Mumbai Memories: Start of the School Day

Posted on March 4, 2026 by memoriesandsuch

It’s been a while since I shared any story about my school, so today is the day when I do that. In Singapore, next to my home is a primary school. Every day at 7:25 am, on the dot, I can hear the school announcement asking the children to stop doing whatever they are doing and stand up for the national anthem. The Singapore national anthem is followed by the national pledge, and this school then follows it up with their school pledge, and on some days, it is followed by the school song. This routine of the national anthem, followed by the pledge, is seen across all primary, secondary, and junior colleges in Singapore. Most primary and secondary schools have an official start of 7:30 am, though some days, they may have a later start.

This made me think about how we started our school day in Mumbai. Growing up, most schools started the day with the national anthem, but my school was different. In my school, which was a Parsi school and was very proud of its secular roots, every day was a different prayer. Also, my school had a public announcement system in each classroom, and the infant (aka kindergarten) and primary systems were separate from the secondary ones.

Once we reached school, we were expected to go straight to our classroom and keep our bags on our desks. Then, if you were early enough, you could go and play outside, which was something the kindergarteners or early primary students did. Most of us spent the time inside the classroom, chatting with friends, catching up on homework, or reading.

The school’s official start time was about 8:30 am, which was common across all classes. But for the older students, say starting from class 6 or 7, we had what was called a morning class. This was period 0, which started around 8 am but did not have a starting bell. Given that it was widespread, most students would be dropped off at school before 8 am, and those who didn’t have a morning class had an extra 30 minutes to themselves.

At 8:25 am, the first bell would ring, and everybody had to rush to their class to get ready for morning prayers. My school did not believe in the national anthem daily; that was reserved for special days and national holidays. Instead, we had prayers from all religions on a rotating basis. Some days, it would be Parsi prayers; some days, it would be Hindu prayers in Sanskrit or Tamil or Gujarati or Marathi; or some days, we would have Jain prayers. Sometimes, we would have parents come and say the morning prayers, especially if they had something special to share. This was for both the primary and secondary schools. The only exception to the rule was when any sad news was announced. On those occasions, one of the teachers would recite a special Parsi prayer—the Yatha Ahu Vairyo, a Zoroastrian prayer, widely regarded as something of a talisman, a very potent charm, capable of producing extraordinary effects. On trying to learn more about this prayer, I’ve learned that it is recited by Zoroastrians for the protection and benefit of departed souls, particularly during the mourning period following a death. The prayer’s powerful, primordial nature is believed to offer comfort and aid to the soul on its journey after death. I’ve heard this prayer so many times during my years in school that when writing this paragraph, I unconsciously found myself saying the prayer! After the prayer, we would wish our teacher well and start our day.

At the end of the school day, this was repeated. But because different sections ended their days at different times, the infant school had their prayer at noon, the primary school at 2:30 pm, and the secondary school at 3-3:30 pm. The close of the day prayer would be a short one, and after wishing the teacher well, we would be released.

Next to my home in Mumbai is a school. Growing up, they started much later than me, so I don’t really remember much about their start days. But recently, the school has expanded and now works on a shift system. This means their first shift starts around 6:45 am and the second shift around noon. So during our trips to Mumbai, we have been sometimes awakened to both the Indian national anthem, some Sanskrit shlokas and other national songs at 6:30 am, then again around noon when the first shift ends their day, followed by the second shift around 1 pm and then again around 6 pm when the second shift ends their day. Then I knew how people living around my school probably felt, though we had strict instructions not to make any noise, and any noise complaints by residents in the buildings close to my school were taken very seriously!

