<p>I was ten when my mother enrolled me in Carnatic music classes in my hometown, Turuvekere. My teacher, Mr Guru, was a grim man in his 60s. We had never seen him smile. I suspected that the daily dose of our cacophony was behind those deep creases on his broad forehead!</p>.<p>He would hit us on the head with the wooden board of the harmonium, if we missed a tune. My older sister, Smitha, who started a year before me, disliked him as well. He was often invited to perform in the nearby villages, and on such days we would have holidays. Smitha had us believe that we would get a holiday if we carried the music book in our left hands and walked to the class. Of course, it didn't work.</p>.<p>Day after day, we walked warily to the class, sometimes deliberately late to escape the preliminary exercises. We would also say that we had to study for exams and asked for permission to leave early. "Buzz off," he would utter with disgust and ridicule.</p>.<p>It had not rained in our region for nearly five years, and farmers, including my father, were distraught. The draught-stricken village resorted to Mr Guru to sing Malhari raga and make it rain. A pooja was to be held in the Mallaghatta dam, which fed Turuvekere Lake.</p>.<p>On the big day, a huge crowd gathered in Mallaghatta. The post-lunch concert had us sitting in the front row for a little while. My sister and I soon sneaked out and joined the gang of girls. We were enjoying ourselves, and there was no sign of rain.</p>.<p>After a few rounds of playing, I went to my mother and inquired why it was not raining. "My dear, have patience. Now, raga Malahari is coming up. Let us wait," my mother whispered with teary eyes.</p>.<p>I looked at Mr. Guru. His face was calm and determined. As he started the song, I raced back to play. I went to tell my friends that the Malahari, the rainmaker tune, had begun. My sister would have nothing of it. "We are living in a scientific world," she admonished.</p>.<p>Suddenly, a scream of excitement filled the air. It was raining! We ran back to the temple to see Mr Guru singing with passion, tears streaming down. For the very first time, I was proud of my guru. I was dumbfounded by his courage and conviction.</p>.<p>My studies took me away from my relationship with music and Turuvekere. I now hear that Turuvekere is no longer longing for rain. The Hemavathi River has brought hope and prosperity.</p>.<p>Music is just like a river. It fills life with hope, excitement, and purpose. I realise now that all my mother wanted was for her children to taste the spirit of music. That is why I forced my 12-year-old son to learn the keyboard!</p>
<p>I was ten when my mother enrolled me in Carnatic music classes in my hometown, Turuvekere. My teacher, Mr Guru, was a grim man in his 60s. We had never seen him smile. I suspected that the daily dose of our cacophony was behind those deep creases on his broad forehead!</p>.<p>He would hit us on the head with the wooden board of the harmonium, if we missed a tune. My older sister, Smitha, who started a year before me, disliked him as well. He was often invited to perform in the nearby villages, and on such days we would have holidays. Smitha had us believe that we would get a holiday if we carried the music book in our left hands and walked to the class. Of course, it didn't work.</p>.<p>Day after day, we walked warily to the class, sometimes deliberately late to escape the preliminary exercises. We would also say that we had to study for exams and asked for permission to leave early. "Buzz off," he would utter with disgust and ridicule.</p>.<p>It had not rained in our region for nearly five years, and farmers, including my father, were distraught. The draught-stricken village resorted to Mr Guru to sing Malhari raga and make it rain. A pooja was to be held in the Mallaghatta dam, which fed Turuvekere Lake.</p>.<p>On the big day, a huge crowd gathered in Mallaghatta. The post-lunch concert had us sitting in the front row for a little while. My sister and I soon sneaked out and joined the gang of girls. We were enjoying ourselves, and there was no sign of rain.</p>.<p>After a few rounds of playing, I went to my mother and inquired why it was not raining. "My dear, have patience. Now, raga Malahari is coming up. Let us wait," my mother whispered with teary eyes.</p>.<p>I looked at Mr. Guru. His face was calm and determined. As he started the song, I raced back to play. I went to tell my friends that the Malahari, the rainmaker tune, had begun. My sister would have nothing of it. "We are living in a scientific world," she admonished.</p>.<p>Suddenly, a scream of excitement filled the air. It was raining! We ran back to the temple to see Mr Guru singing with passion, tears streaming down. For the very first time, I was proud of my guru. I was dumbfounded by his courage and conviction.</p>.<p>My studies took me away from my relationship with music and Turuvekere. I now hear that Turuvekere is no longer longing for rain. The Hemavathi River has brought hope and prosperity.</p>.<p>Music is just like a river. It fills life with hope, excitement, and purpose. I realise now that all my mother wanted was for her children to taste the spirit of music. That is why I forced my 12-year-old son to learn the keyboard!</p>