The ghats of Kashi were quiet that evening, touched by the golden light of the setting sun. A frail old man sat by the steps, his tanpura resting gently against his shoulder. His name was Pandit Raghuveer, once celebrated for his soulful renditions of Hindustani classical music.
Tourists bustled around, boatmen called out for rides, but the world around him was blurred by memory. He remembered evenings when hundreds gathered to listen, when each note of his raga seemed to weave the Ganga herself into song.
Today, only a curious child stopped before him.
“Baba, will you sing something?” the boy asked.
The old man smiled. His voice, though aged, still carried the fragrance of discipline and devotion. As he began a slow aalap, the chaos of the ghat seemed to pause. The boy’s eyes widened, and even the boatmen fell quiet, as though the river herself was listening.
When he finished, silence lingered longer than applause ever had.
“Baba, why do you sing if no one listens anymore?” the boy asked softly.
Raghuveer placed his hand on the child’s head and said,
“Beta, music is not for crowds. It is for the soul. As long as one heart listens whether yours, mine, or the Ganga’s , the raga lives on.”
That evening, as the old maestro walked away, the boy picked up a stone and tapped it gently on the steps, mimicking rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, a new raga had already begun.
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