Hitting the wrong note, every time

RS Dalal

Right from my early years in school, several of my friends were blessed with a fine musical sense that unfortunately seemed to elude me. On special occasions, they would invariably be on the centre stage. Despite whole-heartedly applauding them, in some corner of my heart, I felt a tinge of envy.

When I was in class VI, our school appointed a full-time music teacher, who announced a selection test for interested students. I saw in it an opportunity. Without any delay, I memorised ‘Hum uss desh ke wasi hain’, a popular song, and stood in the queue of hopefuls. The music teacher gave me a dirty look as I finished singing. ‘Daffa ho ja’ (get lost). 

I was in tears and rushed to my elder brother who was in class XI in the same school. He was a bit of a bully. With some of his friends, he confronted the teacher. His posturing worked and I was included in the group. I was given another chance to sing and the teacher again quickly concluded that I was no good. ‘Kaka, God forgot to put music chip while making you. It’s not your fault. You can be good in many other things but music,’ he tried to console me. But, with my elder brother on my side, I refused to budge. Then a brainwave struck him. ‘Okay, you’ll be part of the group song team. But you will only move your lips and not sing.’ 

Years later, another opportunity came my way during my training at the National Police Academy, Hyderabad. There was a live group singing of the National Anthem. And lo! I jumped on to the bandwagon of the lead singers. During rehearsal, I was spotted out by the instructor for discordant notes, though he was decent enough not to throw me out and asked me to limit myself only to lip sync during chorus. My music teacher was right, I recollected, that the chip was missing in me. What a slip on God’s part!

Later, when I was posted as SP in Haryana, I was invited as chief guest at a ragini competition. I was expecting it to be a musical treat to the ears. But one competitor after another was marshalling and mustering full lung power to produce shrill and strident sounds. Their delivery technique was curious and loud. 

With one hand on the left temple and right arm extended towards heavens, as if trying to pluck notes from there, the singer, fully charged, body quivering, blared out high-pitched sounds.

‘Looks like the singer doesn’t like even his own voice,’ quipped an officer, seeing him covering his own ear with his left hand. ‘Sir, our culture is agriculture,’ whispered an official sitting beside me. The words of my teacher flashed across my mind. God slipped here, too. Thank the Lord, I’m not the only one!