Life: A Musical Montage
By: Namrata Kantamneni
Growing up in an Indian household, I had the good fortune of listening to the music of many wonderful musicians and songwriters from diverse South Asian cultures with varied languages who enriched my life with color and vibrance.
I listened to singer S.P. Balasubramanyam as he described the beauties of prakriti, or nature, through his songs in iconic movies such as Shankarabharanam, Sirivennela, and Swathi Muthyam. I listened to singer Lata Mangeshkar’s famous song ‘Satyam Shivam Sundaram’ as she taught me how to communicate and form a personal relationship with God through music. And I listened to the sahityam, or prosody, composed by Sirivennela Seetharama Sastry, through which I grew a greater appreciation of the beauty of my own mother tongue, Telugu.
To this day, my fluency level of Telugu and Hindi is in no small part due to decades of listening to such music in my own household. As the music flowed through my ears as a child, I’d pick up on words in Hindi and Sanskrit and Telugu. I’d learn that shunya means zero, that patang means kite, that manas means heart, and so on and on and on until I had the vocabulary of a fully-formed adult. And in that sense, I grew up and matured as I listened and learned to understand the essence of that music.
But it wasn’t just the language that I picked up. For me, music is pure emotion, something beyond words. It is not necessary to speak the language to know when someone is sorrowful or joyful or angry. Because bhavam, or emotion, transcends human language. And bhavam is the essence of music, that which gives the spoken word a rare and transcendental quality forever uncapturable by the written word.
For instance, have you ever noticed how a fearful human’s voice shakes ever so slightly when they attempt to give off a facade of courage?
Or how a child’s voice tilts up almost imperceptibly and has a minutely higher pitch when they hug their mother and father?
Or how a person’s voice slightly drops in speed as well as tone when they are in a romantic mood and embrace their loved one?
Or how a mother’s voice sounds almost light and airy as she sings a lullaby to her child?
I learned this from music. For me, this learning came instinctively as I went through the joys and sorrows of life, naturally unlocking the bhavam conveyed by such artists through my own life experiences. Instinctually, I learned from S.P. Balasubramanyam and Lata Mangeshkar as the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the rises and falls, the speedups and slowdowns of their voices all told me stories.
But the stories were not directed to “me”, the rational thinker and student. Rather, they were directed to my emotions, the other part of “me”. I realized that no matter how intelligent my fully developed rational prefrontal cortex could be at understanding mathematical linear regression models, it could never understand art and beauty and the wonders of the world. That was solely reserved for my fickle emotions, my manas.
Ironically, as a neurobiology and computer science student, it is my cultural upbringing that has led me to understand that the one thing which rationality can never touch is beauty, art, music, and emotion. And as much as we like to believe that being guided by rationality and controlling one’s emotions is good, I believe that letting our emotions free to be swayed by all the beauty in this world is life’s most awe-inspiring experience.
I, for one, am somebody who cries vehemently when saying goodbye to grandparents in India. Who gets an intense surge of adrenaline when breaking bricks as a martial artist. Whose cheeks get bright red with intensely furious heat when engaged in an argument. Who gets angry enough to punch someone when they irritate me (which has gotten me sent to the principal’s office in the past, much to my father’s chagrin…though I haven’t punched anyone since middle school, which I guess is an improvement). Who gets so frustrated with rejection that it takes many miles of running to let go. Who gets called a stubborn fool when refusing to give in. And who still calls her mum Ammi Jaan (Ammi being a cutesy version of Amma, or mother, and Jaan being a term of endearment for someone who’s your heart and soul) in a light-hearted, naive, childish voice whenever I call to tell her all about my day.
And it was music that accessed these feelings for me.
The music of these wonderful musicians.
Sadly, all three of the aforementioned musicians (S.P. Balasubramanyam, Lata Mangeshkar, and Sirivennela Seetharama Sastry) have passed away over the past several years.
But they left the world with a treasure trove of wealth in the form of art, art which has allowed me to access aspects of myself that I didn’t know existed. To me, music is my meditation; I wholeheartedly believe in the phrase “raagamey yogamani” (a phrase from “Shankara Nada Sareera”, one of S.P. Balasubramanyam’s iconic songs) which likens raga (musical melody) to yoga.
And perhaps there is a truth to that. It is through singing and whistling and playing the flute and drumming to a beat that I find myself lost in myself, momentarily being an outsider in my own body looking into my own inner self. In fact, music for me means physically reaching deep within myself: I whistle and sing and play the flute from deep within my gut, where my emotion originates and makes its way up.
These musicians have shown me how life is a montage, how every feeling can be captured by music. In the present day, I have music curated for every emotion in Spotify. I plug in my headphones and walk to class and let the music take my manas wherever it desires. Some days, I feel the cool Pacific ocean breeze on my face and listen to a slow, romantic song as I daydream about the perfect date along the sunny California coast. Other days, I sprint on the track and listen to a fast-paced song about fighting for righteousness for future generations.
But regardless of the situation, the music will always be there for me. It is my confidante, the one person who knows me better than I know myself. And perhaps music does know me better than I know myself. After all, it has been my teacher and guide to this vast and wonderful human experience.
I guess that for me, the secret for a happy life is simple: it’s a life filled with music, with colorful raga and bhavam.
And even though I still study STEM subjects, I am reminded of a wonderful quote from the movie Dead Poets Society:
“Poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote, ‘O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring...of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?’ Answer: That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse…What will your verse be?”
To me, music and art and beauty and aesthetics are indeed what give meaning to my existence. And as I reflect on the musicians who have left our world after contributing their verses, I wonder what my own verse will be.