Vemana: Practice makes perfect

Told in English, Telugu.

In a little village near the Godavari river, where coconut trees sway and mango trees hang heavy in summer, there lived a girl named Sravya. She was seven years old, she had two long plaits, and she loved to sing. She sang while feeding the hens. She sang while helping Amma wash the steel plates. She even sang to the buffalo, who never said anything, but swished her tail as if she liked it.

One evening, the temple priest came to their house. "Ugadi is in two weeks," he said with a smile. "The children of the village will sing at the temple. Sravya, will you sing one song for us?"

Sravya's eyes went wide. "Me? At the temple? In front of everyone?"

"In front of everyone," said the priest kindly.

Sravya nodded so fast that her plaits bounced.

The next day, the children practised together under the big peepal tree. When it was Sravya's turn, she took a deep breath and began. But her voice went high when it should have gone low, and then it cracked like a dry twig. Two girls giggled behind their hands.

Sravya's cheeks became hot. She stopped singing, ran all the way home, and hid behind the rice sacks in the store room.

That is where Ammamma found her. Ammamma had silver hair, a soft voice, and the smell of jasmine always around her. She sat down slowly on the floor beside Sravya.

"What happened, my little parrot?" she asked.

"I can't sing, Ammamma," Sravya sniffed. "My voice goes all wobbly. Everyone laughed. I am going to tell the priest garu I won't sing at Ugadi."

Ammamma did not say anything for a moment. Then she smiled. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

She led Sravya out to the courtyard, where an old neem tree stood. Its branches were covered in tiny white flowers. Ammamma picked a few and placed them in Sravya's palm.

"Taste one," she said.

Sravya put one tiny flower on her tongue. At once, her whole face scrunched up. "Chee! Ammamma, it's so bitter!"

Ammamma laughed. "Yes, it is. Now listen. Long, long ago, there lived a poet called Vemana. He wrote short, simple poems that even village children could remember. And every poem ended with the same words, Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema. Here is one of his poems."

And Ammamma sang it softly, the way her own grandmother had sung it to her.

Anaga anaga raagam atishayilluchunundu, tinaga tinaga vemu tiyyanundu, saadhanamuna panulu samakooru dharalona, Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema.

"What does it mean?" asked Sravya.

"It means this," said Ammamma. "When you sing a song again and again, the melody becomes more and more beautiful. When you eat neem again and again, even the bitter neem starts to taste sweet. And in this whole world, every work gets done through practice."

Sravya looked at the neem flowers in her hand. "Even neem can become sweet?"

"When you get used to it, yes," said Ammamma. "Your song is like this neem flower. Right now it feels bitter and hard. But if you sing it every day, a little at a time, one day it will feel sweet and easy. That is the secret Vemana is telling us."

Sravya was quiet for a long time. Then she closed her fingers around the flowers. "Two weeks," she whispered. "I will practise every single day."

And she did. Every morning, before school, she sang her song to the hens. Every afternoon, she sang it to the buffalo. Every evening, she sang it to Ammamma, sitting on the cool floor of the verandah. Some days her voice still wobbled. Some days she forgot a line and had to start again. Once she felt so cross that she stamped her foot. But then she remembered the neem flower, and she started again.

By the end of the first week, her voice cracked only once. By the end of the second week, it did not crack at all.

At last, Ugadi morning came. The houses had fresh mango leaves tied over the doors. Amma made Ugadi pachadi, sweet with jaggery, sour with tamarind, and yes, a little bitter with neem flowers. Sravya ate a spoonful and smiled. Somehow the neem did not seem so bitter anymore.

At the temple, the whole village sat on the ground in rows. Sravya stood up in her new green langa, and her heart went thump, thump, thump. She opened her mouth to sing, and the first note came out tiny and shaky.

Oh no, she thought. Not again.

Then she saw Ammamma in the front row. Ammamma did not say a word. She just lifted one tiny neem flower and held it up for Sravya to see.

Sravya took a deep breath. She thought of the hens, and the buffalo, and all those evenings on the verandah. And she began again.

This time her voice rose, clear and sweet, like a bird flying over the river. She sang every line, without a single wobble. When she finished, the whole temple was quiet for a moment, and then everyone clapped. Even the two girls who had giggled were clapping the loudest.

That night, as Ammamma tucked her into bed, Sravya yawned and said, "Ammamma, Vemana was right. The song got sweeter, just like the neem."

Ammamma kissed her forehead. "Can you say the last line with me, my little parrot?"

And together, softly, they said, "Vishwadabhirama vinura Vema."

Good night, little one. Whatever feels hard for you today, try it a little tomorrow, and a little the day after. One day, you will see, it will feel sweet.