WI was a little boy, seven or eight years older, with my efforts Music Began in the most inimitable way. My sister Seema had just started Hindustani classical music lessons with Vinod Uncle, whose voice was as captivating as his film-star good looks. Lessons were held in the drawing room of our house and I, the younger brother, used to sit outside listening to the slamming of the door.
The music that flowed outside was balm to my young heart. I didn’t understand the intricacies of the ragas – yaman, desh, kafi – at the time, but their tunes stuck with 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 a peace I had no words for.
Years later, as life took me to Manhattan, I returned to Hindustani classical music under the tutelage of Marina Ahmed, a disciple of the great Pandit Jasraj. With her I explored the melodious hum of Rageshri and the vibrant dance of Tilak Kamod. The connection I felt was not just with ragas but with something bigger — call it the resonance of my soul, the universe, or just the music I saw and heard.
In moments of loneliness, when the weight of self-doubt or longing became too much, I turned to Malkouns and Marwa. These ragas, so deeply meditative, stitch together the broken pieces of my soul, giving me fleeting moments of peace that feel eternal. They became my sanctuary, a place where my thoughts, my fears, and my questions dissolved into melody.
Music runs in my family, but the legacy hasn’t always been given the freedom to flourish. My grandmother, Dadi, was a singer of extraordinary talent. They said her voice could burst the monsoon clouds with rain or soothe the most restless heart. However, during her time, “respectable” women were not allowed to sing on stage. However, his home was a haven for music. supported Great Gurus She poured her talents into raising a family that was informal and respected the arts.
Dadi was the first to recognize my own musical inclinations. She heard about my singing from my school teacher through my mother, and after listening to Vinod Uncle’s lessons to me, she blessed me to pursue music seriously. Her pride in my growth became my inspiration, the wind beneath my wings her encouragement.
I was supported by my father, my aunt Deepa Bua and her husband Hargobind Phupaji as cheerleaders. Bua and Seema, who had Grandma’s gift for singing, were my informal teachers. Baba’s voice filled with the beauty of Kabir’s bhajans and Urdu poetry became my refuge in times of turmoil. Kabir, with his vision of universality 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 grandmother’s dear friend, Krishna Chaudhary, introduced me to the Bhagavad Gita. As a child, I used to attend recitals with Daddy, where I lent my young voice to hymns. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the verses of the Gita were planting the seeds of resilience in me. Each explanation I heard from the older women in our group provided a new perspective, showing me that no truth is absolute.
This openness to interpretation reflected my journey with Hindustani classical music. Ragas like Bhairavi and Bageshree became my guideposts in dark times, their melodies reminding me that light and hope are always within reach.
At forty I fell ill. It was a devastating time, marked by the loss of vision, memory, and faculties I had assumed. But even in my darkest hours, music stayed with me. Sometimes, I would just sing a word, repeat it over and over again until another word came out, then another, until weeks later I could add a phrase, then a line, and finally a whole song.
Music became both my meditation and my medicine. It healed me in a way that no treatment or cure could, completely tying my broken pieces together. Through this music I found hope, that I rediscovered the will to continue.
As I reflected on my journey, I realized that music wasn’t just a hobby or even a passion—it was my anchor, my bridge of resilience. It gave me the courage to face my identity young man In a gay male society where role models were few and far between. It gave me strength when the disease threatened to steal my voice, my memory, and my spirit. And it brought me joy, filling my life with moments of connection and transcendence.
In Hindustani classical music, ragas are tied to specific times of the day, moods and even seasons. Each raga, in its own way, reflects the cycle of life – ebb and flow, light and dark. Just as Yemen brings calm in the evening, so we can calm ourselves in the most turbulent times. Just as Malkouns evokes meditative depth, we can also find calm in the face of chaos.
Today, when I sing or share music with others, I remember all the people who shaped my journey – Vinod Uncle, Dadi, Bua, Seema, Amma, Marina, and even the women chanting the Geeta. 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 find a reflection of this universality, that at our core, we are all looking for the same things – love, connection and peace.
As I write this, my heart hums with gratitude for the tunes that have become my companions at every turn and turn of life. They have been my comfort in sorrow, my celebration in joy and my guide in times of uncertainty.
In the symphony of life, we all have our ragas. Some bring us light, others help us live in darkness. But each, in its own way, reminds us that we are part of something bigger – something as infinite and beautiful as music.
So find your raga. Let it heal you, inspire you, and connect you to the world around you. And when you can, share with others. Because in partnership, we create harmony – not just in music, but in life.
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