There was a teacher, who sang well, started her career as a singer, yet had no opportunities. She married into a musical family, and singing changed to teaching. She had talented children, yet she felt burdened with them, and she could not feel proud. They sang carelessly, as if her singing was inadequate. And immediately she felt she had to show off her talent. Yet what it was that she must express, she never knew. Nevertheless, when the children sang, her eyes turned green and her face, stony. This upset her, and she would feel more appreciative and encouraging towards them, as if she acknowledged their talents. Only she was the one who knew that at the center of her music was a place that nobody could touch—her heart—a lonely and selfish heart that didn’t feel love for anyone—not even her children. Everyone said, “See, how she cares for her kids, teaching them music.” Only she knew how she taught—and her children also knew. They could listen to it in her voice, when she sang.
They were a boy and a girl—the boy in his teens and the girl, younger by a few years. They lived in a spacious apartment with balconies, and they had machines doing all the household chores in place of servants and kept a snobbish distance from the neighbours. Although they lived like celebrities, there was an ever-nagging worry in them. There were never enough concerts—never enough opportunities to perform, and definitely never any to even prove performing capabilities. The mother—the music teacher—taught a few students, and the father—a shipping clerk and singer—had no contacts either with organizers or other musicians, and definitely no time to build them. The mother went to local Bhajana gatherings during weekends. But, though she sang well, and everybody praised her singing and said that she had great future, the future never materialized. There was a constant yearning for chances to sing, to perform, and to gain fame alternating with a nagging sense of its shortage, though an air of high-nosed, celebrity-like manner and living was always kept up.
Despite that, the mother with a great belief in herself went saying, “I’ll work at it till my last breath.” She started at local temples and sabhas, but didn’t know how to approach. She tried requesting, putting in a word, personally handing over her bio-data to the temple offices or the sabha offices, meeting bloated secretaries pleased with themselves than any musician, reminding, and more reminding until it was getting more unsuccessful by the day. Her sinking, deep-set eyes told stories of failure. She was ageing—her voice was losing strength. She must get famous, she must get famous, and soon. The handsome father, who always wore gold-bordered veshti like famous musicians, looked like he would never have any ability to do anything worthwhile. The mother, who thought too high of herself, too didn’t do anything better, despite all her efforts.
And so, the stuffed air in the music room murmured an unspoken feeling: I want fame! I want fame! The children heard the murmur all the time, but they didn’t talk about it. They heard it in her sigh when she taught other students; they heard it when she scolded them; they heard it when she cleaned the Tambura of dust before a rare concert. Behind the old srutibox, behind the silk-saree cupboard, the air hummed: I want fame! I want fame! And the children would rush out of the music room to the balcony, scared and stunned. The boy will look into the girl’s eyes to see if she too heard it. And then, they knew that both of them did. I want fame! I want fame!
The wooden pegs on which the Tambura strings were tied, murmured; the Tyagaraja idol sitting on the wooden cupboard heard it, and it closed its eyes harder to sing harder. The image of Saraswati that was painted on a calendar, too, the smiling Saraswati looked nonchalant hearing the murmur all over the music room: I want fame!
No one spoke about it, though. The mother worried and worked harder, the father never bothered; the children just heard and absorbed it—the murmuring air spread out into the whole house. But nobody talked about it. It was there everywhere.
One day, the teenage boy, Ramkumar said, “Amma, why don’t you sing a concert alone? Why do you always have to team up with aunt?”
“I get to sing concerts only with her,” said the mother.
“But why, Amma?”
“That’s because your father has no contacts who can give me chances to sing or the time to build them,” she said bitterly. “Whereas your aunt, a violinist, has played for so many singers and she can whip up contacts and even recommend singers like a magician brings rabbits out of empty hats.”
There was a pause.
“Is chance, fame?” he asked with the confused mind of a teenager.
“No Ram, not at all. But it gives you fame,” she said.
“Oh!” Ramkumar felt vague. He said, “Then, what’s a chance, Amma?”
“Chance for concert gives you fame. It is an opportunity. If you have chance, you get to sing more; you become known, and then, one day, famous. It’s better to have chances than fame. If you are born into a well-known family or marry into one, it is possible that you can still lose reputation. Having chances means being lucky; it’s better to get chances to sing and prove yourself than be famous automatically.”
