The virtuoso girls I'll never forget

So many memories have resurfaced as I write my book. This one hit hard.

The summer I turned 15, I loaded my cello onto a bus and took a day’s journey from my hometown of Ottawa to a music academy in Charlevoix, Quebec.

Aruna Anantaraman at 15, after winning the Edythe Young Browne Trophy for top marks in violin. Photo: Courtesy Anant Anantaraman

Aruna Anantaraman at 15, after winning the Edythe Young Browne Trophy for top marks in violin. Photo: Courtesy Anant Anantaraman

As the bus lumbered along the St. Lawrence River, I gazed out the window, willing it to go faster. I couldn’t wait to be reunited with musicians from my youth orchestra, and maybe get pointers from an international soloist or two. 

After the sweltering ride, I lugged my cello past a cluster of weathered buildings to the girls’ dormitory. I saw many familiar faces as I unpacked my things. But the bunk beds were filling up fast, with no sign of our principal violinist, or her whiz-kid sister from the second violins. Strange. Normally they’d be there.  

I called out, “Where are Rupa and Aruna?”

The room froze. Everyone stared. 

“Didn’t you hear?” one of the girls said at last. “They died in the Air India crash.”  

The room of faces blurred before my eyes. Dazed, I shook my head. “No way,” I said. The terrorist bombing had been all over the news. But Air India Flight 182 had departed from Montreal—not Ottawa. Rupa and Aruna couldn’t have been on board.  

If only that were true. 

The two sisters had traveled to Montreal to catch the flight. On June 23, 1985, the bomb exploded while the passenger jet was in mid-air, sending the bodies of all 329 people—Aruna, Rupa and their mother, Bhawani, too—hurtling into the Irish Sea.

A cellist from my orchestra filled me in. “One of their violin cases was found floating in the wreck.”

Oh, God. I felt nauseous, sickened by the news. Everyone must have been talking about it for weeks. But I had kept myself scarce all summer, avoiding my expectant mom. Nine days before I left for music camp, she gave birth to a baby sister in my parents’ bedroom. I’d spent my days working for a family friend, stacking boxes in her clothing warehouse and wiping the dust off her orange tree, leaf by leaf.  

I didn’t know how to explain my ignorance of the tragedy to the girls in my orchestra. While everyone else filed out for dinner, I just stood there, stunned.

I couldn’t believe I’d never see Rupa and Aruna Anantaramana again. We’d played together in the National Capital String Academy every week for more than two years.

I got the feeling she was enraptured by the music, and wanted to sweep everyone else away too.  

Aruna was my age, studious and wildly talented. Music took up most of our free time, but we always smiled at each other during rehearsals. I had a soft spot for little Rupa, too. The youngest in our group, just 11 years old, she followed her big sister like a duckling.

Aruna had impeccable technique on the violin, but I never thought about the mechanics of bow strokes or hand positions when she played. I got the feeling she was enraptured by the music, and wanted to sweep everyone else away too.  

Rupa was fast on her heels, displaying a talent some described as “almost Mozartian.”

Their father, Anant Anantaraman, and mother, Bhawani, came to every concert, every Saturday afternoon rehearsal. Their lives seemed to revolve around music out of sheer joy.   

Music, it turned out, was the idea behind the Air India flight.

Music, it turned out, was the idea behind the Air India flight. Their mother was taking them to India to give her family a chance to hear her daughters play. Their father, a scientist in the Department of National Defence, stayed in Ottawa for work.

I could hardly imagine his horror. He lost his entire family in a flash of light.

Months went by.

The following spring, I performed in the Kiwanis Music Festival—my first competition. Shaking with nerves, I stammered my way through the Saint-Saëns Cello Concerto. Nevertheless, the judges gave me top marks, and declared me the winner of the Edythe Young Browne Trophy for strings. But where was the prize?

“Wait here,” one of the festival organizers said.

I waited so long that volunteers in the auditorium began to stack up the chairs. Then, from a far corner of the room, a man walked up to me holding a golden cup the size of a punch bowl. His eyes were sunken, and his hair was pure white. Startled, I realized he was Aruna’s father. The last time I’d seen him, his hair was black. 

I stared at the hunk of gilded metal in his arms. Aruna must have won the trophy the previous year. I didn’t know what to say. He handed it to me, not saying much either. Then he gave me something else: a photo of Aruna, radiant and beautiful, holding the golden cup near her face.

