When Music Became Prayer: An Evening beneath the Spell of Santoor and Shehnai

What is the best concert you have been to?

When Music Became Prayer: An Evening beneath the Spell of Santoor and Shehnai

There are concerts, and then there are experiences that quietly settle into the soul like evening dew upon sacred grass. Some performances entertain; a few illuminate. And then, once in a lifetime, there comes a gathering of art so profound that it ceases to remain a performance altogether — it becomes prayer, meditation, memory, and silence woven together.

Among the finest concerts I have ever attended were the divine santoor vadan of Pandit Shivkumar Sharma, the soul-stirring shehnai recital of Ustad Bismillah Khan, and the celestial Odissi dance presentation by Sanjukta Panigrahi. Even today, years later, their echoes continue to walk beside me like faithful companions through the corridors of memory.

The Santoor that Sounded like Falling Snow

When Pandit Shivkumar Sharma touched the strings of the santoor, it did not feel as though a musician was playing an instrument. It felt as though the Himalayas themselves had begun whispering ancient secrets.
Every strike of his delicate mallets carried both precision and tenderness. The hall was full, yet one could hear the silence breathing between the notes. Such was the discipline of his art. His rendition in Raag Bihag seemed to pour moonlight into the hearts of the listeners. I remember sitting motionless, almost afraid that even the rustle of my clothes might disturb the sanctity of the moment.

Music, they say, hath charms to soothe the savage breast. That evening, I realised it could also awaken forgotten tenderness within hardened hearts.

The santoor did not merely produce melody; it painted landscapes. One could visualise Kashmir’s valleys, snow-clad peaks, saffron fields, and flowing rivers through the vibrations of those strings. The experience was not auditory alone — it was spiritual geography.

As someone deeply fond of classical ragas and instrumental healing, I felt as though the instrument had entered directly into the chambers of my inner being.

Some notes carried joy, others longing, and a few possessed that indescribable ache which only true art can create.

When the Shehnai Wept and Smiled Together

If the santoor resembled a mountain stream, the shehnai of Ustad Bismillah Khan was the voice of Mother India herself.

The moment he began, the atmosphere transformed. There was Banaras in his breath, the Ganga in his pauses, temple bells in his improvisations, and centuries of civilisation hidden in his alaaps.

His music carried both celebration and sorrow together — like life itself.

Traditionally associated with weddings and auspicious occasions, the shehnai under his mastery transcended ritual and entered eternity. His recital reminded me of early dawns in temples, village festivities, processions, and the emotional fragrance of old India which modernity often forgets.

There was humility in his posture and divinity in his sound. He did not appear to perform for applause. He seemed to converse with God through music while the audience merely overheard the sacred dialogue.

At one point, the recital became so emotionally overwhelming that I noticed several listeners quietly wiping tears from their eyes. Nobody spoke. Nobody wished to break the spell.
Indeed, silence too has a language.

Odissi: Poetry Carved into Movement

The unforgettable Odissi performance of Sanjukta Panigrahi. If music can flow like a river, her dance resembled sculpture brought to life.

Every mudra, every glance, every movement of her eyebrows carried meaning. Odissi is not merely dance; it is literature in motion, devotion in rhythm, and philosophy expressed through the human body.

Being originally from Odisha, watching Odissi always awakens something ancestral within me. The sound of the mardala, the grace of tribhangi posture, the lyrical devotion to Lord Jagannath — all these evoke memories deeper than words can fully contain.

Sanjukta Panigrahi danced with astonishing balance between discipline and abandon. She appeared both grounded and ethereal simultaneously. During one abhinaya sequence depicting Radha’s longing for Krishna, the entire auditorium seemed suspended between mythology and reality.

It reminded me of the ancient Indian understanding that art is not separate from spirituality. In our civilisation, music and dance were never mere entertainment. They were pathways to transcendence.

The Vanishing World of Listening

Today, music often competes with noise. Concerts are flooded with flashing lights, hurried recordings, restless audiences, and mobile screens raised higher than human attention itself. We hear more, yet perhaps we listen less.

Those earlier concerts belonged to another era — an age when audiences arrived not merely to consume art but to surrender themselves before it. People dressed with respect, sat patiently for hours, and absorbed every nuance with reverence. There was dignity in the atmosphere.

Modern life moves at breakneck speed, but classical art teaches us the forgotten discipline of stillness.

To appreciate a raag unfolding slowly is to understand patience. To observe Odissi is to understand grace. To listen to the shehnai is to understand longing.

And perhaps, to truly listen is also to heal.

Music as a Companion through Life

As I journey through the autumn of life, I increasingly realise that music has remained one of my most loyal companions. Friends drift away, circumstances change, cities transform, but a melody heard once with sincerity remains forever.
Whether it is the voice of Mukesh, the gentle country songs of Jim Reeves, the soulful melodies of Kenny Rogers, or the meditative strains of Indian classical ragas, music has often stood beside me during loneliness, struggle, gratitude, and reflection.

Some people inherit wealth. Some inherit land. A few fortunate souls inherit moments.

I consider these concerts among the richest inheritances of my life.

The Concerts Never Truly End

Great art does not conclude when the curtain falls. Its true performance begins afterwards — inside memory, conscience, and silence.

Even today, when evening descends quietly and the world slows down for a moment, I can almost hear the distant resonance of the santoor, the aching sweetness of the shehnai, and the rhythmic footsteps of Odissi returning like old friends.

Time may age the body, but certain melodies remain eternally young.

And perhaps that is the greatest miracle of all.