By Sharadhi Hegde
Wispy tendrils of mist gleam gold in the dawn. Streams of clouds melt away to reveal an indigo canopy splashed with a deep blood red.
I sit there, on the old veranda, waiting for the fog in my mind to clear away, like the dampness in the morning air. Instead, the tunes in my head keep swirling, knotting and twisting and untangling all at once. I struggle to put them in tune - into the notes of the morning raga I am supposed to learn.
I start, and then I stop again. The notes catch in my throat - choking, suffocating, like a trapped moth desperate to escape into the receding daylight.
I stop, and then I start again. And again. And again. And still, I don't get it right.
And I remember.
I remember the day I learned to sing, the day I hummed along to my mother’s old lullaby.
I remember the day I began to learn how to sing, when Appa brought home the Saraswati idol and my mother fed me jaggery and Amma fed me jaggery and honey to start a new, sweet beginning.
And then I count.
Ten years, since I began learning to sing.
Ten years, since I hit my first note.
Ten years, since I begrudgingly sat before the harmonium to repeat the same pattern of notes - over, and over, and over again.
Ten years later, it feels like I've barely changed. Still the same raw voice. Still skipping beats, and missing notes.
Still singing devoid of any emotion I want the raga to invoke.
Today, as I clear my throat to attempt the note for the fifth time, I wonder....
How long will I keep trying to get better at something I know is a battle I’m losing anyway?
**********
Seven years, since I first listened to my Guruji sing.
I was at a cultural festival when Appa came to us with a brochure:
"Hindustani Classical Vocal Recital. 6:30 in the evening, sharp". Said we ought to listen to it.
Guruji was the one supposed to perform. I tried to keep guessing the raga he'd sing. I guessed a few good old basic ragas. Nope. He went straight for Marwa - Marwa, my favourite raga, one you didn't really sing unless you knew you could really, really do it justice.
That day, during that performance, I learnt to listen. I learnt what a raga could truly mean.
At the end of his performance, I clapped. I clapped until I could barely hear myself, until I felt red-hot pins trickling up my palms, until all the blood rushed to my fingertips. Everyone else clapped too.
Guruji, however, was not happy.
I told him he should be. The applause following his performance had been deafening.
He was quite for a moment.
Then, he said that an artiste is not made great by the loudness of the applause, but the heaviness of the silence that follows his performance.
I said I agreed, and went home.
I didn't know what he was talking about. Not yet, anyway.
**********
Five years, since I first performed onstage.
I sang Bhimpalasi - easy enough for a beginner to be singing, and nearly impossible to completely mess up. I must credit myself on the fact that despite this, I messed up. It was infinitely worse. It was despicable.
As I finished singing, the audience clapped. And yet, I knew. That wasn't applause. That was merely encouragement - kind, condescending encouragement. And I hated it. I hated myself for performing so horribly, hated Guruji for even allowing me to perform, hated the audience for even considering it worth clapping for.
My parents told me I did great, that I should be proud. I fell quite.
That night, I cried. My head was full of whispers, which I now know, will never be silent.
"You'll never get better, you know."
"Remember that man who said he liked your voice? Yeah, he was probably lying to make you feel better about how bad you were."
I shut my eyes, pulling the covers tightly over my head, willing, wishing, praying, begging for the whispers to stop.
I've never felt as alone as I did that night.
**********
One year, since I learnt that what I learn and love isn't for everyone. (It was rather a rude awakening, but I suppose it had to happen sooner or later).
One of the guys from school walked up to me that day. I was humming a tune in Yaman - the raga I'd just learnt. "Why'd you want to listen to something that sounds like someone crooning like a goat?" he asked.
It’s amusing, isn’t it, how we are the victims, and we are the cannibals too?
I began to think.
For some reason, my mind jumped to colours. I like to think of ragas as colours.
Yaman reminds me of delicate pink - a study in tender, newfound love.
Madhuvanti makes me feel like a butterfly drenched in red, in deep shades of passion, wrapped in layers of maroon and carmine and crimson.
Todi is golden - golden like the dew sparkling on the tips of the morning grass, like the first rays of sun at dawn, like the colour of the summer mornings.
Malhar is green like the frost-kissed woods at dawn, green like the shoots of monsoon herbs, green like the leaves Amma plucks for the temple in the morning.
Malkauns is navy blue, like the colour of Lord Shiva's skin. Or the deep velvet sky long past midnight - like a silk saree bedecked with diamonds.
And then there's Marwa. My favourite raga. Marwa reminds me of a dull red - the red no longer lustrous, the love no longer passionate, like a greying wound yet to heal. Marwa is longing, raw and pure.
I might've launched into an extensive philosophy on the various emotions expressed in a raga if the sound of the lunch bell hadn't brought me back.
I opened my mouth to answer, only to realize I didn't have one. I couldn't possibly make him feel what I felt when I listened to a raga.
I looked at him, and shrugged. "You wouldn't get it anyway".
I sat alone at lunch that day. Yaman, meanwhile, was doing somersaults in the back of my mind.
**********
One minute, since I realised.
A minute ago, I finally got the note right.
My first thought? Could be done better, though.
For now, though, I only wish I didn't hate the sound of my voice so much.
Maybe one day, I won't.
Maybe that's how I'll keep getting better.
Maybe that's how people will actually like listening to me someday.
And maybe, just maybe, that is how it's supposed to be.
I take a deep breath, and prepare to repeat the note again.
By Sharadhi Hegde
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