We experiment with vices, dress weirdly, cut class, all in a bid to fit in. In a bid to defy the stereotypes that bind us, we do things our future selves won’t be too proud of. Peep into the dust-laden lofts of many homes and you will find violins and mridangams sitting there, long forgotten by their owners, remnants of our parents’ unfulfilled dreams for their children. And it is for this very reason that most of us didn’t escape our childhoods without being forced to learn some form of classical dance or music. Every day, unfailingly, her voice would start playing from a cassette tape on a tape recorder and go on for an hour at a volume that always seemed too loud.Ĭlassical music and dance are always associated with some vague notion of godliness and purity. It was my default alarm clock, one that I avoided every day by covering my ears with a pillow, the last remnants of sleep completely erased by her voice that reached all corners of the house. (O Rama, son of Kausalya, the sun is about to rise in the eastern skies please arise to offer the early morning oblations.)Īnd we dismiss stereotypes with a vengeance, because we believe that in some way, they limit us. Uthishta narasardoola karthavyam daiva mahnikam Kowsalya supraja Rama poorva sandhya pravarthathe
Growing up, my mornings began before the crack of dawn with the sound of the bell invoking countless Gods and MS Subbulakshmi singing: MS was the part of my TamBrahm heritage that I wanted to dismiss and disengage from.
And we dismiss stereotypes with a vengeance, because we believe that in some way, they limit us.
In a sense, MS Subbulakshmi is a stereotype, indicating a proper upper-caste, upper-class Tamil Brahmin upbringing. I have no doubt that MS Subbulakshmi’s voice was the first music I ever heard and am sure the same holds true for countless others. While there is a lot of emphasis on the first words that a child speaks, not much thought is given to what the child first listens to.
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