![]() ![]() 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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