Writing this blog post brought back so many memories of a time when we were innocent and carefree, and I wrote this with a huge smile on my face. Thanks for allowing me to share my memories with you…

Mumbai Memories: The Preservation of the Agraharam Tamil Dialect

Posted on January 19, 2026 by memoriesandsuch

Growing up, everyone around me spoke Tamil or a Malayalam-tinged Tamil, and I didn’t think anything was amiss. This was my normal. I did hear a slightly different Tamil in the movies, but I didn’t really think too much about it, assuming it was normal for films to sound that way. However, after I moved to Singapore, I experienced culture shock in terms of the Tamil language spoken. The first one came from S and his family, who spoke Tamil, but it was slightly different from what I spoke and had heard spoken all my life. When I asked them, they said their Tamil is the Tamil of the masses, and when they spoke the Tambram dialect, they were teased and made fun of in school and outside, so over the years, the Tambram community in Singapore slowly stopped speaking that dialect and instead switched to the more locally spoken version.

But I am adamant about preserving my heritage, and so far have refused to succumb to subsuming my dialect into the standard Tamil. I don’t speak a lot of Tamil here in Singapore, but when I do, it’s the Tambram Tamil I spoke while growing up. Even with GG & BB, I always spoke to them in this dialect, but given their mostly English language usage, there’s not much hope that they will continue to speak this dialect, and so, at least in my family, the dialect will end with me.

However, the Tamil Brahmins from Tamil Nadu and Kerala who migrated to Mumbai in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s have remarkably preserved their Agraharam-style Brahmin Tamil dialects, setting them apart from their counterparts who remained in South India and gradually adapted their speech to local influences. This linguistic retention became a hallmark of communities in areas like Matunga and Chembur, where strong social bonds and cultural traditions reinforced the continuity of dialect and identity across generations.

The migration of Tamil Brahmins to Mumbai was driven by economic opportunities, education, and employment, especially in the early to mid-20th century. Communities from Palakkad in Kerala and Tanjore in Tamil Nadu settled in “urban agraharams” in Mumbai, where they recreated their traditional neighbourhoods with proximity to temples and strong community networks. These settlements fostered a unique microcosm reminiscent of their ancestral villages, creating an environment conducive to linguistic and cultural preservation.

Unlike Brahmins in Tamil Nadu and Kerala, who gradually incorporated elements of regional dialects and accents due to increased interaction with other linguistic communities, those settled in Mumbai retained the Brahmin Tamil dialect, often marked by Sanskritised vocabulary, specific pronunciation patterns, and unique idiomatic expressions. This form of speech, sometimes referred to as “Brāhmik” or “Agraharam Tamil,” remained virtually unchanged for decades because within these tight-knit Mumbai communities, Tamil was spoken largely among themselves, with limited outside influence.

Agraharam Tamil, as spoken by Mumbai’s Tamil Brahmin community, is distinguished by specific lexical, phonetic, and grammatical features that have remained remarkably consistent over decades. Vocabulary features include the extensive use of Sanskrit loanwords or Sanskritised Tamil vocabulary, even for everyday terms (e.g., “upahara” instead of “tiffin” or “snack”); a preference for traditional Brahmin Tamil words such as “aathu” (home) instead of the more common “veetu”; and words and phrases for family, kinship, and rituals that retain old usage (e.g., “aaththu manushaa” for family members).

Pronunciation and phonetic features include the retention of retroflex and “zh” sounds, as in “Tamizh”; here, the older pronunciation is kept alive. Pronunciation is stricter with consonant stress and word-final vowels that are preserved, sometimes more closely adhering to Sanskrit or North Indian phonology (e.g., “Bhāratham” rather than “Bāratham”). The word-final “u” pronounced as a full back vowel in specific contexts.

Grammatical distinctions include specific verb conjugations unique to Brahmin Tamil, such as “varela?” (Are you coming?) versus “vareengla?” in non-Brahmin Tamil. The imperatives use “vaango” (please come) instead of “vaanga”, while the third person plural is often merged with feminine forms, maintaining certain archaic grammatical constructions.

Idiomatic and register features include the frequent use of polite, honorific forms and respectful address stemming from Agraharam culture (words like “mama” and “mami” used for elders or equals), and idioms, greetings, and proverbs rooted in traditional religious or familial contexts.

