From the Archives
Originally written on or around 19 April 2010 as a Facebook Note. Last edited on 14 March 2021. Lightly refined and republished here for clarity and readability, while preserving the original thought, feeling, and intent.
My early association with music probably began with the Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation.
There was a programme called Aap Hi Ke Geet, which used to be aired at 8 a.m. Before that, from around 7:30 a.m., there would be old Hindi songs, often punctuated by the voice of K. L. Saigal singing Jab Dil Hi Toot Gaya.
Rafi and Kishore — these names were probably called out more frequently in our home than our own names.
My mother and my youngest aunt, Padmaja, often had friendly tussles over Kishore Kumar and Mohammed Rafi. My aunt was firmly on Kishore’s side, while my mother was devoted to Rafi. I grew up hearing these maestros in the background of their affectionate arguments.
Binaca Geet Mala and Ameen Sayani were also part of the soundscape of those years. I suppose they belonged to the lives of many Indians of my generation — people who grew up with radio, lyrics, melody, and memory all woven together.
There was also a dedicated student of my father, from around 1975 to 1977. His name was Ravana. He was a very good singer then, and I am sure he still is, although I have not met him for many years.
Ravana Bhaiya was my singing idol.
He used to sing all the Rafi and Kishore songs he knew while taking us to school on his bicycle — my sister Sunita and I sitting as pillion riders. It was almost a 30-minute ride, and music travelled with us.
One characteristic of his remains crystal clear in my memory. Whenever he sang, he would hold his wrist in front of his mouth as though he were holding a microphone. I do not think I ever saw him sing with an actual microphone in his hand, but in his imagination, the microphone was always there.
Another interesting thing about him was that he was ready to sing at the slightest prompt. And he sang really well.
Ravana Bhaiya taught me the complete song Om Shanti Om from Karz, including the lyrics and tune.
I was 11 years old during my aunt’s marriage in December 1980. One afternoon, all the relatives had gathered and were playing Antakshari. My cousin Surya Prakash started singing Om Shanti Om but forgot the lyrics midway.
You should have seen the surprise on my father’s face when I sang the whole song correctly, with all the lyrics.
That memory has stayed with me.
My association with rhythm was also very strong from childhood.
I used to beat the wooden bed, the wooden almirah, and probably many more surfaces that only my mother would remember properly. I was always finding places to practise my percussion skills.
My grandfather had those wide, low-height wooden stools — in Telugu, we call them peta — on which he used to sit and have his meals. Those stools were my favourite drums because of the bass sound they produced when I beat them.
Much later, I was amused to see that the Spanish had converted a similar idea into something called a drum box or cajón.
I also remember my cousin sister Vandana, whom I call Chinnakka, during one of our vacations in the village. I must have been around eight or nine years old. She was watching my fingers very intently as I played beats on the stool while others were singing.
She could not understand how the different sounds and taps were being created. Finally, she asked me to show her slowly.
I did.
I am still not sure whether she understood anything.
Even today, when I am sitting and jamming at parties and cannot immediately pick the chords, I instinctively turn the guitar around and use the back of it to play the beats.
The beginning of association for Vahein and Revan.
Vahein playing the Dhak during the Dussehra festival in 2008.
Our childhood associations live with us throughout our lives. They quietly reflect in our day-to-day activities, our instincts, and our passions.
Sometimes, what begins as a sound in the background becomes a rhythm we carry for life.
Let us follow those instincts and evoke the blissful moments that still make us feel amazingly good.
Cheers,
Srinivas
Shonu, for many of the memories above