#PastForward: How Rumi Harish shaped Bengaluru’s hindustani music scene

The world of hindustani music that Rumi Harish entered into as a child was built on chance, kindness and long hours of practice. He still pauses when he speaks about the support he received. “I learnt from eight teachers and except two of them, no one ever took money from me. There was no fee structure, no timetable, nothing. I do not know if it was love or luck but I was taught freely. That shaped everything I believe in now,” he says.

Rumi Harish on Bengaluru's hindustani music scene

Those early years were tough. Rumi remembers days when music felt like a test he could not avoid. “My first guru made me sing one composition for a whole year. Every day I would go and sing the same thing again and again. There was no mercy. It was brutal but it built me,” he tells us. He balanced school on one side and ten hours of practice on the other, because that was the only way he could stay in the music circle.

His teacher’s home became the place where he spent most of his younger life. His day moved between morning classes, school in the afternoon and evenings spent cycling back to play tanpura for senior students. “I could not afford a tanpura. So, I would play the tanpura there. It was my way of being part of the scene,” he states. But the moments he valued the most began after seven in the evening, when his guru sat him down for his own practice. Rumi says those hours shaped him more than any formal lesson. “There were no structured classes. Sometimes he would teach, sometimes he would talk, sometimes he would just sing. I learned only by being present,” says Rumi.

Tradition, queerness and finding one’s voice

Rumi calls what he sings simply hindustani music. He avoids the word classical because he feels it limits a form that has grown and changed with time. “Hindustani music has adapted so much. It is not classical for me. I sing khayal and thumri. These are fluid forms. Dhrupad is classical because it is rigid and old and has that brahmanical history. What I sing cannot sit in that structure,” he states. These forms give him space and freedom and that is why he feels at home in them.

Growing up queer gave him another way of looking at art. “Queerness teaches you to listen differently. It changes how you feel a note. It changes how you express. There is a sensitivity you carry without trying. That is there in my singing also,” he tells us. Music became the only space where he felt safe long before he had the words for his identity. He says, “art gave me a place to exist without fear. I did not have to explain anything.”

Teaching has become a major part of his life now. He wants to offer the same support that he received as a child. “My teachers gave me time and space with no reason. That generosity made my life. I cannot return it to them so I have to give it to others,” he states. He tells his students to ask questions, find their own voice and understand that tradition should not trap them. “Music will die if we only copy. It lives because someone is brave enough to do something new,” says Rumi.

Rumi is someone who has watched Bengaluru change over the years, along with the people who listen to hindustani music. He believes that more people are curious now and the city has many stories, so the crowd also wants different things. He believes this is good for the art.

For our Past Forward edition, Rumi stands between the world he grew up in and the world he is helping build. He carries the discipline of his early training and the honesty of his personal journey. He once sang a single line for a whole year and now he uses that same patience to guide new singers. “Your past is not something to escape. Take all of it and make something new,” he tells us as he signs off.

Email: alwin@newindianexpress.com

X: @al_ben_so

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