Tuning My Life: Reflections on Violin Lessons and Family Bonds

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.  

Gokulam Chronicles: A Tale of Summer Theatre and Childhood Memories

Holidays at our ancestral home, 'Gokulam' were a much-looked forward to affair. There were the usual games – playing with tops, cricket, seven stones (or 'puncture-the-back' as we called it), kites and of course the eternal Hide and Seek. Most of all, during summer holidays – there was also an extra grand spectacle – The Gokulam Theatre Production.

It was a whirl of colour, drama and activity to me, rather younger than my cousins who pulled this all together. Preparations were usually elaborate. Scripts were written, costumes planned and designed and most of all – practice sessions day after day to get the scenes right. I usually sat out, a watchful audience all through, too young to be actually given a role, but awed at the mammoth efforts that my cousins (who seemed huge and immensely professional) put in for these family gatherings.

The programme itself was presented in a make-shift stage – usually the cows and the cars were driven out of the two sheds, an area cleared for the performance and seating organized for the audience – relatives, friends, neighbours. It was a mini-event in the neighbourhood. Consenting friends were roped in to act and participate.

Sometimes these theatre productions even garnered enough attention from passers-by on the street, as they crowded behind the wall to witness this unexpected event, uninvited though they were. Once, in fact, the proceedings got very exciting when an unknown member from the janta outside, proceeded to fling a pebble over the wall and into the stage proceedings. There was a furore and while my male cousins swore vehemently to pursue the suspect, they were cajoled to give up and continue the programme indoors.

It didn’t matter to me much, whether the proceedings were disrupted or continued as planned. It was all dramatic and a very engaging childhood adventure.

An open-mouthed audience through practice and performance, I got the opportunity to potentially make my stage debut – at the tender age of about 5! While I was witnessing one of the practice sessions, my cousins were hard pressed for someone to play the role of a female character. The male-dominant production team had short supply of willing female players. In desperation they saw me sitting and watching and proceeded to enroll me into the act. “It’s nothing much” one of my annas said, “All you have to do is to strike a pose like this”. Director-like he mimicked the action that I was to enact. I agreed heartily.

My epic role consisted of standing in a corner of the stage in the manner suggested, while the remaining dialogues of that one scene, played out for the next few minutes. I practiced furiously for the next couple of days. (This was saying something, as actually I had nothing much to practice except stand and leave at my cue).

The day of the programme dawned. The preparations hit a feverish pitch. A short while before the production was due to be staged, thatha called out to me. “Going up to the shops for a few errands, would you like to come with me in the car?” Driving out in the car was always a delight and I loved hanging around when thatha went shopping. He usually commanded the shopkeepers and made determined purchases, so much that the shopkeepers looked doubtful, if they should charge him or actually pay him for shopping! Excited I jumped into the car behind him, forgetting completely that I was to make my maiden effort on stage soon.

A string of errands later, we returned, just in time for the magnum opus. A harried cousin met me at the door – “Where have you been,” he hissed “You were supposed to get ready for your role. Now we had to make emergency changes.” The emergency change consisted of my brother, doubling up for the role I was supposed to have played, attempting to look unconvincingly coy and feminine right after the scene of a battle.

I didn’t mind much not having to play the part, so long as I could see the programme. My cousins came and went in their assigned roles. I sat, right next to thatha during the show, enjoying every minute and laughing loudly whenever he laughed. There was some battle, some mythology, some religion all in it – none of which I understood, but nevertheless found exceedingly enjoyable. Soon the show ended. There was much mirth and excitement all around when it finished. My uncle, usually the one who gave the verdict and the critics’ views, especially on those who had acted well, commended the show and thereby it was declared a certified success.

Over the years, as my cousins grew older and as they began finishing school and college, the enthusiasm and focus given to the show steadily decreased. By the time I was old enough to actually participate or contribute in these shows in a concrete manner, they had virtually stopped as we, the younger lot of cousins, were not as enterprising as to put up our own show. 

Summer holidays still continued to be time of fun and games, gathering of cousins, laughter and ragging. With 25 of us, we were capable of much noise and disruption. 

Though I never actually made it to the stage in that childhood phase, till today, some of my most memorable childhood summers, my moments of nostalgia, remain the ones which had seen the staging of the 'Gokulam Family Summer Theatre Production'. It was an era, etched into my memory with the colour, glamour and glory of modern-day film productions, only at a much more personal level - a world where we could be producers, we could be kings & queens and we could be just a bunch of young people, living life to the fullest. It was our Gokulam family of happiness.