![]() ![]() In his hands, the bansuriwhispered and then instantaneously quavered up the swarasto the highest tonal peaks. Seated on the dais in a cream-white silk chudidar,deep red kurta, shawl over one shoulder, a big red bindion the bridge of his nose, totally engrossed with his flute was the great maestro I had only seen in dreams. As we entered the auditorium, the smooth, haunting bansuritones filled the hall. Still we went, only late by half an hour. But, as karma would have it, we had an unexpected guest that day. My mother had agreed to babysit my little kids. I vowed to brush aside everything and attend it. Two months later, I received an invitation to go to a real-life concert of his. That night, in my dreams, I had sat through a long, mesmerizing bansuri concert of Pandit Chaurasia in an open air auditorium, his evocative ragas intermingling with cool breezes. ![]() Then one morning I woke up feeling light, almost euphoric, a feeling beyond expression. But time after time, I was unable to make it happen. Eventually, it became sort of an obsession. I had long cherished a desire to hear the extraordinary bansuri flute master Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia in concert.
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