Social features of the Agraharam Tamil include the use of the dialect within the community for cultural, religious, and domestic discourse, but a code-switch to standard Tamil, English, or Hindi in broader Mumbai society. These features set Mumbai’s Agraharam Tamil apart from both non-Brahmin Tamil and the evolving Tamil of South India, preserving an older, Sanskritised, culturally distinctive dialect in a modern urban setting.

Matunga, Chembur, and similar neighborhoods facilitated daily use of Tamil in religious, social, and family settings. Social gatherings, festivals, and temple activities provided communal reinforcement, allowing younger generations to hear and use the traditional dialect frequently. The cultural insularity of these groups, everyone known as “mama” (uncle) or “mami” (aunt), further insulated their speech patterns from citywide influences, slowing language attrition compared to other urban South Indian populations.

First-generation migrants spoke fluent Palakkad or Tanjore Tamil and often Malayalam, while their children balanced multilingualism, learning Hindi, Marathi, and English for school and work but still using traditional Brahmin Tamil at home. Over time, the third generation adopted more of Mumbai’s urban culture, leading to some language shift, but remnants of the original dialect persist in family conversations, proverbs, and religious contexts.

Brahmins remaining in Tamil Nadu and Kerala were more exposed to local non-Brahmin speech and urban Tamil developments. Political changes and cultural movements led to linguistic adaptation, and many Brahmin families shifted towards regionally dominant accents. In contrast, Mumbai’s Tamil Brahmins maintained a diaspora-style “mini Madras,” echoing older, more formal acculturations of Tamil.

Brahmin Tamil is generally characterised by an elevated use of Sanskrit borrowings, a conservatism in pronunciation and grammar, distinct idiomatic expressions, greetings, and terms, and the retention of certain words, sentences, and intonations associated with temple rituals or traditional family interactions.

These urban agraharams not only preserved language but also traditional food, dress (such as “pavadai” for girls), festivals, and rituals, further reinforcing linguistic distinctiveness. The synergy between physical environment (temple proximity, cohesive housing) and social activities ensured that dialect and culture remained intertwined and resistant to outside change for many decades.

The enduring legacy of the Agraharam-style Tamil dialect among Mumbai’s Tamil Brahmins is a testament to the resilience of cultural identity in the face of migration and urbanization. These communities have preserved not just a way of speaking, but a way of being, deeply rooted in tradition, even as they embraced the cosmopolitan vibrancy of Mumbai.

Mumbai Memories: Calling Her by Name

Posted on December 1, 2025 by memoriesandsuch

Tamil kinship terminology is among the most nuanced in the world, distinguishing not only between maternal and paternal relatives but also between older and younger siblings, in-laws, and even parallel and cross cousins. Within this system, “manni” specifically denotes the wife of an elder brother. Other names are Anna, who is the older brother; chitappa, your father’s younger brother or your mother’s younger sister’s husband; and chitti, the wife of your father’s younger brother or your mother’s younger sister. Athai is your father’s sister, and Athimber is her husband. “Athimber” could also refer to the husband of your older sister. The use of these terms is not arbitrary but is deeply embedded in the social fabric, reinforcing respect, hierarchy, and the roles expected of each family member.

The “manni” traditionally occupies a unique position. She is often seen as a secondary maternal figure to her husband’s younger siblings, especially in large joint families. The respect accorded to her is both a reflection of her status as the wife of the eldest son and a recognition of her role in maintaining familial harmony and upholding traditions.

In the patriarchal structure of Tamil Brahmin families, the use of kinship terms such as “manni” is a way of codifying respect and maintaining the social order. The elder brother’s wife is, by her position, to be respected, and the term “manni” is both an acknowledgement of her seniority and a subtle reinforcement of the family hierarchy. This practice also reflects gendered expectations. While the elder brother commands respect as “Anna,” his wife, as “Manni,” is expected to embody dignity, authority, and nurturing, often mediating between the younger siblings and the older generation.

