Finding the Music I Left Behind in the Village

Life has a way of moving very fast. One day I was a young boy playing in the dusty fields of a small village in Uttar Pradesh, and the next, I am the unit head of a large company in Hyderabad, managing production targets and leading a large team of people.

My journey has been a stable one. I studied hard, completed my postgraduate degree in mathematics, and built a successful professional career. On paper, my life looked perfect. I had the respect of my colleagues, a good position, and a wonderful family. But for a long time, there was a quiet restlessness inside me.

Growing up in a village, resources were very limited. I went to a Hindi medium school where the priority was always on basic education. There weren't many chances to explore creativity. However, one of our field officers on our family land used to play the flute. Every time I heard that sound, something inside me felt a strange connection. I used to watch him with so much wonder. I even asked him to teach me, but he only knew a few tunes himself. He didn't know anything about proper training or the "Sarangam." I would sit every evening and try to play those one or two lines over and over, but I could never get it right. My parents, like most middle-class families, wanted me to focus solely on my studies. Music was seen as a distraction. So, I did what was expected of me. I put the flute down and focused on my books.

For years, my routine was dictated by responsibility. As a unit head in a MNC liquor company, my days are intense. I wake up early, handle operational issues, solve problems on the factory floor, and attend back-to-back meetings. My mind was always on "the next thing." Even though I was successful, I often felt like something was missing. When I saw colleagues being appreciated for their talents—maybe they were good at public speaking or singing—I would clap for them and feel happy, but a small voice inside would ask, "What about you, Sanjeev? Do you have anything that is just yours?" I felt like I was managing life, but I wasn't truly living it. That unfulfilled dream of the flute wasn't a depression, but it was a silent emotional burden I carried for decades.

The turning point happened on a completely ordinary evening in Hyderabad. I was sitting on the sofa with my wife, both of us tired after a long day, just scrolling through Instagram. Suddenly, a video appeared. It was Harsh sir playing the flute.

The moment that sound hit my ears, the world around me went quiet. It didn't feel like I was watching a random video on the internet; it felt like I was back in those village fields, hearing the field officer play all those years ago. The vibrations felt exactly the same. I stopped scrolling and just stared at the screen. My wife looked at me, saw my expression, and said something that changed everything: "Why don't you complete your childhood dream now?"

I felt a mix of fear and excitement. I was already in my 50s. I had been married since I was 23. Was I too old to be a student again? But seeing the way Harsh sir taught made me feel hopeful. I joined the Flute Gandharvas community, and for the first time in my life, I saw what systematic learning looked like.

But the beginning was very hard. There was a time, shortly after starting, when I almost quit. It is one thing to dream about playing, but it is another thing to actually do it. My fingers felt stiff. My breath was shallow. After working ten hours at the plant, my brain was exhausted. I would look at younger students making progress and feel embarrassed. I thought to myself, "Maybe this was just meant to be a childhood memory. Maybe I'm forcing something that has already passed me by."

One evening, I sat with my flute and no sound would come out right. I almost put it back in the case for good. But then I remembered how many years I had waited for this moment. I realized that as a child, I stopped because of my circumstances. If I stopped now, it would be because of my own fear. I decided then that I didn't need to be perfect; I just needed to be present.

Then, about a month later, a shift happened. I was practicing a simple tone in the evening. I wasn't even thinking about the notes or the fingerings. I was just breathing. Suddenly, the music felt like it was flowing through me, not just from the instrument. My fingers moved naturally. My breath stayed steady. In that moment, I felt a deep, silent peace. I wasn't a unit head or a manager or a father in that moment; I was that little boy from the village again. My eyes became moist. I realized that I had finally kept the promise I made to myself thirty years ago.

This peace has started to follow me into my work. Before I started the flute, if there was a delay in production or a high-pressure meeting, I would react immediately. I would get stressed and carry that tension home. Now, I find myself responding with a strange kind of calmness. Music taught me that if you rush a note, you ruin the melody. You have to be patient. You have to breathe. Now, when things go wrong at the office, I take a breath and handle it with more patience. My colleagues have even noticed that I seem more grounded.

Today, holding the flute feels completely different than it did on that first day. On the first day, it felt like an alien object—a symbol of my doubt and my age. Now, it feels like a silent friend. It is the first thing I reach for after a long, stressful day. As soon as I hold it, my heart rate slows down.

I am proud to say that I am the first person in my entire family to learn a musical instrument. We had no background in music, but I chose to start anyway. My journey has taught me that our dreams do not expire; we just postpone them. Sometimes, all we need is one person to believe in us—for me, that was my wife—and a guide Harsh sir who shown me the path.

I am no longer just a man who manages a company. I am a man who plays the flute. And for the first time in a long time, I feel complete.

— Sanjeev Kumar Tyagi Hyderabad, Telangana (Originally from Uttar Pradesh)