“Father doesn’t get any chances to sing?” He asked.
“No. And, to hide it, he acts as if he doesn’t have the time to pursue,” she said and shrugged her shoulders.
“But, why does Appa not get any chances to sing?” he asked.
The mother sighed. “I am as clueless as you are,” she said ultimately.
“Doesn’t grandma know? Doesn’t grandpa know?”
“Nobody knows why somebody is blessed with concerts and somebody isn’t. And, the worst part is that nobody knows why somebody tries all their might and still doesn’t get successful.” She sighed again.
“But, Amma, you sing in places nearby,” he asked.
“Yeah, I manage something. But, before marriage, I used to sing in prestigious halls. I won the Tambura prize at Music Academy and sang a concert during the season too.”
“Then, you will definitely get chances,” he said.
“No, I’ve married your father, an unlucky person. I have to share his fate. That’s how it is also happening.” She said.
“But, by yourself you managed to sing in the Music Academy, and now sing in a few places at least, unlike Appa; so you must be lucky,” he said.
“I don’t know—can’t really say.” Ramkumar looked at her. She was feeling unsure and vague.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’ll get lots of chances to sing and become famous; I’ll be called a teenage prodigy.”
The mother laughed suddenly. “How do you say that,” she asked.
“My inner voice told me,” he said, suddenly speaking like an oracle.
“I wish!” She said and sighed more deeply.
“Of course, I will,” he asserted.
“Whatever,” she said, now regaining her senses.
Ramkumar didn’t like his mother’s reaction. He wished she had supported his strong feelings. Worse, she was not curious or did not engage with him in an encouraging way—she didn’t even bother to pay any attention to him. He suppressed his rising anger and vowed to do something to induce her attention.
He left with a confused gait—vague first, and then absorbed—seeking inner answers to his curiosity. He sat in the corner of the music room and imagined himself singing concerts. He prayed to the Goddess and sat in silence meditating. When everyone slept at 4 a.m., he would get up and sit in silence in the music room meditating on music, concerts and chances. He wanted chances. He had to pioneer change in this luckless family. The only way to go on a quest, according to the little boy, was to make the winning quest to his inner space. He had learnt some meditation and Yoga in school. Now, was the right time to put it to use. He meditated hard. He closed his eyes hard and focused on his chest. He forced his eyebrows to narrow and imagined focusing. He kept his hands apart; each one on one knee. He went into frenzy and his eyes were glazed when he was done. Then, he went into staring fixedly at the image of the Goddess and the idol of Tyagaraja. His sister was afraid to greet him the routine good morning.
“Goddess, Oh! Goddess!” he ordered, “Give me contacts so that I can land concert chances.” Then, he would fold his hands and pray. He would plant a dot of Kumkum on his forehead, his aunt had given—the prasadam from a rare Saraswati temple. He knew he would get to sing more, if he prayed harder. He would shut his eyes tightly and pray, hoping to be famous. He knew he’d be famous.
“Don’t keep praying so much. You’ll have to complement it by studying too,” his father would say.
“He’s always praying in the morning,” his sister would add.
But he just turned a deaf ear to them all. Anyway, his father was always in his own world like a narcissist; and his sister was too little for him to care. He stared her down with his big eyes and she would scuttle away like a rabbit.
After the long praying, he would practice singing—for an hour on weekdays and hours together on weekends.
One Sunday, his aunt and mother came into the music room, when he was furiously practicing. He closed his eyes as soon as he saw them, but continued singing.
“Practicing so devotedly, Ramkumar?” said his aunt.
“Don’t you have any homework to do? Why are you singing day in and day out, like some possessed singer?” His mother said irritated.
But Ramkumar continued singing. He shut his eyes harder and pretended not to have heard them. He raised his voice further and sang full-throated. The mother stared at him for a while; and let out a helpless groan.
After what seemed an eternity, he stopped and prostrated at the Goddess’ image.
“I feel so fresh and ready for another round of practice,” he said.
The mother looked at the aunt, who simply said, “Good, practice well and become an expert.”
“By the way, did the Goddess bless you?” she continued.
“Of course. She always blesses me whenever I pray to her.”
“Sure, she does,” the aunt said, sarcasm brimming in her voice, “So, whatever do you pray for?”
