Melded notes

A part of me will always glide towards music. In a constant haste to learn, to take in the melodies and sip in the world of vibrating energy. Many have asked me about the exact moment when I knew that I could sing and I have no answer. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t. Music was as if a separate organ within me, a separate sense which came as naturally as breathing. Even without learning the specific science behind the working of vocal cords, even before the classical training became a part of my being, my mind was in tune with the voice that came out of my mouth. I can write pages on several topics if you ask me to, however, this part of my life is mostly even enigmatic to me and the hardest to jot down. How do you explain something so integral which is imbedded in you and where your conscience plays no part? I truly believe that my voice is not my own. It’s the most beautiful gift that this life bestowed on me and I on the other hand am just a mere unworthy accepter of a reward which I don’t deserve. My contribution to this bombastic art is none whatsoever. Apart from polishing the voice here and there, I play no part. So, when you praise my music, I take no pride in it. It leaves me uncomfortable, a tad bit guilty and sometimes surprised. 

I was always surrounded by people who sang, who wrote music or played instruments. As a child, I would hum along my parents, listen to the beautiful keys of the harmonium and the thumping of tabla and pakhawaj. It used to make my heart race. My uncle who used to visit us often, would wake me up early in the morning and teach me new songs. As my voice would blend with the sound of the harmonium, my soul would detach from my body and would listen attentively to the heavenly mix of sounds. It still does. Somedays, I wake up with music in my head, raging to be unleashed into the world. I get amazed by how the voices tilt towards each key, how even without trying it would go in the right direction of the tune. The slight tweaks that happen unknowingly. It’s a grand process really. A process which leaves me indebted.

My music teacher always used to say, a good musician doesn’t always have to be born with it. Practice and hard-work, can make you a better musician than a gifted one. He said vocal cords are like soiled utensils, which you have to keep on cleaning and wiping in order to see the glaze. One of his most famous saying was, if a singer doesn’t practice a day then her teacher would know the difference, if she doesn’t practice for two days then she herself would know and if she doesn’t practice for three days then the whole world would know. My lack of discipline when it came to these intricate principles was a constant source of calm dismay for him. He fought a frustrated battle between praising me for the gift and reprimanding me for not doing the work. However, my young mind could never fathom what I had and what I constantly took for granted. It took me years to understand what I should have done. I would always remain slightly disappointed in myself for not completely throwing myself into this world, to which I was invited so lovingly.

Today, I might not even be as good as some say. I definitely am no music prodigy. But, all I know is what I have is somewhat rare. Some real fine genes, melded together to bring about sparkling notes which resulted into a soul which would always thirst for good strains. Which would always smile when the keys hit right, when the chords shine bright, when the refrain touches heart and the music breathes life.