To ma’am, with love

The thought of moving into a flat was unsettling, to say the least. Having grown up in an independent house, an apartment felt like a loss of freedom. In Bengaluru, our home overlooked an empty street, with a Jacaranda tree in front and its flowers scattered across the ground. It was a sight to behold. I still remember learning to cycle on Nanda Road, as we used to call it, a shaded canopy of lush green trees.

Slowly, I grew accustomed to apartment life as I met people in the community. But it was one enterprising lady who changed my perception about living in a gated community. With great élan, she guided the gardeners, offering tips on every plant in the landscape. While the garden was taking shape, I watched her nurture children with equal care. Thanks to Lalitha Jaganathan, my unease about apartment living disappeared. 

It was early 2020 when we first heard news of a dangerous virus spreading rapidly in faraway China. None of us imagined it would soon reach our shores. But Covid-19 arrived, and with it, a nationwide lockdown. Life ground to a halt. That’s when my beloved music teacher, Lalitha Jaganathan, called to ask if I would join her online music class. I couldn’t have wished for a better way to spend that time.

What started as a music class slowly turned into an emotional journey for me. While learning ‘Sa Re Ga Ma Pa’, I began to see in her the mother I had lost in 2022. When she reprimanded me for missing class, I saw affection in her tone. She would ring early in the morning with her firm question: “Are you free to attend the class today?”It was more to do with her missing me and a manner of enquiring if I was alright than anything else.

Our little class of five students found in her a long-lost aunt, sister, mother and confidante. We found solace in her presence. After the lockdown, we returned to one-on-one classes. Festivals became our highlight – discussing which songs to sing, what colours to wear and who would cook what. Our joy knew no bounds. In group practice, she was firm about thala and shruthi. If one of us faltered, her sharp glare would send us into fits of giggles – usually triggered by me. So, during festivals, when we sang in front of a small audience, the instruction would be to keep an eye on me so my giggling wouldn't set off a ‘ripple effect’. We miss all these mischievous pleasures which kept us young and lively.

As the days rolled over, our dear teacher’s health started deteriorating; her lungs grew weak. But she didn’t stop. With an oxygen tube stuck to her nostrils, she continued teaching us. On June 25, 2025, she breathed her last.

From her, I learnt more than music – some precious home truths, like how to live life without complaining, how to nurture hobbies, practise discipline, celebrate life, and connect with people around us. She brought melody to our lives in more ways than one. Today, the plants in our garden seem to long for her loving touch and warm smile.