At some point of time in her childhood, my mother had taken violin lessons. This violin was very much a part and parcel of our home, though I never once saw her play it. My uncle often joked that she had taken music and violin lessons just so she could have something to do during the 'ponnu pakkaradu' or the bride viewing. I don't think my father bothered or had much say at that time, either about the entire process or whether his wife-to-be could actually wing the instrument. Apparently thatha, (appa's appa) told my mom with everyone in audience, 'Look at the man you are going to marry' and that was it. The violin was apparently referenced during that event during the conversations.
Appa and athais were extremely musical and of course patti. Thatha's music was mostly "Arumpone maniye" with which he used to sing me to sleep. All visits, occasions were filled with music practice or music discussions, something that continues till this day. Amma was too busy with many other other things and more a reader than a singer and the violin kept its place in silence; until that is, my athai borrowed this childhood violin for one of her violin classes. It was discovered then, that it was a German violin, of high quality. Athai's guru, renowned violist Srimathi Brahmanandam, offered to buy it off her. Hectic discussions took place at home. Upon the discovery of the high-quality violin, there was only one course open to this music-loving family. Of course they would not sell it, they would find a user for it. They suddenly noticed me. That was how the violin was deposited in my possession.
"It's logical", I was told, "if it is an expensive violin, you should use it."
I must have been about eight years or so then. We did not argue. If they had asked me to join the army or an Arctic exploration, I would have just got ready. Possibly I would have been provided packed lemon rice - curd rice to eat on the way, as a reward, but that's besides the point.
That was how my violin classes started with Pattathai, as I used to call her. They lived next door, almost like an extension of our own home and my cousins of the summer theatre fame, found this entire process hilarious. Initially I began with a child violin - a smaller one that suited my age and hands. This was a horrific period for everyone around. Visions of tortured dogs and cats could emerge while listening to the sounds I made from the poor baby violin. The violin needs an excellent bowing mechanism, smooth flowing and with precision in the limited space allocated for that purpose. In my case, as bow touched string and slipped or struggled, wailing, crackling sounds could be heard, nothing at all musical about it.
Pattathai was not one to give up, however. She persisted, pushing me to keep trying to practice and taking me through the initial steps of Sarali Varisai and Janta Varisai. As guru, she was a different person. So while I might get some tasty food while I was there as her niece, when I came for 'class' she would be very focused and disciplined. Her son, my cousin Ramji, also got looped into learning the violin, but at some point , he did manage to wriggle out of the proceedings. And so classes progressed. I used to go for 'class' at athai's and practice at home. However, since our homes practically shared the same backyard, whatever I did was audible, and I found that out quite emphatically one day!
Sitting down to practice some exercises and my latest lessons, one day, I was pretty engrossed trying to make out the complex parts when suddenly I found a knock at the window of the room where I was practicing. I blushed mostly in shock at seeing a face suddenly emerge at the window and wake me abruptly from my deep focus at connecting string and bow. There was pattathai - standing there waving her hands and making me stop. "You missed one sangathi", she hissed, "How can you miss that line?" Of course I re-practiced that whole part, correcting the stanza and then she left her window-place. You don't argue with pattathai.
Packing up my violin I trudged off for my actual class. My cousins were sitting there mock-glaring at me. "If you must practice," they said, "please do so when we are not eating. Amma was serving us lunch and after listening to you, suddenly kept everything down and went scooting off to correct you. We are totally starved now." Of course they weren't. It must have been hardly an interruption, but they were rubbing it in for athai's benefit . She chuckled gamely at them and I'm sure felt pretty good that she absolutely did not regret rushing off and was happy that she corrected me during practice. Lunches or dinners, she must have surely marched up to give me feedback, just about whenever she wanted to.
By then, I was using my mother's famed German violin and after a certain point, I was considered good enough to go to the same Srimathi mami from who athai was learning. "You should go up to the next level; and for that you need to learn from her" she said and the transfer of gurujis happened. Again, all this was decided for me. So I went with the flow and continued my violin classes, but pattathai, always remained a 'guru' athai. This was also why I had a special respect combined with awe for her, always paying special heed to anything she said. She also in the meantime, continued to lead her own musical aspirations, singing and on the violin, initiating a 'Sowbaghya' group that included other athais, cousins and sometimes patti on the harmonium. Sowbaghya gave several performances even and in some, as students of musical gurus do, I would very occasionally play the tanpura or violin.
In addition to the music education and the violin, the other parts that also stayed with me, including family bonds, were the life lessons on discipline, progress and leadership. It seems there was much more to learn than just how to play the violin and whenever I think of those times, the most indelible memory is the image of athai standing in the window, calling out to me, to correct myself and do a good job - valuable life lessons too, it seems had been gathered from my violin classes with pattathai.
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