I thanked him, my face burning.  

Me at 16, holding Aruna’s trophy a year after I won the prize. Photo: Russell Barton

Me at 16, holding Aruna’s trophy a year after I won the prize. Photo: Russell Barton

The trophy collected dust in a corner of our house for a year until it was my turn to pass it along. At the last minute, my stepfather convinced me to pose for a photo in the park down the street. “We should document this,” he said. I squinted in the sunlight, gripping the trophy with a forced smile.

I still have the photo of Aruna holding the same cup, brimming with happiness, two months before she fell from the sky.  

Thirty-five years have passed since the Air India bombing, the biggest mass murder in Canada’s history. Two of the kindest, brightest girls I’ve ever known will be forever listed as victims of terrorism. This saddens me now more than ever.

During this brutal pandemic, hundreds of thousands have died—of opioid overdose, police violence, COVID-19. I cannot say their names. There are too many to remember. Instead, I’ve found myself shedding fresh tears at the thought of Aruna’s warm smile, and the little red jacket Rupa used to wear. My grief takes me aback. After all, it’s been years. But this is a cleansing pain, searing through the numbness that comes from reading so many names, on so many lists.

Aruna and Rupa’s names are engraved in the Air India Memorial in Toronto, in Humber Bay Park East. Photo: Artur / CC BY-SA https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)

Aruna and Rupa’s names are engraved in the Air India Memorial in Toronto, in Humber Bay Park East. Photo: Artur / CC BY-SA https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)

Last month, I searched for news of Aruna’s father, wondering what happened to him. I read about the music scholarships he set up in his daughters’ names, and the foundation he established in honour of his wife.

Then something dawned on me: His gift to me of Aruna’s photo that day might have been a first step in making sure his family was never forgotten.

Years after the crash, Dr. Anantaraman founded a tuition-free school in southern India for children in need. The school offers hot meals and high academic standards, emphasizing the values of tolerance and peace. “I was searching for a reason to live, any little straw, any little twig, to give a point to my life,” he told a reporter.

Working with children helped him cope with the loss of his family, especially his daughters, he said.

“Aruna and Rupa, to me are still 15 and 11. They never grew up. They are just the way I saw them the last time, so beautiful, so innocent, wonderful, and talented, playing their Bach and Vivaldi.”

That’s how I will always picture them too. 

In memory of Aruna and Rupa Anantaraman.

Postscript: Last month I got in touch with Dr. Anantaraman, now in his 80s, to ask his permission to publish Aruna’s photo. We hadn’t spoken since I was a teenager, and I didn’t want to add to his pain. To my relief, he welcomed my letter. In his twilight years, he wrote, hearing from a friend of his daughters brought vivid memories, and “moments of tearful joy.”

The secret behind fast-paced music, AKA the “legal performance enhancing drug”

You’ll never find a silent spin class—let alone Zumba. Fitness instructors intuitively know that peppy music puts a spring in our step.

Now we have science to prove it.

Is music giving her the edge? Runner with headphones at Marathon Rotterdam 2015. Photo credit: Peter van der Sluijs, Wikimedia Commons

Is music giving her the edge? Runner with headphones at Marathon Rotterdam 2015. Photo credit: Peter van der Sluijs, Wikimedia Commons

In a new study in Frontiers in Psychology, fast-paced music made exercise easier—and helped women work up a sweat.

For the study, a small group of volunteers exercised either in silence, or to pop music at three different tempos: 90 to 110 beats per minute (bpm), 130 to 150 bpm, or 170 to 190 bpm.

Some of the women walked on a treadmill, while others did leg presses. During each session, sport scientists recorded the women’s heart rates and asked them to report how much effort their workouts required.

“Listening to high-tempo music while exercising resulted in the highest heart rate and lowest perceived exertion”

After crunching the numbers, the researchers noticed a trend:

“Listening to high-tempo music while exercising resulted in the highest heart rate and lowest perceived exertion,” said Luca P. Ardigò, a sport scientist at the University of Verona, Italy.

The effect was greatest for women on treadmills, compared to those using weights. The takeaway: Exercisers doing endurance activities, such as walking or running, may get the biggest bang from upbeat music.

