Sitar Hero
All I knew was that my father had brought three giant instruments over the Atlantic on his journey from India to America. Two sitars and one tanpura. Both lovers of Hindustani Classical Music, my parents made sure to bring as much musical history from their homeland as they could when immigrating to the states. Growing up I was fascinated by the works of Ravi Shankar, Shahid Parvez, Nikhil Banerjee, and Anoushka Shankar. The mesmerizing sound of their work made me melt, pluck after pluck, aalap after aalap. I would look at the sitar and be in complete awe of the ivory detail embedded into the teak wood sides of the instrument. Motifs of swans and Indic flowers would flood my eyes, perplexed at the thought that someone had made this beautiful piece of art- by hand. Visually drawn to the instrument, I would curiously strum random strings that made sounds that instantly pulled me into a dream. Not knowing how to even pick up the instrument, I begged my mother to teach me how to play. The sitar weighs around 6 pounds it has a long, broad, fretted neck and a gourd-shaped body, 7 strings, 11–13 sympathetic (resonating) strings and 20 frets. Mastering the initial art of sitting with the instrument itself- was the hardest thing. Being able to balance the sitar on its side — with the top end of the instrument diagonally propped in the air seemed impossible. When my mom would come back from her sitar class I would eagerly wait for her to teach me more segments of the composition she was learning. I knew I was annoying her, all she wanted to do was sit in peace on her tablet, and endlessly scroll down her Facebook feed. All I wanted to do was play the sitar. The first raag I learnt was Yaman-a romantic night melody. As I familiarized myself with the ascending and descending notes I sketched a mental outline in my head. When I learned more lines of the composition my mental pencil turned into a paintbrush, dipped in vibrating paint undulating up and down to the sound that resonated from the sitar. Today, as I watch my mother’s effortless strokes, I am confused at my inability to mimic her exact movements. Her disciplined control and ease is something I have yet to learn.
I have been immersed in the sitar’s honey like sound since I was a child. Ravi Shankar’s records would be spinning from sun up to sundown in our house. One summer I remember playing West Meets East a record by American violinist Yehudi Menuhin and Ravi Shankar. The album art is what drew me to the record. I am confronted with an image of a doe-eyed, detailed depiction of Goddess Saraswati. Her voluptuous body is adorned in jewels, saturated in hues of blue and rusted orange. Her lips are full and puckered as if she is trying to tell me that the jewelry she’s wearing is too heavy and that her outfit is too tight. I remember thinking to myself that her hypersexualized form looked so forced almost as if she wanted to be rescued. Her skinny waist and enormous bust made me roll my eyes. Ma Saraswati- just another image rendered to quench the thirst of the male gaze. Wonderful-_- Rather annoyed I pulled the vinyl out of its cover and softly slipped it onto the player. I prayed the music would distract me from Saraswati’s beseeching eyes.
Raj Ravi Varma’s Galaxy of Musicians evokes female energy like no other. Varma’s painting reinforces the power of diversity and musical essence seen in the various styles of clothing and the array of instruments held by each figure. I feel an air of warm assertion in their body language- not arrogance, or ego but simply a feeling that these women rightfully belong. Each character is united within a celestial rendition of female contentment, while upholding musical agency. This image draws a parallel to my own feelings of femme energy in music especially Hindustani Classical Music- a harmony built among various emotions, and styles.
“Sometimes we feel we are straddling two cultures; at other times we fall between two stools” a very true reality for many immigrant families living away from their homelands. My hyphenated identity exists because the waves of my Indian roots never cease to stop crashing on the shore of my U.S. citizen status. A product of both worlds tuned to the magical melody of my sitar. Unlike watching a Bollywood movie in Hindi, with sub-par English subtitles or listening or to prayers in Sanskrit- I can understand this musical language. It is something all my senses can comprehend. A feeling so familiar it is as if I meet an old friend every time I pick up the sitar. No verbal exchange needed just small prayer to Saraswati and the rest is complete bliss.
