Reetigowlai
I was 6 years old when my mother dropped me off at Teacher Satyavati Rao’s home at 6am. It was my first lesson in Carnatic Music. What followed were years of training under different teachers including Smt. Vasantha Sundaram* and Dr. Radha Venkatachalam. My sister was my classmate for the first ten years and then she dropped out due to lack of interest. I suspected she was clear and carefree about an activity or practice that felt odd in our multi-cultural upbringing. I, on the other hand, was more persistent about an unclear yet deep love for the magical form of Carnatic music.
I struggled throughout my training years, to learn. More than that, I found it traumatic to enjoy myself. To cover for my lack of enjoyment, I used to get lost in the sound of my own voice or compose music for other non-carnatic recitations or oratory performances.
Then, during the last years of my engineering education, the parent-funded formal training in music ended.
About a year into my first job, I signed up to learn the violin from a teacher in Pune (city in Maharashtra). I was excited and hoped to discover the missing links in my love for Carnatic music. However, unexpected personal confusion set in and took away the space for new learnings. I bid goodbye to Pune and returned to live with my parents in Delhi. Another six to eight months had passed when I resumed violin lessons with another teacher. Those lessons were short-lived too.
When I moved to Australia, I carried my violin with me. I thought I’ll find a way to learn during my masters education. Little did I know that sorrow and struggle waited on the other side. Even though the violin slept throughout the 18 months, I found solace in my instrument — it reminded me of my curiosity that asked for nothing in return.
Years later, after I had survived the darkness of mid-20s, had found a career path, discovered love with another person — I had a brief yet fun time with the violin again. I had joined Ranjan Beura’s classes in Bangalore. There were many other young students there and it felt good to build my practice with everyone. There was progress, at least in my capacity to play the instrument. However, I had to move out of the country to the USA with my partner. So, with gratitude for the lessons, I said my byes to Ranjan sir.
As I entered my 30s, music, writing, and fine arts opened their doors for me. I found a new pathway into music with my first Piano teacher, Katy Luo. Alongside, I started violin lessons in Carnatic Music with Krishna Parthasarthy in Berkeley. It was a beautiful time because everything flourished, including my connection with life. However, the train to El Cerritto and the walk to Krishna’s home were the only true immersions in the world of Carnatic Music. My perusal of the art form was still misaligned with the other practices of life — lack of a community and varied interests of the people around. So, I exercised my belief in creativity, and tried to build a process that will allow the learning to seep in. Perhaps there was something else I missed. Because despite my attempts that entailed specific goals, investigated methods, and daily windows to practice, every class felt like the first class. After an 18-month long weekly session regime, around the time I transitioned into parenthood, I let it all go.
I was deep in the pits of struggle to understand the female body, my role in the society as a birthing parent, and my soul that thrives to be free of all definitions. It was then that I picked up the Bansuri one day and started off 15-minute lessons with video tutorials by Nirbhay Bhosale. It was transformative to focus and learn, and then watch yourself grow as a person. The few video lessons and sustained practice pulled me to play for our child’s first birthday celebration. I was in love again!
The struggles were far from over though and a few months later, I found myself in sorrows unknown. Then, one day, in a conversation with my mother-in-law (who is a bottomless well of knowledge), I realized that ‘Venu’ in Venugopal stands for flute, Carnatic Flute. Curious, I trolled wikipedia and discovered that the South Indian Classical Flute is different from Bansuri in almost every way. The only similarity is that they are made of Bamboo. I already owned 3 flutes: transverse and fipple bansuri, and one from Bhutan. I worried that if I just bought a Venu off the internet, I’ll drown in my exploration without sustained growth. I paused.
After a year of changes and new-found energy, I started to search for a Carnatic Flute teacher. And then, in October 2018, through Avartan Foundation, I found Anirudh Bharadwaj. My journey of learning music from him has been nothing less than revelatory. Yes, I took breaks. Yes, my practice style has just now set in. Yes, I have attended classes without any clear goals or intention. Yes, it’s been at least 3 years of lessons.
Music is free of time and effort. It is music. And so is learning. And so is life.
Thank you to Anirudh, thank you to Gopal, thank you to mom and Amma (mother-in-law), thank you to the experiences. Thank you to everything in the universe that led to the moment when I climbed the stage — I held the instrument with tight muscles, blew the notes with doubtful breaths, and followed the song with apologies. I was there to celebrate Saint Tyagaraja with his song on my flute. He composed “Paripalaya” in Reetigowla Ragam which invokes compassion. With a prayer in my heart to relieve the world of unending grief and agony, I moved my fingers and played.
I seek your prayers too, to help me unclench my soul from whatever it’s trapped in.