Any suggestions welcome, especially with the conclusion.
Hillsborough, NJ: 5 A.M. Eastern Time: It is a chilly, sleep-inducing December morning during Christmas break. The city shivers, tosses, and snuggles in cozy comforters in an attempt to preserve body heat, but I alone am drifting in a tropical sea. The steamy waters are implausibly spotless and the warmth cleanses my soul.
I did not manage to sneak a vacation to the Florida Keys. There are no tropical zones in New Jersey. Still yet, I don't even have access to a heated swimming pool.
I am floating in the warm bliss of Hindustani music, an art form that makes a performer forget everything but the divine sweetness of sound alone.
I distinctly remember my first formal lesson when I was 7. My short, chubby self sits on the floor, fidgeting with his toes as his teacher, Pandit Jasraj (or "Sir"), attempts to teach a geetham, the first lesson in the Hindustani syllabus. He stares aimlessly around the room and pays no attention. The class is over.
For four years, nothing changes as far as music is concerned. In school, however, I face new challenges and academic pressures, and I work solely in order to avoid punishment and censure from adults. Knowing that no one would blame me for ignoring Hindustani, I still slack off lazily, but Sir never scolds me.
Surprised at her seemingly infinite tolerance, one day, I bluntly ask him why she remains patient towards me.
He responds wryly, his mostly neutral tone accented with tints of sarcasm and discontent: "Hindustani is not a chore or responsibility, so I can't punish you based on your indolence. It is a divine, rejuvenating art and can only be pursued by those who are innately passionate about it. Why should I pressure you?"
I was speechlessly embarrassed. From that day onwards, I practiced feverishly, realizing and regretting the valuable opportunity that I had squandered over the last 4 years. Hindustani became my greatest mentor, sculpting my idle lethargy into diligence, creativity, and passion. My swelling fervor for music rapidly flooded my mind and flowed into every channel of my life. My activities, which were once operant-conditioned chores to gain rewards or avoid punishment, now became positive opportunities that I willfully and joyfully pursued.
Ironically, learning more only made me realize how much I still didn't know. With over 5,000 years of development, Hindustani features a cavernous selection of "ragas" (thousands of distinct melodic scales) and "talas" (various rhythmic patterns) that ultimately culminate in "Manodharma": Spontaneous, onstage improvisation of a particular raga and tala. The courage, creativity, and critical thinking necessary for Manodharma have fueled my friendship with Novelty, a friend who has driven me to invent new ragas, market businesses by throwing out pamphlet-taped Frisbees, and cook coconut chutney-stuffed crępes.
The early morning is still unpleasantly chilly and most people are comfortably wrapped in their comforters and bed shawls.
I, on the other hand, have left the soothing, musical waters of Hindustani to tell my tale and must now return.
Hillsborough, NJ: 5 A.M. Eastern Time: It is a chilly, sleep-inducing December morning during Christmas break. The city shivers, tosses, and snuggles in cozy comforters in an attempt to preserve body heat, but I alone am drifting in a tropical sea. The steamy waters are implausibly spotless and the warmth cleanses my soul.
I did not manage to sneak a vacation to the Florida Keys. There are no tropical zones in New Jersey. Still yet, I don't even have access to a heated swimming pool.
I am floating in the warm bliss of Hindustani music, an art form that makes a performer forget everything but the divine sweetness of sound alone.
I distinctly remember my first formal lesson when I was 7. My short, chubby self sits on the floor, fidgeting with his toes as his teacher, Pandit Jasraj (or "Sir"), attempts to teach a geetham, the first lesson in the Hindustani syllabus. He stares aimlessly around the room and pays no attention. The class is over.
For four years, nothing changes as far as music is concerned. In school, however, I face new challenges and academic pressures, and I work solely in order to avoid punishment and censure from adults. Knowing that no one would blame me for ignoring Hindustani, I still slack off lazily, but Sir never scolds me.
Surprised at her seemingly infinite tolerance, one day, I bluntly ask him why she remains patient towards me.
He responds wryly, his mostly neutral tone accented with tints of sarcasm and discontent: "Hindustani is not a chore or responsibility, so I can't punish you based on your indolence. It is a divine, rejuvenating art and can only be pursued by those who are innately passionate about it. Why should I pressure you?"
I was speechlessly embarrassed. From that day onwards, I practiced feverishly, realizing and regretting the valuable opportunity that I had squandered over the last 4 years. Hindustani became my greatest mentor, sculpting my idle lethargy into diligence, creativity, and passion. My swelling fervor for music rapidly flooded my mind and flowed into every channel of my life. My activities, which were once operant-conditioned chores to gain rewards or avoid punishment, now became positive opportunities that I willfully and joyfully pursued.
Ironically, learning more only made me realize how much I still didn't know. With over 5,000 years of development, Hindustani features a cavernous selection of "ragas" (thousands of distinct melodic scales) and "talas" (various rhythmic patterns) that ultimately culminate in "Manodharma": Spontaneous, onstage improvisation of a particular raga and tala. The courage, creativity, and critical thinking necessary for Manodharma have fueled my friendship with Novelty, a friend who has driven me to invent new ragas, market businesses by throwing out pamphlet-taped Frisbees, and cook coconut chutney-stuffed crępes.
The early morning is still unpleasantly chilly and most people are comfortably wrapped in their comforters and bed shawls.
I, on the other hand, have left the soothing, musical waters of Hindustani to tell my tale and must now return.
