And the flight of fancy took off. I was on cloud nine. Many of the modern composers I had seen created music with the keyboard. I mentally added a photograph of myself with the keyboard, composing an all-time hit, to that list of music directors. Melodies would flow through my mind—left, right, center, from the top, from the bottom, from everywhere. There would be a great struggle to remember so many melodies. And at leisure, when I tried to recall these wonderful, beautiful tunes, it would jolt me to realize that most of them, if not all, seemed to resemble songs I had heard in the past. Was I being cynical? Or wrongfully imagining? No, they did sound familiar. Disappointed at my unintended plagiarism, I would turn to the melodies that, fortunately, didn’t sound familiar. But on revisiting, they would often feel jerky and without structure.

So, what do I do? Who would teach music to this old guy? Would I have the passion to learn? Should I try to self-learn? Should I learn South Indian Carnatic music or Western music? Is the keyboard suitable for both? After all, this was the only musical instrument I had—apart from the mouth organ I used to play as a small boy, which was stolen. The only other musical instrument in the house was the wooden table. Drumming on it with my short, stocky fingers, I thought I produced some amazing rhythms. When you’re thumping like that, music and rhythm seem to flow, but to a third-party listener, it’s just a grating sound. That’s the power of imagination.

I came to the decision: I need a good teacher.

The search began in earnest—both physical search and Google search. I had to find a teacher who would agree to teach at home and who operated in my location. And someone who had immense patience. With great difficulty, I found a teacher.

On the first day, he made me do a pooja and offer him an advance in the traditional way, with betel leaves and bananas. After pocketing the money, the first class was declared to be over! The next day, he got me a beginner’s book on Carnatic music titled Gnanamruthabodhini—try pronouncing that—and he vaguely explained some notes, instructing me to play the first lesson with C as the first note in the middle octave. I was happily playing at my own differing rhythms and tempo. When he visited the next day, he was quick to point out that this was not the way to do it. Rhythm and tempo had to be set. He pushed some small buttons, creating a beat and some tempo, and I was asked to play each note to match the beat. I wondered why he didn’t teach this earlier. Anyway, that was the last class he took. And then…

To be continued... 52 - Part 8.