Finding Breath in the Flute

At 65, retired from ONGC as chief general manager, life in Hyderabad had a steady rhythm. My day began with tea and a swim. Breakfast came with the newspapers and phone calls to friends. Lunch, some TV or social media, an evening walk, dinner, more TV. It was simple. It was comfortable. And for a long time, it left little room for a dream I had carried since childhood.

As a boy growing up in a sugar factory township, I was surrounded by many languages and sounds. We spoke Telugu at home, but neighbours came from Maharashtra and Rajasthan. There was one theatre that mostly showed Hindi films. I hummed both Hindi and Telugu songs. Music was always there, even if I never sang openly. My mother could sing. My uncle was a graded AIR artist. My grandfather performed Harikatha. Still, I never felt encouraged to perform. I kept music inside me.

I also grew up with asthma. It made me careful with breath and activity. But it never stopped my curiosity. At fairs during Ram Navami, I would beg my parents for a flute or an ektara. The street sellers would play so easily. I imagined myself doing the same. Each time I tried, the instruments gave me strange, thin sounds. I was scolded for wasting money. Back then, money meant more. So each year the cycle repeated—wanting, buying, failing, and learning something small about disappointment.

When I was about twelve or thirteen, one night I heard Sri K. J. Yesudas on All India Radio sing Vatapi Ganapatim nearly for an hour. I had never felt music open a door inside me that way. It was a quiet, big moment. Later, at IIT Delhi, I heard Pt. Jasraj and Pt. Hariprasad Chaurasia at SPICMACAY concerts. Those experiences moved me toward classical music. Yet I remained mostly a listener. I collected cassettes. I hummed at home. My wife, Sunitha, who is trained in veena and pursued a B.A. in Indian Music, became my partner in this quiet love of music. Our children learned Carnatic music. Still, I did not play myself.

Everything changed on my 55th birthday. Sunitha gifted me a harmonica—both the blowing type and a keyboard one. Maybe she wanted me to use my lungs more carefully. Maybe she wanted me to try. I was thrilled. For the first time I could play basic swaras—Sa, Ri, Ga, Ma—on an instrument and feel some real sound come out. That small success mattered more than I expected. It reawakened the mouth organ dream. I bought a mouth organ online and learned from YouTube. I could play simple film tunes. My family’s encouragement gave me confidence.

Then I saw a video by Rahul Krishna offering online flute lessons. My childhood wish returned fully. I ordered a C-scale flute and began. Very quickly, reality struck. I could not even produce basic swaras. The sound was thin and embarrassing. I walked away. I went back to the mouth organ. I told myself maybe I was too old. Maybe the flute was not for me.

Months later, I found another video—this time by Harsh Sir, offering a “100-day flute mastery” program. I was skeptical. My first attempt had felt like failure. But something about his clear method appealed to the part of me that likes structure and steady progress. I joined the masterclass in June 2024.

The early weeks were hard in a way I had not fully expected. I started on a straight flute and for the first time could play Sa, Ri, Ga, Ma. The sound was crude, but it was real. After seven weeks I moved to the side flute. Basic swaras came. Then Pa refused to appear no matter how much I tried. Frustration returned. I thought of giving up again.

What kept me going was small things. Harsh Sir’s simple explanations. Watching other students struggle. The reminder that clarity mattered more than speed. I began to practise more methodically. I joined hackathons, fell behind, caught up slowly. I focused on recordings, finger flexibility, ear training. Some alankaras took dozens of attempts. SRSGSM made my fingers tired and my patience thin. At times I nearly used up my submission quota trying to get it right.

There was one moment that changed how I saw myself. I was travelling to the US to visit my daughter and could not attend live sessions. I kept practising against recordings anyway. When we returned, I made a firm decision to finish the Foundation Finisher Certificate by March. I started working with recorded taals and pushing my tempo slowly. I surprised myself by playing at 100, then 110, then 120 BPM with reasonable clarity. When I uploaded a recording and got a feedback score of 5 for swar clarity, I felt a quiet joy I had not expected. It was not a shout. It was a simple confirmation that patient, steady practice works.

Small acts helped too. Rekha Jois agreed to review my second composition in Raag Bhupali before I submitted it. Her guidance made the difference between an uncertain recording and one that passed. On 29th March I finally received my Foundation Finisher Certificate. A childhood dream I had long pushed away had been fulfilled.

Playing the flute has changed me in real life. I used to give up projects or hobbies after a few tries if I didn’t see quick results. Now I pause before quitting. I try again. I measure progress in small steps. The flute taught me persistence and patience more than music theory ever could. Those lessons have spilled into other parts of my life. I approach tasks at home and small problems with a steadier mind. When something feels hard, I remember that slow, regular work brought Pa into my scale.

Holding the flute today feels different from the first day I bought one. Back then it felt like a fragile hope. The holes were mysterious. The sounds were distant. Now the flute is part of my daily routine. I practise long notes for a few minutes every day. If I miss my session, the day feels incomplete. The flute reminds me that persistence pays. It brings a quiet pleasure and a sense of achievement. It is not about becoming a virtuoso. It is about proving to myself that I could finish what I began.

I still have much to learn. I have joined the Diamond Membership to keep going. I want to refine my finger work and my sense of rhythm. But the biggest change is inside me. Music is no longer only something I listen to. It is something I make. That makes ordinary days feel a little fuller.

— Ravi Kumar Chacham, Hyderabad