Chinmayee Manjunath

I was six when I started learning music.

We lived in Madras – I can never, ever call it Chennai – and my parents tracked down the famous musician, TV Gopalkrishnan, who lived not far from us in Besant Nagar. I remember being taken to meet him, this legendary man who plays the violin and the mridangam; and he sings, in both the Carnatic and Hindustani traditions. Yes, my parents went big in choosing their daughter’s first ever music teacher. Of course I didn’t realise the enormity of that opportunity at the time. I was a shy six-year-old, who wanted desperately to be left alone with her books.

The first time I met TV Sir, he was very kind and encouraging – nodding sweetly as I sang whatever song I knew at that point, which must have been something from The Sound of Music or Mary Poppins. I was too young to be taught directly by him, we were told, but his niece would take over my training for a few years to groom me.

And so the classes started. Once a week, my mother would take me to their large home, and I would make my way up to a small room on the roof where Akka would wait for me. We started off with easy bhajans and moved on to the intricacies of Carnatic vocal structures. She would tape each class and ask me to practise every day, using the recording. Once a month, TV Sir would sit in on the class and correct or praise me, as required.

“Practise, child, practise,” he would insist. The word ‘practise’ became one I associated with stress and pressure. I loved singing – I just didn’t enjoy the daily rigour of a riyaaz.

We moved away from Madras the next year and two years later, in Bangalore, my parents signed me at the Bangalore School of Music, which was still in its early years. I was to learn the recorder from Paulette Demello, a lovely German lady. At the time, the School was still run out of the founder, Aruna Sunderlal’s, sprawling old bungalow. Classes were held in bedrooms or in the garage or, on good days, out in the open. I loved my weekly class with Mrs Demello and looked forward to the small monthly concerts we would put on for family and friends – playing solo, or in groups, or performing duets with the piano or violin.

I still struggled with practising regularly. The discipline of a riyaaz still eluded me. I was not a spectacular student, I suppose, but my love for music made up for my skills. As the years went on and we moved countries and cities, I learnt the flute and then Hindustani vocal – each time, from exemplary teachers who I still adore. With time, I got better at both playing and singing; it helped that I grew up in a musical family and that I took to rhythm naturally.

But each of my teachers – Miss Murray who taught me the flute and Pandit Havaldar who trained me in Hindustani vocal – would say the same thing to me – “Chinmayee, you need to practise. Music takes rigour and discipline. You could be so much better if you just practise.”

I passed exams and sang/played at a few concerts – music felt like home to me but I wanted the freedom to go in and out of it as I pleased. The rigour of a daily riyaaz felt constricting. Eventually, in my early twenties, I stopped learning and now, I don’t know if I could play even a few bars of a sonata or sing a couple of minutes of an alaap. Occasionally, I think about taking up the flute again or finding a music teacher near me to maybe try singing again but life/work/laziness always gets in the way and I quickly move on from the idea. Even though my flute lies in its case in my cupboard, and even though a beautiful tanpura lies packed in our Bangalore apartment.

I struggle with riyaaz in every aspect of my life. I love writing but shy away from adhering to a project for myself though I take on large ones for clients. I don’t hate working out as much as I say I do – in fact, I quite love it – but I can never bring myself to stick to a routine.

I don’t know if riyaaz would have made a musician of me. I don’t know if I regret not even trying. I just know that well into my 30s, I feel its time I begin to capitulate – at my own pace and on my own terms – to the beauty of structure in small ways. To be braver than I’ve allowed myself to be.