fact that I was now bitten by the retro bug had me scurrying and searching online for Indian classical ragas by exponents, especially those enjoyed by my dad or my gran. Even mom’s favourites too. Maybe I had approached a juncture where one looked back and missed childhood.

Saturday mornings these days are ushered with MS Subbalakshmi’s elaborate bhajans or “Vatapi” by Yesudas, in his resonating bass. The kitchen had become a sacred sanctum. Burning incense sticks definitely added volumes to the mood.

Puffy, white idlis with coconut chutney or crisp, golden dosas with sambar, became the norm or accompaniments to the Carnatic music repertoire. As I traced the path to my Tulu roots, my confused family beat a hasty retreat to the outdoors after gulping the Brahmanical breakfast in haste.

Yet another chance find on YouTube was a collection of Malayalam songs set to music by Salil Chowdhary during the 1970s'. It sent my family into further tizzy. The non-stop, three hour musical rendition, played Sunday after Sunday became a metaphorical “cross” that they had to carry in addition to other delegated household chores.

However, I found it totally mesmerizing as to how a gentleman from Bengal could set tunes to songs written especially in a language unbeknownst to him. Malayalam lyrics paired with lilting Bengali tunes. Sounds bizarre? “It sets your soul on fire”, I said. “Or extinguish what’s left of it”, quickly countered my sons, in a huff. Well, based on your taste, I rest this with you.

In that atmosphere of sheer magic, I swayed my head and arms like an entranced snake and even broke into a hum alongside, when the tune simmered to fit my vocals or when my lungs granted permission. The family were left scratching their heads in order to identify crossover Baul sangeet (music), folk song of a Bangla fisherman or if it is a flick from the original Rabindra sangeet.

To avoid confusion and as an act of confluence, we fine tuned our lives by charting a music schedule at home. Mornings began with South Indian ragas followed by Indian film songs. By noon, UK and US top 100s’ took over and by the time the dishes were dealt, the rappers were called to commence. Music eased the daily grind and quieted our souls.

Over weekends, though the early bird got to play their playlist first, most often, I browbeat my folks or insinuated mild threats and got my way. It was when Indo-Canadian citizens started to appear in Indian playback that my sons began to take an avid interest in that direction. They were happy to accept this new cocktail of musical (con)fusion.

Sid Sriram and Abby V soon became their favourites. Snapping fingers and shimmying to Gopi Sundar’s peppy melodies, Coke Studio heroes such as Atif Aslam, Ali Sethi and many such took a back seat as though pushed to the other side of LOC (Line of control between India and Pakistan).

At home nowadays, meals are rustled while sipping wine and under the strict supervision of Beethoven or Brahms symphonies. When parties are hosted, Hindustani classical plays quietly in the background. The effect of the maestros was unmistakable.

Sober guests crunched delicately on peanuts, gently sipped on whisky and soda and enjoyed their dinner in silence. The ghazals meant that we had turned in for the night. Combined snoring emanated from almost all bedrooms.

Looking back on my life, I must admit that I once walked on a thorny path while trying to make a symphony out of it. And Ouch! it hurt as I touched tender nerve ends of childhood faux pas, belligerence to tradition and other such indiscretions. I also teared up as I reached those deep crevices of forgotten memories, happy and sad.

Music, they say, is the panacea for many things. Unlike the black and white keys of the piano, the music of life is also played on keys of a myriad colours interspersed with some grey. The songs are but written by the unseen and the music composed by the unknown.

At fifty, as nostalgia tightens its grip and when soppy, romantic songs at times begin to sound like “ironies of life”, I am glad that me and my family have our lives steeped deeply in music while general cacophony still prevails.

Today, as my 10-year old hums a Telugu hit - “Sri Valli” from the trending movie “Pushpa”, with a pronounced Aussie accent, the long departed ancestors from both sides of my family must be smiling from heaven. Especially now that the lost sheep has found its way back home. Well almost! as I continue to “bleat” to keep in tune with the melodies churned out on Echo Dot and also the so-called symphony of life.