I never learned music in my younger days. Like many youngsters of that time, I did a lot of bathroom singing. Luckily, nobody cared to listen except myself, and I would nod in approval. Otherwise, I might have been charged with killing music and melodies. With my base voice, my range (a term I learned much later) was very short—maybe C to C or ‘S’ to ‘S’. Below that and beyond, I had to switch to a falsetto voice, and most often, the pitch would go awry. Occasionally, family members were seen with their hands over their ears. Who cared? In my mind, I was Rafi, TMS, or P. Susheela, depending on the song. To me, my voice sounded exactly like these singers. Why couldn’t my family members recognize that? Pity. My initiative, talent, and growth were stifled at the nascent stage.

But I didn’t care. Criticism at that age didn’t even touch the outer layer of my skin. My “modulating expertise” was confined to my home, more specifically, the bathroom. No one would open the door, slap me, or shut me up there. Each day, there were specific songs in a particular order, and I would sing them with gay abandon. The length of my rendezvous with the complaining shower depended on the number of songs, my singing speed, and the accompanying musical instruments—whose sounds I thought I was imitating with my baritone voice. I had an early office job, and I managed to get into the bathroom very early. My sisters, who had to go to college and school respectively, would nervously wait for their turn. Not that they didn’t do their own singing—I would run away; what horrible voices they had!

I never dreamed of showcasing my nonexistent vocal capabilities outside. The first occasion must have been at the rural branch where I worked. One of my staff members had brought a tape recorder. A tape recorder in the 1970s was like a radio in the 1950s—very few people could afford or own one. Even touching it caused me great trepidation. That guy wanted all of us to try singing whatever we could, and he would record it for posterity—to show his grandchildren, perhaps, the great talents with whom he had worked. He knew of my unbending, pitch-unfriendly voice, but what to do? I was the Chief there; how could I antagonize? So I sang, and it was duly recorded. I got a good scolding from my wife for putting her to shame. I was sure the recording for posterity was a bluff, and in all probability, my song was erased the next day, if not on the same day.

We did have a staff member who was good at singing, but he had the habit of changing his voice—again, not grammatically—from a male voice to something else. But his singing was genuinely good. We used to go as a group, with my wife and son too, to watch movies. This singing guy, whenever a song came on in the movie, would step out with the lyrics in hand and sing along with the song being played—of course, in a low voice and out of earshot.

So, my lovely budding career was cut short long ago, and I returned to singing at home, where nobody was around.

To be continued... 50 - Part 6.