“The last time I prayed, she gave me a contact,” he said.
“Eh, who?”
“He talks about such things like as if he’s always got them forever,” the mother said.
Aunt Mala was pleased to discover her nephew getting familiar with the Carnatic music circle. Venkatesh—his classmate, who takes help from him for his maths—his father, was a senior executive in a bank that sponsored lots of music concerts. Venkatesh’s father would casually discusses with him, the names of concert halls and secretaries who come begging to him for money every year or every festive season for concerts. Ramkumar did Venkatesh’s homework and in return, received names and their contacts.
“Can you take me to this friend of yours—Venkatesh?” asked his aunt. Her eyes went bright and had a hint of greed.
“Sure,” he said.
“Ramkumar asked me for it,” Venkatesh said.
“Has he talked to any secretary about any concert for him?” asked the aunt.
“I really don’t know. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” He said, “Besides, he does my homework,” lowering his voice, “I cannot really give him away.”
Try as she might, Venkatesh wouldn’t say—an ideal banker’s son who wouldn’t part with money or information, thought Aunt Mala. So, she went back to her nephew and took him to her house for lunch.
And, after serving his favorite sweet, she asked him, “Ramkumar, did you contact any secretary for a chance?”
“Do you think I should not?” He asked.
“Not at all. I was just wondering if you could recommend my name for a concert too.”
Ramkumar was thoughtful. He ate the sweet, relishing every bit of it.
“I will. But, you have to recommend me too when you get a chance through your contacts,” he said.
“OK”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Well, then, the secretary of Hyagreeva Gana Sabha—Santhanam Sir.”
“Hyagreeva Gana Sabha? It’s too local a sabha, I’m not sure I want to be part of it. What about the ones in the city?”
“I don’t know them. I only know it’s a great place.”
“Santhanam, eh?”
Aunt Mala was thinking. Hyagreeva Gana Sabha was an unknown sabha.”
“Aunt!”
“What, dear?”
“Hope you will not spread it around, will you? I promised Venkatesh.”
“What, Venkatesh? How does it involve him?”
“We’re partners—in a sense. Mala Aunty, he made his father give me a chance to sing in the Ramanavami Bhajana, where well-known musicians participate. It was my first chance. But nothing came of it. From then on, we have been partners. I had promised him that I would not tell anyone about his father and their contacts. But, when you recommended my name for that Navarathri concert and accompanied me on the violin like you do with Amma, this secretary—Santhanam sir came congratulating me and offered a chance with his sabha. Venkatesh was reluctant at first thinking like you. But I said the chance is a good bet. Please, aunt, don’t tell anyone.”
Aunt Mala hesitated and stirred uncomfortably when Ramkumar looked at her with his big eyes pleading. Her sister—Ramkumar’s mother—had the same eyes and the pleading disarmed her always.
“Ok. Ramkumar. I’ll not discuss this with anyone. So, what is the main raga you’ve planned for the concert?”
“KharaharaPriya”
“Not a difficult-to-sing raga like Bharavi?” Aunt Mala joked.
“No, that’s for important concerts,” said the boy seriously. “But, please don’t tell anyone. Promise?”
Aunt Mala laughed. “Don’t worry about that, but, can you sing an elaborate KharaharaPriya?”
“Amma has taught me well. I have your recording too. Moreover, I practice with Venkatesh almost every day.”
“Does Venkatesh sing? That’s news to me.”
“Yes, he does.”
“Then, why is he sharing his contacts and chances with you?”
“Well, he doesn’t belong to a family of musicians; and therefore, no tradition. Amma and you have a strong musical lineage and hence, an established style of singing. He feels confident singing only with me.”
“Hmm… he has the chances and you have the talent—great combination,” she said positively. Ruminating on the younger generation’s abilities to cooperate and complement with an intelligence she had found so late herself, the aunt was silent. What will the little boy’s age be? Seventeen? Eighteen? And they already inculcate the potential to succeed—a thing that had taken her thirty years or so to understand and still, not perfected well. She didn’t speak but made up her mind to attend this concert of her nephew’s.
“I’ll probably recommend your name to the secretary of Vamana Gana Sabha, Mr. Subramanian, a close friend of mine. It’s one of the best known sabhas in Chennai suburbs. They have a slot for youth singers. You two will fit in well.” She said.
