How India lost a Mozart?

I was in the 7^th grade by then.

Since my parents are into the Government services, they got transferred to Chennai.

Most of the literate parents in Chennai are (present tense since this fact holds good even today) too ambitious to “mould” their children into something of their unfulfilled ambitions. Of course, the children will have to undergo the “heating, melting and hammering” stages in this moulding process.

There were many moulding factories custom designed to these requirements, in the name of “dance class, swimming class, tennis coaching, music class...” and some strange programs no one had ever heard of before.

My parents were not that “ambitious” in moulding me, and they just let me choose what I do. However, “concerned” neighbours and their half-moulded children started looking at me like an alien species with strange contamination named “liberty”.

After a few concerned pieces of advice and valuable suggestions, my parents had no choice but at least ask if I was interested in any of these “child building factories”.

I am a lazy worm who always prefers to live close to the school, college or office. The music class was the closest to our apartment. Cool.

I decided that ‘I will let them’ mould me into a musician.

It was Vijayadashami, an auspicious day to put the children into the furnace.

Martyr Jagadeesh bravely volunteered to face the occasion. My father accompanied me.

The music class was a traditional type house, with a big garden in front of it. Barbed wires fenced the garden and the house.

There was a bunch of scared little kids, a majority of them younger than me, waiting for their turn to be admitted. It was not that easy. The child or even the parents cannot choose the category music they wish to be trained in. After examining the child’s voice and fingers, the “Guruji” would decide which mould suits best.

It was my turn. I was not asked to sing. I still wonder why. Maybe singers are born with a sacred thread across their torsos. Maybe it was evident from my face that I was not born with one.

My fingers were examined. I was wondering if the Guruji would admit only the children with clean nails. (Only after a few years, I understood that the length and volume of the fingers are very vital for most of the instruments).

The Guruji gazed at me and said “Violin”.

***

The nightmare started from the very first class.

No. You are wrong.

It has nothing to do with music.

It was a dog. Guruji’s dog.

It appeared that the animal had a ‘special consideration’ for me.

It barked at a distance. Snarled and took position while I approached the door.

Luckily for me, since the initial classes had a lot of eager participants, I was able to sneak through the crowd. I could do it better than Jason Bourne.

Over a fortnight, there were few dropouts and for some of us, the class times got shuffled.

The crowd-shield became thin and vulnerable.

The enemy could easily spot me.

I was able to make a successful passage through the “enemy lines” for a day or two since the mongrel was sleeping.

But my instincts warned me that the Armageddon was approaching.

The day came.

I was late for the class that day. I looked around for some allies. None.

The enemy was waiting for me at the gate. Enemy at the Gates.

It was a face-off. One to one.

The spirit of a man was challenged by a four-legged intruder.

I hastily made a few steps forward and froze once the dog snarled.

Its head was stooped and back raised at an angle.

It was ready to plunge.

In a lightning second, I made that brave decision.

“I won't come for the music class ever again.”

And started running back. (Since this historic run was not recorded, sluggish Usain Bolt manages to be on the record books)

This is how India lost its own Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

Thousands of symphonies and sonatas are left unexplored.

New Raagas remain unsung

An irreparable loss for mankind.