When I was a little boy, no older than seven or eight, my tryst with music began in the most unassuming way. My sister Seema had just started her lessons in Hindustani classical music with Vinod Uncle, a teacher whose voice was as enchanting as his movie-star good looks. Lessons took place in the drawing room of our home, and I, the younger brother, would sit outside, listening intently through the crack of the door.
The music that drifted out was a balm to my young heart. I didn’t understand the intricacies of the raagas then — Yaman, Desh, Kafi — but their melodies seeped into me. At a time when I was struggling with an undefined identity crisis, the notes brought me a sense of belonging. Even though I wasn’t in the room, I was part of the music. It gave me peace in a way I didn’t yet have words for.
Years later, as life took me to Manhattan, I found my way back to Hindustani classical music under the tutelage of Marina Ahmad, a disciple of the great Pandit Jasraj. With her, I explored the joyful hum of Rageshree and the lively dance of Tilak Kamod. The connection I felt wasn’t just with the raagas but with something larger — call it my soul, the universe, or simply the resonance of being seen and heard by music itself.
In moments of loneliness, when the weight of self-doubt or longing became too much, I turned to Malkauns and Marwa. These raagas, so deeply meditative, stitched together the broken fragments of my spirit, giving me fleeting moments of peace that felt eternal. They became my sanctuary, a space where my thoughts, my fears, and my questions dissolved into melody.
Music runs in my family, but the legacy wasn’t always given the freedom to flourish. My paternal grandmother, Dadi, was a singer of exceptional talent. They said her voice could make monsoon clouds burst with rain or soothe the most restless heart. Yet, in her time, women of “repute” weren’t allowed to sing on stage. Despite this, her home was a haven of music. She accompanied great maestros informally and poured her talent into raising a family that revered the art.
It was Dadi who first recognised my own musical inclination. She had heard through my mom about my singing from my schoolteacher, and after listening to me hum Vinod Uncle’s lessons, she granted her blessing for me to pursue music seriously. Her pride in my growth became my motivation, her encouragement the wind beneath my wings.
Supporting me as cheerleaders were my father, my aunt Deepa Bua, and her husband Hargobind Phupaji. Bua and Seema who inherited Dadi’s gift for singing, were my informal teachers. Bua’s voice, steeped in the beauty of Kabir’s bhajans and Urdu poetry, became my refuge during turbulent times. Kabir, with his philosophy of universalism and love, gave me a lens through which to see the world—and myself—with compassion.
It wasn’t just music that shaped my inner world. My Dadi’s dear friend, Krishna Chaudhary, introduced me to the Bhagavad Gita. As a boy, I accompanied Dadi to readings, where I lent my young voice to the chants. I didn’t realize it then, but the Gita’s verses were planting seeds of resilience within me. Each interpretation I heard from the elderly women in our group offered a new perspective, showing me that no one truth is absolute.
This openness to interpretation mirrored my journey with Hindustani classical music. Raagas like Bhairavi and Bageshri became my guideposts in dark times, their melodies reminding me that light and hope are always within reach.
In my forties, I fell ill. It was a devastating time, marked by the loss of sight, memory, and faculties I had taken for granted. But even in my darkest hours, music stayed with me. Sometimes, I could only sing a single word, repeating it over and over until another word emerged, then another, until weeks later I could string together a phrase, then a line, and finally a whole song.
Music became both my meditation and my medicine. It healed me in ways no therapy or treatment could, connecting the fragments of my broken self into something whole. It was through music that I found hope, that I rediscovered the will to keep going.
As I reflect on my journey, I realize that music wasn’t just a hobby or even a passion—it was my anchor, my bridge to resilience. It gave me the courage to confront my identity as a young gay man in a society where role models were scarce. It gave me strength when illness threatened to steal my voice, my memory, and my spirit. And it gave me joy, filling my life with moments of connection and transcendence.
In Hindustani classical music, the raagas are tied to specific times of day, emotions, and even seasons. Each raaga, in its own way, mirrors the cycles of life—the ebb and flow, the light and the dark. Just as Yaman brings serenity in the evening, so too can we find calm within ourselves even in the most tumultuous times. Just as Malkauns evokes meditative depth, so too can we find stillness in the face of chaos.
Today, when I sing or share music with others, I think of all the people who shaped my journey—Vinod Uncle, Dadi, Bua, Seema, Mom, Marina, and even those women chanting the Gita. Their voices, their teachings, and their love are woven into my own music.
Music has the power to heal not just individuals but communities, bridging divides of language, religion, and identity. In Kabir’s poetry, I found a reflection of this universality, a reminder that at our core, we are all seeking the same things—love, connection, and peace.
As I write this, my heart hums with gratitude for the melodies that have been my companions through every twist and turn of life. They have been my solace in sorrow, my celebration in joy, and my guide in times of uncertainty.
In the symphony of life, we all have our raagas. Some bring us light, others help us sit with the dark. But each one, in its own way, reminds us that we are part of something larger—something as infinite and beautiful as the music itself.
So, find your raaga. Let it heal you, inspire you, and connect you to the world around you. And when you can, share it with others. Because in sharing, we create harmony—not just in music, but in life.
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