“No, thanks, aunt. I’m happy with Santhanam Sir.”
“Fine, whatever suits you. I’ll try to attend your concert.” She said.
“Please do, aunt.”
Ramkumar had never sung a complete concert before. He wore a silk veshti and jibba with gold borders. His spirits were soaring when he began the main song of the concert. Venkatesh understated in everything, including clothes, was supporting Ramkumar. And together, the pair gave a great concert that left the sparse audience there, spellbound.
After the concert got over, a tall man of about sixty with grey hair came towards Ramkumar. He praised him and said that he already had the music in him and if he made the right moves, he’d be a rising star early at that age itself. Ramkumar’s aunt, who was packing his srutibox into a bag looked around and stood stunned. But, within seconds, she got herself together and greeted the old man. He was none other than the ex-director of a renowned TV station; who had a major say in arranging concerts in top sabhas in Chennai; who had nurtured top talents; and who still takes pride in spotting right talents. For starters, he offered Ramkumar, right then, a chance to sing at Rama Gana Sabha during Deepavali festival. Aunt Mala stood gaping at him and at Ramkumar. After he left, she asked, “Well, have you spoken to your accompaniments already about this concert?”
“I’ll tell Venkatesh. He takes care of everything,” said the boy. “I have six concerts for the music season this December; and one in January; and this one in November.”
“Are you serious, son?” She said, taken aback.
“Yes, but, please don’t tell anyone—especially Amma.”
“Your mother doesn’t know?”
“No.”
“But, I need to talk to Venkatesh’s father,” she said.
“His father has gone on work assignment abroad.”
“When will he be back?”
“About two months.”
“Well, in that case, I need to talk to Venkatesh,” she said.
“We can all together form a group, if you like, aunt,” he said. “But, you should not let anyone else into this. It’s only after singing that Navarathri concert with you on the violin, when Amma was ill and I replaced her, that chances started to come…”
Aunt Mala brought both Ramkumar and Venkatesh to her house the next day for lunch. There, they talked.
“When I first complained to Ramkumar that a certain Tavil player, also a secretary to a sabha (that didn’t actually take off), ingratiated himself to my dad and kept pushing him for a sponsor, he got interested and had me talking about all the secretaries who come during the season time for a bit here and a bit there. That was when the idea of us both teaming up and singing occurred first; we sang in some local gatherings but didn’t get further chances. Only after that Navrathri concert with you, where Santhanam sir offered this chance, that things started looking up.”
“We sing well when we’re sure of the next chance. Otherwise we don’t.”
“Oh but we still sing ok,” Venkatesh added immediately.
“But how do you know of the next chance for sure?” Aunt Mala asked.
“It’s in Ramkumar’s hands,” Venkatesh said. “I’ve noticed us getting chances after singing good concerts. He gets his charming, honeyed voice and a smooth flow in improvisation.” Venkatesh’s voice felt reverent. “Like the next concert; or like the concerts in December season,” he said.
“Does your voice also have that glazed effect?” Aunt Mala asked Venkatesh.
“Well, sometimes.”
“So, you have these six concerts just like that?” she asked.
“And one in Tiruvaiyaru, a day before the Aradhana—the sought-after day by top musicians.”
“That’s interesting.”
“If all goes well, we may even be invited to the Pepperland music festival in summer,” the boy said.
“Awesome!”
“So, do you want to be part of us?” asked Venkatesh.
“Well, let me first see the sabhas’ concert brochures with your names,” she said.
Aunt Mala drove to Venkatesh’s house taking along both her nephew and his friend. Once there, Venkatesh went to his room and fetched the sabha pamphlets—six of them. Highlighted in the second and third pages, there were names of them both as vocals and their violin and mridangam accompaniments.
“So, you see the names now? Are you sure about what we were talking?” Ramkumar asked his aunt.
“Hmm.”
“But all these chances happen only when I have an intense brainwave. And then, we go all out. Isn’t it, Venkatesh?”
“Yes, we do.”
Aunt Mala laughed. “And, when do you get this brainwave?” she asked petting his cheeks affectionately.
“Not all the time. Sometimes, I get it intensely; sometimes it comes and goes and I feel uncertain; and sometimes there is just a hint. Only when I have an intense one pursuing me doggedly, do we do it.” He replied.
