Who cares about identity? Self-actualization, culture and identity are clichéd
terms, belonging in the vernacular of self-help books rather than teenagers. But for a teenager with conflating Canadian and Indian identities fighting to coexist, these terms mean something.
My parents are from Calcutta, where they took disadvantage and poverty and
turned it into success. Me? From Newfoundland to Toronto, I have lived throughout
Canada. I've experienced a town of 4,000 and a city of 4 million, a town where we
were the only Indian family, and a city where we are one of thousands. I have also
experienced loss, stress, heartbreak and loneliness. Regardless of where I am and
how I feel, Carnatic music provides me with a sense of consistency and balance.
I became a Canadian citizen in 1998 and began learning South Indian
Carnatic music a year later. In what would appear to be an ideal east meets west
story, I sang Carnatic music, played basketball and felt comfortable with both my
Indian and Canadian identities. But no story is interesting without some conflict.
When I first began learning Carnatic music at the age of 7, I went to a school
where my peers seemed uncomfortable with diversity. The 'cool' things to do were
sports and whatever the newest media fad was-- at the time, Crazy Bones. Seeking
the approval of my peers, I often made fun of myself and my culture. Embedded in
my self-depreciating humor was a sense of cultural uneasiness. I didn't know who I
was or who I wanted to be. I hated temple, Tamil class, and most of all, being asked to sing Carnatic music. But I also hated basketball--the de facto 'cool' sport at school. Weighing my options, I decided to pursue activities solely to win over my peers. Carnatic music was not one of those activities.
My mom insisted that I continue singing, so I did. She cited vague notions of
'preserving heritage' that I struggled to understand. My teacher, Vasumathi
Nagarajan would always tell me that I had gnanam, an innate knack for music.
Another vague notion. I was the worst in a class of three students. I would always
come unprepared to class, often balking when asked to sing alone. I always relied on the other two to practice so I could coast along. This strategy eventually stopped working, and I was demoted to a beginner class. When I was told that I would be attending Toronto's annual Thyagaraja festival, I responded with a long sigh. The only reason I would sit through a 'Kutcheri' as my parents called these concerts, was for the 25 cents I received for guessing the ragas, or scales of the songs. But this was not just any Aradhana. This would be the first time I actually participated.
I left the hall to play games until my name was called. I walked up to the
stage, set my pitch box, and began my rendition of 'Maru Gelara.' I stared at my lap,only moving my head up for the occasional peek at the audience. What would my
mom think of my performance? What would Vasumathi aunty think? In the midst of
these thoughts I forgot the words of the song. After 20 seconds of embarrassment,
an elder lady in the audience gave me the words and I finished the song.
I left the stage and walked as far from the auditorium as I could. When I
returned to ask my parents to leave the Aradhana, two young men came onto the
stage and began singing. They sounded like a duet of 60 year olds from some
obscure South Indian village, but they were 20-year-old brothers from Toronto. I
came back into the hall to congratulate them, but I could not make my way through
a crowd of admirers.
In the Indian community, a mix of cultural, social, and intellectual awareness
earns one respect. I lacked all of the above. Someone in the community was always
talking about me in a negative light- whether it was behaviorally or musically. I
resented that, but I always believed it was a tradeoff I needed to make to integrate. I had been proven wrong by the Toronto Brothers. I learned they were engineering students at the University of Toronto and professional Carnatic vocalists. They went to India every summer to learn music but still watched the Simpsons, they gave concerts, but still played basketball. They couldn't speak Tamil fluently, but they could sing. They had balanced east and west.
Whether right or wrong, I began to take music seriously to gain the respect of
my mom, teacher, and community. With a small investment of my time, I began to
learn quickly. I progressed from geethams to varnams. I began to love Carnatic
music.
I went to my first Cleveland Aradhana and competed in front of a panel of top
Carnatic musicians. I met young people facing the similar dilemma that I had. And
they had also figured it out. Most of us were 1st generation immigrants: Americans
or Canadians from India. Carnatic music was the bridge between where we had
come from and where we were now. Without language or religion to guide us, we
had just the arts. From then on, Carnatic music began to represent something far
greater than a source of respect and pride for me. It was a source of heritage and
identity.
From that class of three from which I had been demoted, I am the only
remaining student of Carnatic Music. I've given a concert, won a citywide
competition, and learned from renowned musicians. I can finally sit through a 4-
hour concert and appreciate it. I've gained the respect that I so desired from the
Indian community. I discovered something I love. But most of all, I've discovered
myself.
