Classic

We were sitting in a too-small, overwhelmingly decorated room. Giant Hindu idols adorned the walls, covered in small colorful lights and plastic flowers and sparkles and bright red and orange cloth. The room was too small for the number of people inside; it was hot and cramped, I was sweating, and the fan was going at an unacceptably slow speed. Before us sat arguably the best Indian classical violinist in the world. Banaras is known as the city of music, and this man was poised to be the head of its prestigious Banaras Hindu University’s music department.

I knew I’d never been enthusiastic about Indian classical music. But Krishna had told us that, when played well, you don’t have to try to like it. You don’t have to be used to it. You just know it’s good. So I went to Balaji’s concert with new hope, that maybe this music would be good.

Balaji pulled his bow across the strings, sliding his fingers up and down his instrument. It whined. I cringed. I tried to be open-minded. I tried hard. Genevieve hates it when we’re negative. I hate it too. But this music was just too much.

As I sat, listening to the painful noises of his instrument, I tried to distract myself by thinking about how I would tell Genevieve that I couldn’t deal with any more of these classical music concerts, without getting her angry.

“Genevieve,” I’d say. “Indian Classical music just… isn’t my thing.”

“Come on,” she’d say. “Just try listening to something else. Some sitar music, maybe?”

No, that wouldn’t do. I couldn’t have her dragging me to another concert, violin or sitar or harmonium, or whatever else she could find. I would need to be more firm.

“Genevieve,” I could say. “This is painful to listen to. It sounds like he’s trapped cicadas and donkeys and cats in the body of his violin, and they’re all trying to get out. I want to take his violin away from him, and say, ‘That is not how you use this instrument!’ I can’t do it anymore. No more Indian classical music!”

By this point, I was so caught up in how I’d escape further Indian-classical-music-situations that I didn’t realize that my hand had been subconsciously tapping my knee, beating out the lively rhythm with more and more vigor; my head was moving side to side. It seemed that against my will, my body was – was this even possible? – enjoying the music. I felt like one of the old men sitting around me, shaking their heads, raising their arms in appreciation, shouting, when truly impressed, “Kya baat hai!” What a thing!

The music, I realized, was good. It had taken on a rhythm I hadn’t noticed before. It was loud and passionate, full of rich culture and joy, and reminded me of wedding klezmer or Irish fiddle music.


Banaras is not like New York, or Paris, or London, or any city I’ve ever visited. “City” itself is a misnomer for Varanasi. It’s hard to think of it as a dormant place, just a setting or my current location, because it seems to be much more of a living entity. Of all the characters in my life right now, Banaras is the lead role. Banaras is mischievous, intelligent, all-powerful, fickle, cruel, and loving. Banaras looks deep within you, and manifests your greatest fears and wishes. It (he? she?) figures out what you feel, and then purposely puts you in a situation to completely change your point of view.

First paan, now classical music. What new loves will Banaras bring? Someone make sure I don’t start swimming in the Ganga.