Ayan’s Music Classes
M Block, Sector 25, Jal Vayu Vihar, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India
Ayan’s Music Classes is a glowing, three-room oasis tucked above a sari shop on the second story of a faded pink colonial-era building in the old quarter of Darya Gunj. Open since 2011, the studio feels more like an intimate living room than an academy. Students remove their shoes before stepping onto the cool, teak-planked floor; sunlight slants in through latticed windows and lands gently on a hand-painted tabla set and a stack of battered guitar cases. Bunches of marigolds hang from the ceiling fans, drying for the morning raga workshop; their faint, peppery scent mixes with the headier incense that Ayan Lal lights at exactly 4:30 each afternoon before the first batch of children arrives.
At the back stands the soundproofed “big room,” lined with egg-crate foam dyed in indigo and saffron. A 1977 Rhodes electric piano—rescued from a defunct Calcutta disco—sits like a bruised jewel against one wall; opposite it, a gleaming red Pearl drum kit coexists with cheap clay bayans and a tanpura drone box rescued from Ayan’s grandmother in Varanasi. Cables are braided into colorful yarn so beginners don’t trip; rows of folding chairs in mismatched jewel tones can be pushed aside instantly for sufi whirl evenings or student recitals under fairy lights.
Ayan teaches by the oral tradition he learned from his gurus, but digitizes everything. An iPad hooked to a modest Fender twin loudspeaker scrolls syllable-by-syllable bandish notation while he claps tala cycles aloud. A bookshelf to the left bulges with dog-eared Bhatkhande volumes, Beethoven sonatas annotated in Hindi, and spiral notebooks stuffed with ear-training playlists labelled “Monsoon,” “Wedding Season,” “Heartbreak.” Punch-cards made from recycled bus tickets track attendance; after 10 punches a student earns a 5-minute solo on the rooftop terrace, where pigeons flutter through the bougainvillea overhead.
Fees are deliberately modest: ₹500 per month for group lessons, sliding to ₹200 for anyone holding an old-age or student bus pass. Scholarships—three annual seats—are sponsored discreetly by Ayan’s uncle, who exports tea. On Fridays, the whole building thumps in unison when the adult rock ensemble cranks up “Take Five” in 11-beat rupak tala, hired dhol players from the market downstairs adding texture. On quiet Tuesdays, only the drone of the tanpura remains, a single bulb tinting the wall amber while first-time mothers hum lullabies they’ve not yet sung to their babies.
After class, Ayan serves masala chai in tin cups that once held development film. He insists everyone practice humming a single sur for the thirty-second walk to the staircase; by now the entire block unconsciously carries an A-natural doorway whistle, from the bookbinder to the kulfi seller.
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- Published: July 29, 2025
