My deep connection with Shankar Mahadevan
If there’s one wish and desire that I’ve had since donkey’s years, it is to be able to sing; and not just sing, but sing well.
When I watch the dozen or so music reality shows on TV, where mere babies just out from their mothers’ wombs totter onto stage and belt out melodious numbers, I am always deeply impressed, a tad bit envious and all fired up. If they can do it, why can’t I, is the fond belief that courses through my veins.
However, in the world there are some people who are born singers, some are not. While friends, relatives and close neighbours will swear on the holy Bhagwad Gita that I belong to the latter category, I humbly beg to differ. I do believe I have a teeny bit of Tansen buried deep within me just waiting to emerge out at the right place, at the right time. And with the right music instructor to guide me, I’m positive I can hit all the right notes, from ground level upwards.
Finding the right music teacher is the easy part; getting the right notes out of me is the real challenge. As would vouch the string of instructors who came, saw, but could not conquer, through the years. I failed to strike the right chord with any of them.
Until my last instructor – the final one in my quest for a musical mentor who would draw out, if not a Tansen then at least a Himesh Reshammiya, from me. Jai maata di, let’s rock!
This teacher came highly recommended from a friend of mine who was privy to my musical aspirations. She set up a meeting between us. On the appointed day, I spent the morning gargling with warm water laced with cinnamon, a concoction guaranteed to clear the mists from my vocal chords, thus enabling my voice to attain heights as high as the Qutb Minar.
My music teacher turned out to be a pleasant lady in her mid 30s or thereabouts, newly shifted to Abu Dhabi upon her marriage, apparently. We hit it off instantly, Guru and shishya, not musically though, but otherwise. We met religiously twice a week in her apartment; and … we gossiped. In the hour long class, I yodelled for approximately 15 minutes and the rest of the time she filled me in on her life stories. By the end of a month, I was still on the first note – sa. While we still had six more to go, I knew her entire autobiography, well almost. I learnt that she hailed from Mumbai and had learnt music from a reputed singer there.
Two or three months into our sessions, my music teacher informed me casually that Shankar Mahadevan and she had learnt music from the same teacher. I stopped braying and gasped. Shankar Mahadevan? THE Shankar Mahadevan? Was I actually attempting to learn singing from someone who had that musical genius as a classmate! My oh my, I thought to myself.
Subsequently, on my next visit to India, I couldn’t help mentioning this point to a couple of people and before I knew it, the news had spread far and wide. More wide than far, I realised when relatives started congratulating me on this amazing news.
“I hear you’re learning to sing from Shankar Mahadevan himself!” said one relative.
“What? Who? When?” I said, gaping at him. Talk about distortion of facts!
No amount of denying, explaining or clarifying could undo this breaking news and I gave it up after a bit. Not long after, I gave up music classes as well, when my teacher left town, leaving me hanging somewhere between madhyam and pancham.
If only she had stayed until I could complete all 7 notes! Then maybe I could have just gotten away with claiming that I was part of Team Shakti that won the Grammy recently.
I am after all Shankar Mahadevan’s disciple, remember!
Duh! Or should I try and say dha?
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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