Tamil Brahmin families, especially the Iyers and Iyengars, have historically been fastidious about ritual purity and the correct observance of customs. The use of proper kinship terms was, and in some cases still is, considered part of this ritual correctness. Addressing the elder brother’s wife by her name, rather than as “manni,” could be seen as a breach of decorum, potentially undermining the carefully maintained social order.

However, the latter part of the 20th century saw significant social and economic changes. Urbanisation, the rise of nuclear families, and increased exposure to cosmopolitan values began to erode the rigid hierarchies of the past. As families became smaller and more egalitarian, the need to maintain strict forms of address diminished. Younger generations, influenced by modern education and global culture, began to prioritise individual identity and personal relationships over traditional roles.

My mother’s paternal family is large, and as I have mentioned previously, they lived in a joint family for years before each brother moved out. Even though they moved out, the old joint family home was still the family headquarters, and connections between cousins were very tight. Also, as most tambram families were in the sixties and seventies in Mumbai, they were still conservative and held on tightly to their rituals and culture, especially with the second generation, who were, for the most part, born and lived in the bustling metropolis that Bombay was becoming.

In this context, and this is something I only realised recently, was the fact that none of the cousins called their brother’s wives “Manni.” Instead, they used her given name. Growing up, I thought this was normal and never gave it a second thought. But when I thought about this recently, I thought this was something so liberal and progressive. None of the older generation objected to this, and I am guessing none of the new brides, especially the first one, insisted on being called “manni!” And this percolated to how I perceived relationship nomenclature.

When I got married, S’s younger sister called me “Manni” and still calls me that, even after all these years, even though I told her to call me by my given name. Some of S’s cousins started by calling me manni and then shifted to my given name, while some others call me akka, which means older sister. I am ok with either “manni,” my name, or akka, as I believe at the end of the day, it’s the respect that’s more important, rather than what you are called.

Addressing sisters-in-law by name, rather than as “manni,” can be seen as a subtle but powerful assertion of equality. It signals a move away from rigid hierarchies and towards relationships based on mutual respect and personal connection.

Tamil Brahmin identity has undergone a profound transformation over the past century. Once defined by strict adherence to ritual, vegetarianism, and caste-based hierarchies, the community has become increasingly cosmopolitan, embracing modernity and global values. The decline of practices such as addressing the elder brother’s wife as “manni” is part of this broader shift. Women in Tamil Brahmin families have played a crucial role in this transformation. As they gained access to education and employment, their roles within the family and society changed dramatically. The authority of the “manni” was no longer derived solely from her position as the elder brother’s wife but from her own achievements and personality.

Ultimately, the choice of how to address a sister-in-law is a personal one, shaped by family dynamics, individual preferences, and broader social trends. What matters most is the quality of the relationship, not the form of address.

Mumbai Memories: Mumbai’s Lifelines

Posted on August 13, 2025 by memoriesandsuch

Growing up in the 1980s and 1990s in Mumbai, we mostly took the BEST bus and the Mumbai train to school, college, or work.

The red BEST or Brihanmumbai Electric Supply and Transport Undertaking, along with Mumbai’s train lines, are the lifeline and heartbeat of the city. For any Mumbaikar, the memory of the city is incomplete without recalling the daily dramas and quiet moments lived out aboard these iconic buses.

Since its inception in 1873, originally as a horse-drawn tram service, BEST has evolved into one of India’s most extensive bus systems, ferrying millions through the city’s bustling arteries every day. With over 3,800 buses and more than 440 routes, the system stretches far beyond the city’s traditional limits, reaching into the far suburbs like Thane, Navi Mumbai, and Mira-Bhayandar. Whether you’re braving the monsoon or the peak summer heat, the sight of a red double-decker lurching through traffic is a sign of Mumbai’s indomitable spirit. Stepping into a BEST bus is to step into a true cross-section of Mumbai society. Amidst the constant jostle, you hear the familiar clang of coins in the conductor’s pouch as they dispense paper tickets. There’s a heritage to BEST that transcends function. The city even hosts a dedicated BEST Transport Museum at Anik depot, where you can find miniatures and memorabilia tracing the journey from electric trams to today’s modern fleet.

