How the Flute Became My Reason for Being

Life in Mumbai is always moving, and for me, it moves at all hours. My world often runs in reverse because I work rotational night shifts. My sense of 'day' and 'night' can get completely turned around, and finding a steady rhythm in a city that never stops is a real challenge. For a long time, my life was just a cycle of work, sleep, and trying to manage everything at home. It was full, but I felt like something was missing, a quiet space just for me.

I didn't go looking for the flute; in a way, I think it had been calling to me my whole life. Since I was a little girl, I remember my grandma taking me for daily *darshan* of Lord Krishna. I would stand there, holding her hand, just looking at the beautiful deity holding his flute. That image is etched into my memory. The flute was always there, this divine, peaceful instrument in the hands of God. It felt special, sacred, even before I knew what it was.

That quiet, spiritual connection was an undercurrent in my life. But there was another sound, too, one from the bustling streets of my childhood. Every day, a streetside flute seller would walk through our neighborhood. He wasn't a grand performer in a concert hall; he was just a man making a living. But the way he played was pure magic. He would play the famous movie song, "Yashomati Maiya se bole Nandlala," and the melody would drift through the air. It was so beautiful, so full of emotion. Hearing that simple, melodious tune every day became a part of the soundtrack of my growing up. Between the temple and the street, the flute was slowly, unknowingly, weaving its way into my heart.

When I finally decided to learn, I knew it wouldn't be easy. My biggest challenge wasn't a difficult note or a tricky rhythm. It was simply time. After a long night shift, the commute home, and catching up on household chores, my body would just give out. There is no energy left when you haven't had proper sleep. I would look at my flute, wanting so badly to practice, but my mind would be a fog and my body would be crying out for rest. In those moments, it felt impossible. How could I ever learn an instrument when I could barely find the energy to get through the day?

But I learned to be patient with myself. I discovered a little secret: my flute always sounded better on my days off. After a good, long sleep, I would pick it up, and the difference was incredible. The notes felt clearer, my breath was steadier, and my mind was sharp. It taught me that my flute practice wasn't just about my fingers and my lungs; it was about honoring my body’s need for rest. I learned to give myself grace, to accept that progress might be slow, and that practicing for a little while on a good day was better than pushing myself to frustration on a bad one.

What kept me going through all the tired days and foggy brains? It was simple, really: I was truly enjoying the process. Every little bit of progress brought me so much happiness. I found a joy in learning that I hadn't felt in a long time. It wasn’t about becoming a famous flutist; it was about the personal journey. Music is so vast, like an endless ocean, and I felt like I was finally dipping my toes in.

I also know I wouldn’t have gotten far without a guide. I feel so blessed to have found my Guru, Harsh sir. In a world of music that can feel so big and intimidating, he makes it feel accessible. He has a way of breaking things down that makes me feel like I can actually do this, that this dream is within my reach. Having a teacher I trust has made all the difference.

When I look back to when I started, I have to laugh. I knew absolutely nothing. I picked up the flute for the first time and just assumed that the first hole you cover must be the first note, 'Sa'. I was so sure of it! Then I learned in my first class that it's actually the 'Ma' note. It was such a small thing, but it was a humbling reminder that I was at the very beginning of a long road, with so much to unlearn and relearn.

In those first few weeks, the physical struggle was real. I would practice blowing into the flute and get so dizzy that my head would spin and I’d have to sit down. I honestly wondered if I would ever get past it. I thought, "Maybe my body just isn't made for this." But I kept trying, even for just five minutes a day. And slowly, thankfully, it got better. The dizziness faded. The airy, squeaky sounds started to turn into actual notes.

Now, when I play, I don't feel dizzy at all. I feel grounded. The same breath that used to make me feel lightheaded now makes me feel centered and calm. The flute has become my anchor in the chaos of my life.

If you are in the middle of that struggle right now—feeling dizzy, or frustrated with your sound, or wondering how you’ll ever find the time—my advice is to just keep going. Be kind to yourself. Your journey doesn't have to look like anyone else's. The fact that you are trying, that you are showing up for your dream even when it's hard, is what matters. Your dreams and your struggles will become a story that might inspire someone else one day.

The flute has given me something so much more than music. It’s given me something I didn’t even know I was looking for. A friend introduced me to the Japanese concept of "Ikigai"—which means your "reason for being." The moment I heard it, I knew: the flute is my Ikigai. It's the thing I look forward to every single day. It’s my reason to feel excited, even after a tough night shift. It’s my quiet moment of peace, my personal meditation. It connects me to my Lord Krishna childhood, to my grandma, to the sweet memory of a song floating on a Mumbai breeze. It’s more than a hobby; it’s the part of my day that is purely and completely for me.

— Poyni chawda from Mumbai