It Was Fate

Don’t you know that our family’s tone deaf? It’s a curse.

That’s what my brother would remind me from time to time. Unfortunately, it’s true. Apart from my mum, the rest of us are useless when it comes to singing. Or playing any musical instruments. Or even dancing for that matter. We’re hopeless. Hopelessly hopeless. I blame my dad. And his genes.

We lack the rhythm, the beat, the harmony, basically the whole nine yards of music. It’s not like I’ve never tried to overcome those obstacles. Believe me, I did.

When I was 12, I joined the choir team. However, I was suspiciously placed in the back row. They said it was because I was taller than the other kids in the front row. But I knew better. The further away the listeners were, the harder it is for them to gag and die from the hysterical shrills, squealing out from my vocal chords. On an unrelated note, they made us wear these ridiculously awful pregnant-looking clothes that were made out from what could easily be mistaken by 1926’s curtain drapes. It was a nightmare.

By the time I was 13, I insisted on playing the organ. The first few weeks was a breeze. I received colorful stickers, star-shaped signatures, and generous compliments from my music teacher. I was a fast learner. Boy, was she impressed! She even called me a natural. But what she didn’t know was that I was actually more of a good memorizer. I memorized everything she ever thought me. EVERYTHING. I never knew what any of the musical notes meant. I just photographically memorized which keys to press as we moved from song to song. So when it came to the harder grades, my brain was about to explode. Eventually, I bailed out. Plus, the electronic organ I had at home was beaten to death. Literally. My brother treated it as a  substitute wall and practiced his tennis skills against it. It was fate.

The following year, I took up guitar lessons. It was dejavu all over again. I memorized the notes, the chords, the strumming, up to even the slightest coffee stain and molecule on the page I was playing. I was nowhere near at being a natural. Or even normal for that matter. The skin under my fingers were blistering and peeling from the pressure of grasping onto the guitar strings, desperately trying to make music. However, the noise that shrieked out from those guitar strings were horrific. Monstrous. Deadly. Once again, I bailed out. Also, my eldest brother gave my guitar away. It was fate.

Years passed by since any of my attempts to tango with music. That was until this year.

On the way back from celebrating Deepavali at my grandma’s house, I hitched a ride from my brother. As I pulled myself into the back seat, Tara was strapped securely beside me. With a single direct order from Tara, Mummy, give me music!, the radio was switched on. Music was pumping through the speakers and Tara was tapping her feet against the car seat to the music beat. Tapping to the song ‘Evacuate the Dance Floor’ by Cascada. I totally love that song. Very upbeat, very catchy.

This is it. This is my time to shine. I observed her for a while before quickly jumping in at the chorus. With my body moving to the tempo, my hands flying above my shoulders, my legs kicking exuberantly, and my mouth lip-syncing to Cascada’s angelic voice. Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…evacuate the dance floor…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…I’m infected by the sound…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…Stop, this beat is killing me…Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh… Hey Mister DJ let the music take me underground . I kept changing my moves, mixing and matching what little dance steps I can recollect from music videos, and molding them into a spontaneous indoor choreography. From disco, to the robot dance, and back to the John Travolta pointing-to-the-stars move. I continued this horrendous shenanigan until the music ended. It was my best performance ever.

When I turned to Tara, she had a blank expression plastered on her face. In fact, she had that look the entire time I was mimicking Cascada wholeheartedly. Her eyes were staring intensely into mine in a confused manner, with her mouth fully opened, revealing her chipped tooth. Thoughts of Oh oh oh…Oh oh oh…Stop, you’re killing me — almost like the lyrics to the chorus– must have crowded her mind. I was patiently waiting for blood and brain fluid to ooze out of her eyes and ears simultaneously as she maintained her blur, unimpressed, straight face.

Then out of nowhere, she started clapping her hands frantically with her eyes sparkling wide opened and her smile stretching from ear to ear, screaming My turn! My turn! With my eyes sparkling even wider and my smile stretching two circles around my ears, I scooted even closer to my first groupie. We continued taking turns lip-syncing and creating mind-blowing dance moves all the way home.

Finally, a person who appreciates my art. My talent. My musical ability.

So what if she’s only 5. My fate is changing.