When I was in school, we used to take a school bus and then started walking to school as we grew older. I used to take the bus sometimes when coming or going to tuition, but this was rare. It was only when I started college that I became a regular bus commuter. Every bus had a driver who sat up front and one or two conductors. If it were a single-decker, there would be a single conductor, while a double-decker would have two conductors, one on each deck. These conductors were responsible for collecting fares, giving out tickets and maintaining the decorum of the bus. Even though I had a few buses that would take me to the bus stop nearest my college, I almost always took one particular bus number. College started at 7:30 am, and I would take the bus from my bus stop at 7 am. And because I always took that particular bus, a double-decker where I would always sit in the lower deck, the conductor became a fixture in my life, and I became recognisable to him. We would greet each other, and if I didn’t take the bus for a few days at a time, he would check on me the next time I took the bus. Because of the bus’s timing, it was popular with students as there were multiple schools and colleges on its route. Two stories come to mind about this conductor.

Both stories took place in a three-year time period, when I was doing my degree. In the first instance, I boarded the bus as usual and paid my fare and took my ticket. I don’t know how it is now, but in those days, it used to be a paper ticket with your stop punched. Sometime between taking the ticket and halfway to college, a ticket checker got into the bus and immediately went to the upper deck to check. I checked my bag for my ticket so I could show it to the checker and get down, and that’s when I realised I had dropped my ticket somewhere. I was frantic and started checking my bag, between my books and inside my wallet. I didn’t want to get caught by the ticket checker as the fine would be too much for a poor college student, not to mention the humiliation that went with it. The conductor saw me being agitated and came to ask him what had happened. I mentioned that I couldn’t find my ticket and that the ticket checker was going to come down anytime to check tickets. At that moment, the bus stopped at a scheduled stop and someone started to get down. Immediately, the conductor asked him for his ticket and passed it to me. The fare would be something similar, as this person apparently got in a couple of stops before me and got off two stops before mine. I was thankful to both the conductor and the passenger, and showed the ticket checker my ticket before alighting to go to college.

The second story was also in the same period. My sister had purchased a new watch and I wanted to wear it. After pleading and cajoling her, I finally got permission to wear it to college. I proudly wore it and boarded my bus. The watch was shaped like a bangle, and unknown to me, the clasp was not very secure. I got on the bus and sat in one of the seats that face sideways, close to the entrance of the bus, in the lower deck. The same conductor as the story above was on duty that day. After a few stops, I looked down and to my horror, the watch was missing! I started looking everywhere, below the seat, in my bag and even patted my clothes, but the watch was not to be found. I was almost in tears. I knew not only would my sister blame me for losing her new watch, and rightly so, but my parents would also not let it go. I would hear about this for years to come. Again, the conductor came to my rescue. After asking me what happened and learning about the watch, he got more information from me about how it looked. Then he made an announcement to the lower deck about my lost watch and got everyone to look for it beneath their seats and near them. The whole bus was busy for the next few minutes trying to locate it. Finally, someone found it close to the other end of the bus. It seemed that the watch fell down when I was sitting and got kicked inside the bus as other passengers got in and found seats. Again, I was so thankful to the conductor when I was handed my watch and was able to go to college in a much lighter mood..

I only started taking the train when I started my second job. I used to take a local to Andheri and then a bus to work and the reverse in the evening. Because I only went to the office three days a week (the other days, I used to go to our office in the city, in the opposite direction), I was never a regular, and so I don’t have stories to share.

