Choral singing has a habit of opening doors in the most unexpected places. Sometimes it opens the door of a concert hall. Sometimes it opens the door of a church. And sometimes, as I discovered in Chicago, it opens the door of your own rather oversized ego.

I saw an announcement on Instagram inviting people to a sing along of gospel music at a church. My wife, who is a fine alto, and I, who am a bass and occasionally behave as though I am the entire bass section, decided to attend.

An African American gentleman stood in front and introduced each song. He had come well prepared, with a few words about every number. Then the singing began.

My wife and I joined in. We did not merely sing the melody. We slipped naturally into parts. Alto here, bass there, harmony everywhere. Quite a few of the numbers were African American spirituals, songs we had sung many times with choirs in India.

The people around us began turning their heads.

“Will you lead this one?” somebody asked me.

Now, asking a bass to lead is dangerous. It is like asking a politician whether he would like another microphone.

I stepped forward and led. They sang, and I loved every moment of it. Somewhere in that Chicago church, India seemed to rise a little higher in their minds. Here were two Indians who knew their gospel songs, understood their harmonies and could sing their parts confidently.

For a few glorious moments, I felt that I was representing the entire nation.

Then I looked at the gentleman who had originally been leading.

He appeared uncomfortable.

The applause I was enjoying had perhaps become silence for him. The confidence I was displaying may have been quietly taking away his own. I had entered his musical space and, without intending to, begun occupying it.

So, during the remaining songs, I lowered my voice. I continued singing, but more softly. I allowed him to lead again. The music did not suffer. In fact, it became warmer.

Later, my daughter said, “Dad, that was the first time we saw you subdue your voice!”

I smiled. They were right. It may also have been the first time they realised miracles still happen in churches.

As I walked out, I understood something important. Harmony is not always created by singing louder, displaying greater skill or proving how much we know. Sometimes harmony is created by stepping back. Sometimes it means letting another voice be heard. Sometimes it means surrendering the spotlight we could easily seize.

Music or life was never meant or lived to put another man or woman down.

My book on choral music and life, One Note at a Time, is ready to be launched. I wish I could have included this experience in it.

Never mind. Perhaps life was giving me one more note.

And this time, it was asking me to sing it softly..!

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