Singing was unfortunately one of the boons that the gods apparently flatly refused to grant her. As consolation, they blessed her with the capacity to enjoy it and to tune in to the lyrics, their subtlety and the musicality inherent in them.

Singing was unfortunately one of the boons that the gods apparently flatly refused to grant her. As consolation, they blessed her with the capacity to enjoy it fully and to tune in to the lyrics, their subtlety and the musicality inherent in them.

My mother was fond of Rico. She also held the fond hope that Rico would formally learn vocal music. ‘If you learn, if you try, you can sing’, she implored, ‘You have a beautiful voice!’ My god-fearing mother couldn’t envisage a cruel god who withheld the gifts of musical talent on just this one of hers.

Whenever music was on, she was wholly immersed in it and often sang full-throat with great gusto, completely out of tune. It was a joy to watch her enjoy and sing along – from a safe distance. When instrumental music was on, she would sway, move her fingers in the air as if they were on the keyboard, gliding over some keys, vigorously on some others, and occasionally landing heavily.

A party with music, and with friends ready to shake a leg, she would let herself go. All that was needed to set the mood was a drink (well, maybe a couple), warm and cosy conversation for a while, willing friends not glued to their seats, the security of food on the table and some foot-tapping music.  

What music did she listen to?

In the initial years, I remember that we listened to L Subramaniam’s ‘Conversations’. Maybe a million times. It was a bare barsati in Delhi with just the bed, a suitcase and a 2-in-1 radio-cassette player – the setting for hours of LS. Between us, we probably had a dozen or more of his albums. I remember that she liked Fleetwood Mac, the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, Queen, Kris Kristofferson and Simon & Garfunkel. And, oh yes, how can I forget Leonard Cohen? She would be totally lost to ‘Suzanne’; the entire duration, eyes closed, swaying and occasionally following the rise and ebb of Cohen’s voice with her own attempts.

Rico was not big on Indian classical music – something that I loved. She neither had the ear, the appetite or the patience to cultivate a semblance of interest. By a stretch, she could manage to stay involved with instrumental music for a while if it was a live performance. She took pride that her daughter took to the violin, Carnatic no less.

In later years, she warmed up to Hindi film music, some good Rafi and the 70s’ Kishore Kumar. She didn’t much care for Mukesh. She labelled many of my old Hindi film favourites ‘rona dhona’ (sad, melancholy, weepy…) and would beg me to play something more zestful whenever some of my choicest came on. Jagjit Singh would play during quiet evenings or on a Sunday late morning when it was housekeeping time.

On days when she returned from a long day’s work, exhausted and sometimes with the overhang of stress that she could not shrug off, she would pour herself one, settle on the swing in the balcony of our fourth-floor apartment, shut out everything else and let ‘Sound of Silence’ work its magic. When my petty nitpicking or preoccupation with myself made any replenishing communication possible, she turned to ‘Dangling Conversations’, another of her go-to S&G numbers.

She discovered Kumar Gandharva’s music by chance when we were at the screening of Shabnam Virmani’s four docu-films from the Kabir Project. One of the four films was on Kumar Gandharva’s life and the influence that Kabir’s ‘nirgun’ philosophy had on him. The films made for compelling viewing. Gandharva’s embrace of Kabir and his soulful rendering of Kabir’s verses touched her deeply. For many months that followed, we had selected Kumar Gandharva numbers fill some hour every day. Whether it was the music itself or the repetition, I remember that my mother didn’t take very kindly to it.

Two of the few possessions of hers that we have preserved are her iPod Nano and a Bose music dock. They are among the very few things that she wanted for herself. A non-acquisitive woman, they were those rare things she sought. We gladly got them for her and it became my responsibility to see that her choice (and my preference) of music was available on it.

I think Rico liked that I could sing (a bit). On occasion, she would ask that I sing some favourites of hers that I could muster the lyrics for. She liked that I obliged. What she didn’t appreciate though was that I was, for much of the day, an out-of-control jukebox, a source of noise pollution.

After a long gap, music is making its reappearance. In her absence. Sometimes, in her memory. Sometimes to fill a void. Sometimes as a balm. Sometimes as a means to fathom the emotions-in-waiting.