For every Mumbaikar, the local train is more than transportation; it is the pulse of daily life, dictating schedules, shaping friendships, and weaving together countless stories along the city’s expansive rail corridors. Regular train commuters, especially those travelling long distances, have created communities and train friend is a Mumbai special friendship. Some train friendships have traversed the divide, and these train friends have not only become friends in real life, but in many instances, they have become relatives, having siblings, children or other relatives married to each other or their relatives.

Mumbai’s suburban railway, often lovingly called the “local,” is the oldest and busiest commuter rail system in India and among the world’s top in daily passenger volume, ferrying over 7.5million commuters every single day. First run in 1853, the system stretches across approximately 465km and is divided among six major lines: the Western, Central, Harbour, Trans-Harbour, Vasai Road–Roha, and the Nerul–Uran lines. It connects the heart of Mumbai to distant suburbs like Virar, Dahanu, Kalyan, Khopoli, and Panvel, truly earning the moniker “the city’s lifeline.”

The western line: runs from Churchgate in South Mumbai through posh neighbourhoods northwards, ending at Dahanu Road. This route is a lifeline for thousands who journey from the extended suburbs into the southern business districts each day. The central line begins at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus (CSMT), branching out at Kalyan toward Kasara and Khopoli, capturing the hustle of commuters travelling to and from eastern and northeastern corridors. The harbour line, which is the one that stops at the station closest to my home, links CSMT to Panvel through Navi Mumbai; less crowded but vital for east-west connectivity, this line opens up the satellite city for daily business and education. The harbour line also has a branch line that connects the central and western lines, branching out after Wadala and moving to the western line at Mahim, and when I used it, it used to end at Andheri. Today, the western branch of the harbour line ends at Goregaon.

Locals run from before dawn with the first training rolling out at 4 am until late at night, with most lines’ last train running at 1 pm, and some services ending even later. The stations are the stages for daily dramas: the surge onto the platform as the train approaches, the precise choreography to catch a footboard, and the silent understanding to make space for one more commuter in the already-packed compartment.

Trains are designated “fast” or “slow,” with the former skipping minor stations to speed up long-distance travel, and the latter stopping at every halt, accommodating the needs of neighbourhoods, both big and small. Special ladies’ compartments offer safe passage for women, while luggage compartments are a godsend for vendors and small traders transporting goods across the city.

Each ride on a Mumbai local imprints memories, sights of the city whizzing past open windows, street vendors plying their trade at major junctions, or quiet philosophical moments watching the city transform in the monsoon. Rail maps stuck to station walls and painted on signboards become sacred: they are, to many, a navigational scripture. The fast local between Churchgate and Virar or the crisscrossing services out of CSMT are more than routes; they are lifelines, their rhythm marking the intervals of a Mumbai day.

What began with simple steam trains in the 19th century now operates as a massive, modern fleet of electrical multiple units (EMUs), seamlessly blending history with the scale demanded by a modern megacity. Indian Railways continues to advance, phasing out old rolling stock for modern, more efficient carriages and electrifying the entire network for speed and sustainability.

BEST buses don’t just move people, they move stories. For years, they have connected the city’s extremes, providing a democratic, affordable way to traverse the chaos and beauty that is Mumbai. It’s hard not to get nostalgic about the local. Even with the rise of metro lines and air-conditioned buses, the Mumbai train network remains unparalleled in its reach and spirit, a thread uniting millions in the great urban tapestry that is Mumbai.

Both the BEST buses and the local train network are more than functional necessities; they are an essential part of Mumbai’s memoryscape: resilient, chaotic, joyful, and eternally moving forward. So if you are ever in Mumbai, maybe you should take a trip in a BEST bus or a local, but be prepared for the chaos and the spirit of the city.

Mumbai Memories: Our Music Journey

Posted on July 2, 2025 by memoriesandsuch

In Tamil Brahmin families, it is almost a rite of passage for children to begin learning music, dance, or both from a very young age. This practice, deeply woven into the cultural fabric, is not merely a hobby or extracurricular activity but a tradition that carries historical, spiritual, and social significance.

