I always wondered how old I'd be when I'd develop a fondness for Indian classic music, namely, the delicate twang of a sitar. The magic number, I learned, is 24*.
I was first introduced to the stuff on my family's weekend excursions to far flung corners of Japan, when my father would slip in the occasional Ravi Shankar CD as the backseat bickering between my younger sister and I bordered on unbearable. Back then ragas took on the role of a stern warning--the melodic precursor to a scolding.
As I matured, the intricate rhythms became synonymous with meals at our favorite Indian restaurants (to this day, a Chaurasia flute tune leaves me craving a deep-fried paneer pakora) often smothered by cacophonous dinner table conversations, not getting the showcase it deserved.
But this past weekend, ensconced in a plush seat, amidst the sustained silence of Carnegie Hall--give or take the occasional loud cougher...free Ricolas in the lobby, people!--I watched, entranced, as a petite figure in a swash of pomegranate pink and violet silk (ironically enough, the word "raga," is derived from the Sanskrit term for color and passion) strutted her way to center stage and offered the audience an exuberant namaskar. Perched on an elevated platform, she cradled her sitar, eyes half-closed and head cocked endearingly to the side. The gentle pitter patter of carefully constructed chords served as the lead-up to a more guttural, thunderous crescendo. The young virtuoso was soon joined by an orchestra of 34, a conglomeration of flutes, clarinets,oboes and violins, whose instruments momentarily criss-crossed cities, from the icy banks of the Hudson to its bustling counterpart along the Varanasi.
I was at an Anoushka Shankar concert, watching the young and overwhelmingly talented artist collaborate with the NYC-based Orpheus Chamber Music Orchestra, a unique musical transaction penned by her legendary father, the sitar maestro himself. I was most impressed by the way the orchestra instruments, Western in origin, took on a second life as they traded their typical harmonies for a highly amorphous musical form, which is "not a tune, melody, scale, mode or any concept for which an English word exists."
The grueling practice sessions behind the concert are chronicled on the Orpheus website, and serve as a candid portrayal of a cryptic musical journey, for those musicians being acquainted with the raga (and all its bells and whistles) for the first time. Rather than getting lost in translation, though, the two musical forms, when combined, were able to infuse one another with greater meaning.
*This was also how old I was when I discovered I could appreciate Autumn foliage along the Merritt Parkway, eat contentedly at a restaurant solo and kind of enjoy getting up early on Saturday mornings.