The study’s sample size was tiny—19 women total—and didn’t include men. Nevertheless, the findings echoed a recent systematic review from the University of Southern Queensland in Australia.

The Australian researchers combed through 139 studies on music in exercise and sport—in both men and women—and came up with four key findings:

  1. Music makes exercise more enjoyable

  2. Music reduces perceived effort

  3. Music improves physical performance

  4. Music increases blood flow and reduces the oxygen intake needed to exercise at the same intensity without music

“No one would be surprised that music helps people feel more positive during exercise,” said Peter Terry, dean of graduate research and innovation at the University of Southern Queensland. But, he added in a news release, “the fact that music provided a significant boost to performance would surprise some people.”

Faster music—at least 120 beats per minute—offered more benefits than slower music

Like the Italian study, Terry and colleagues found that faster music—at least 120 beats per minute—offered more benefits than slower music.

What’s more, exercising to the beat offered the greatest gains.

Music has been described as a “legal performance enhancing drug.”

How could this be? Human brainwaves tend to synchronize with any steady tempo we hear, including brain regions involved in core functions such as heart rate, breathing and blood pressure.

Tunes for training: author Costas Karageorghis, professor of sport and exercise psychology at Brunel University London, explores evidence-based practices in his 2016 book

Tunes for training: author Costas Karageorghis, professor of sport and exercise psychology at Brunel University London, explores evidence-based practices in his 2016 book

So, if you want a leg up in your next triathlon or 10K, try listening to fast-paced tunes. But first, check the rules: Some competitions discourage, or even ban, the use of portable music devices for safety and performance reasons. The Boston Marathon allows headsets, “except for those participants who declare themselves eligible for prize money.”

Playlists arranged by tempo are easy to find. (A 120 bpm playlist on Spotify kicks off with the Glee favorite, “Don’t Stop Believin’.”)

Just don’t crank up the volume. Noise levels at indoor cycling studios often reach 100 decibels or more—enough, with repeat exposure, to cause long-term hearing loss.

Wear earplugs, ask the gym to turn the music down (or take your business elsewhere).

Disclaimer: Discussions about health topics provided in this blog, or in any linked materials, are not intended and should not be construed as medical advice, nor is the information a substitute for professional medical expertise or treatment. The author accepts no responsibility or liability for any health consequences relating to information published on this blog.

Behind the scenes of my latest Globe and Mail article

I'm just wrapping up my biggest ever story for The Globe and Mail – a week before going on book leave for a year with my family in France. Normally I'd be packing by now. Murphy's law, right?

I'm not complaining, though.

Hilary Jordan and her son, Mark, a month after her husband's accident in 1987. Photo courtesy Hilary Jordan

Hilary Jordan and her son, Mark, a month after her husband's accident in 1987. Photo courtesy Hilary Jordan

It's been a privilege to dive into the story of Ian Jordan, the Victoria police officer who spent 30 years in a mostly unresponsive state following a car accident on September 22, 1987. 

Heart-wrenching, too. His wife, Hilary Jordan, spent hours with me describing what it's like to care for someone who has only fleeting moments of awareness.

From the time their son was 16 months old to their 45th wedding anniversary in the hospital this spring, she did everything possible to give her brain-injured husband the best possible quality of life. 

I visited the hospital room in Victoria, B.C., where Ian Jordan spent 15 of his 30 years in care. I met a healthcare aide who helped look after his daily needs for 27 years. I spoke with Ole Jorgensen, the Victoria constable who suffered devastating PTSD after his vehicle crashed into Jordan's police cruiser that fateful night.

Finally, I had a phone interview with Hilary's son, Mark Jordan, now 32. He can't remember a time when his father could walk or talk. 

But this injured police officer’s life is far more than a movie-of-the-week tearjerker. Ian Jordan’s story ties in to the evolving science of consciousness. 

Scientists are still cracking the code of human consciousness.

Scientists are still cracking the code of human consciousness.

Medical understanding of the human brain has come a long way since 1987. Cutting-edge diagnostic tools have revealed that many patients thought to be unaware are more conscious than we think. Which brings me to the story scoop.

Ian Jordan had two music therapists. What could they do for someone who was barely conscious?

I can’t say more without revealing the story’s clincher. Check here to read more.

I'm off to pack.