“Oh and when do you get this intense brainwave?”
“I cannot really say. I just get it and I know when I get it.” He said.
“It’s like fame comes to him naturally...” Venkatesh added in a reverently secretive tone. “Hmm” Aunt Mala shrugged.
She didn’t know what to say nonetheless she decided to be part of them. When the Gayana Sabha chance came, Ramkumar got his intense brainwave, although it was again a sabha that was unheard of. He decided on singing Kambhoji as the main raga elaborating on the upper registers at length and mesmerizing the audience thoroughly. Venkatesh supported him well, and needless to say, Aunt Mala also matched him well. The All India Radio director who was present there bestowed upon him a top grade without any audition and repeated up-gradations.
“See, that was the result of the brainwave,” he said.
Even Aunt Mala got a chance to play for a top artist scheduled to sing at the radio during the next week. She was excited but also felt scared. “This feels too good to be true and it also makes me nervous,” she told Ramkumar.
“Don’t worry, aunt. I don’t always get such brainwaves. Be assured of that and grab your chances with both hands.” He smiled.
“Fine, so what do you plan to sing for your first radio concert?” she asked.
“Bhairavi.”
“Your mother will be very happy listening to it,” she said.
“Oh, no. She must not know. In fact I give Venkatesh’s address for the sabhas and plan to give the same for the radio letters too.”
“Why? She would be the happiest to listen to you sing in the radio—a dream she could never conquer.”
“She must not know.”
“Do you think she will get jealous?”
“No, nothing of that sort. On the contrary, I am only trying to get the contacts together so that I can recommend chances for her. In fact, I started everything only for her. She told me she never got chances to prove her worth or father’s. I thought if I got chances, the music room would bloom again and the dank air would stop murmuring.”
“What murmur?”
“The dark music room—the dusty Tambura—the srutiboxes, all of them murmuring that they never get to be played, that they don’t get their chances,” he said.
“Hmm. I know that feeling. ” She said.
“Amma’s face is hung; Appa’s too; the house is gloomy—it’s always sad. So, I thought, if I got the chances and then, the contacts…”
“Music will bloom in your house,” she replied.
Ramkumar watched her with his big eyes. She noticed an uncanny spark in them. His firm lips didn’t utter another word.
“Then, how are we going to go about it?” She asked.
“Amma must not know nor Appa. She’ll only get scared. She’ll never understand and only stop my meditation and practicing.”
“Hmm. Ok, fine then. We’ll work our way around so that she doesn’t notice or get to know anything.” Aunt Mala said.
It was the month of May—a scorching hot Chennai summer when there is no soul on the streets. But, that was the month musicians would be busy—not singing or performing concerts—but applying to various sabhas and meeting their contacts to get chances to sing during the December music season. Aunt Mala, Ramkumar and Venkatesh did it too. They did it for themselves and for Ramkumar’s mother. Wherever the trio performed, they’d recommend Amma’s name. Ramkumar got her to record her singing on a CD. He passed it on to all his contacts and followed it up with phone calls. He even got her a smooth entry into the radio concerts. “So she’ll get chances to sing in the leaner summer months,” Aunt Mala remarked.
Ramkumar’s mother had about seven concerts coming in December. She had no idea. The pamphlets would start pouring in by late October. It would give her sufficient time to practice too. But, till then, the music room went on murmuring. All this, despite Ramkumar’s chances and concerts. But, he was all excited to watch his mother’s reactions when she would see her name in those sabhas’ concert schedules in December.
Meanwhile, his mother was now going to students’ houses to teach. She had lately discovered that the children of Indians who lived abroad and who came ‘home’ on vacations were intent on learning music more than the ones who lived here. They’d camp in some relatives’ house (though they could well afford hotels or rented houses on their own) and demand music teachers to go over and teach them. That they paid well was the only incentive for the teachers to scramble after them. They would teach at least five children every day, not to mention the countless they teach through Skype. Ramkumar’s mother, however, could teach only two of them and didn’t make much. She would have loved to know how others got them but between her talent and energy, she couldn’t manage even the two. She didn’t succeed even in cornering well-paying students and getting chances to teach.
On the last day of October, Ramkumar brought in a few papers looking more like notices than respectable sabha schedule pamphlets. They were