Carnatic music and Bharatanatyam are two of the most celebrated classical art forms in South India. Both have ancient origins and have been closely associated with temple rituals, devotional practices, and the cultural identity of the Tamil Brahmin community. Historically, Brahmin families became custodians and prominent patrons of these arts, especially as royal patronage declined and the arts transitioned from temples and courts to urban centres.

The Bhakti movement, which swept South India from the 7th century onwards, emphasised personal devotion to deities through poetry, music, and dance. Brahmins, with their access to education and Sanskritic traditions, played a leading role in this movement, using music and dance as vehicles for spiritual expression and community identity.

As Carnatic music and Bharatanatyam gained prestige, mastery of these arts became a symbol of social status among Tamil Brahmins. The ability to sing or play an instrument or to perform classical dance was seen as a marker of refinement, education, and cultural capital. Families took pride in their children’s artistic accomplishments, which were showcased during family gatherings, religious festivals, and community events.

The rise of music “sabhas” (cultural organisations) in urban centres provided platforms for performances and further cemented the association of these arts with Tamil Brahmin identity. Participation in these sabhas, both as performers and as audience members, became a way for families to assert their place in the social hierarchy and maintain connections within the community.

For many Tamil Brahmin families, enrolling children in music or dance classes is a way to honour their heritage and ensure the continuity of tradition. Parents, often themselves trained in these arts, see it as their responsibility to pass on this legacy to the next generation. In Tamil Brahmin culture, music and dance are not just artistic pursuits but acts of devotion. Many compositions in Carnatic music are devotional hymns, and Bharatanatyam originated as a form of temple worship. Learning these arts is seen as a way to connect with the divine, cultivate discipline, and develop a sense of humility and reverence.

Research and anecdotal evidence suggest that children who begin learning music or dance at a young age develop better memory, concentration, and coordination. The structured practice of swaras (notes), talas (rhythms), and choreography enhances cognitive abilities and fosters discipline. Stage performances, which are an integral part of music and dance training, help children overcome stage fright, build confidence, and learn to express themselves creatively. These skills are valued not just in the arts but in academic and professional spheres as well.

Growing up in the Bombay of the seventies and eighties, it was very common for most young girls and boys in our area to learn music or dance, or sometimes, even both. In my family, I leaned toward music while my sister chose to learn dance. I learned music in two stages. The first time I was probably 5-6 years old, and as all young girls were wont to do, my mother put me in a music class next to my home. This was a centre of Carnatic music, but after about 1.5 years, I wanted out. So I quit. But the seeds were sown, and slowly over the years, I started getting interested in music, and at about the age of 12-13, I restarted my music journey. This time, I learned from an independent teacher close to home. This time, I lasted about three years, and when I reached class 10, I dropped out again because of the demands of school.

My sister was interested in dance, and so she was enrolled on a Bharatanatyam class conducted by an independent teacher who taught many girls in our area. She learned this art for about 4-5 years, from the age of about 6-7 until she too dropped out because of the demands of school, extracurricular activities, and tuition.

I have always loved music, and I am someone who is constantly singing, irrespective of the genre. So when GG and BB were young, I also enrolled them in a local Carnatic music class. GG also chose to learn dance, but in her case, she learned classical ballet. GG has been consistent with going to music class since she started around the age of 7. Even during her PSLE and O-level years, she didn’t stop, as, according to her, this was her stress relief. BB, on the other hand, stopped learning music when he hit puberty and his voice broke. But he has a very good voice and is a great singer. In secondary school, when he was about 13-14, they had a music show in school, and he was the lead singer for the band that he and his friends came up with. He was so good that the day after, his school principal stopped him in the corridor to compliment him on his singing.

So that’s our music journey! It was nice walking down memory lane, remembering all the memories.

Memories and Such

Memories of a very ordinary life

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