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Some evenings do not merely pass; they seep into your spirit, like the scent of sandalwood, lingering long after the fire has died down. Saturday, July 12, in Patna was one such night. As part of the Aarogya Parv, organized by the Government of Bihar, the city was blessed with a musical yajna of sorts - Rishab Rikhiram’s “Sitar for Mental Peace” concert. In the heart of a bustling city, this young maestro from the legendary Rikhi Ram family didn’t just play music; he opened a portal to a higher dimension.
The night was humid, as July tends to be, but the moment he began to pluck the strings of his sitar, the air shifted. It was no longer just a performance, it felt like sadhna. The crowd around me fell silent, as if each soul instinctively knew: something sacred was unfolding.
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The Echo of Tansen in the Soul of Rishab
Rishab’s raag was not just heard, it was felt. It reached deep within, where our anxieties hide and our spirits crave clarity. As I sat there under the open sky, I found myself thinking of Tansen in Akbar’s Darbar, and how the courtiers must have felt when he played Raag Malhar to summon rain. Rishab, too, summoned something - shanti, peace.
Each note dripped like amrit, carefully strung together with patience and precision. There was no hurry. No attempt to impress. Only the purest offering of sound - naad brahma - the belief that the universe was born of sound, and this was perhaps how it must have sounded in its infancy.
A Soulful Tribute to a Timeless Guru
Midway through the performance, Rishab paused. And in a voice full of reverence, he offered a shraddhanjali to his guru, the immortal Pandit Ravi Shankar. “Main jo bhi hoon, unki kripa se hoon,” he said softly, bowing his head before gently touching his sitar.
What followed was an exquisite alaap - not just a musical homage, but a spiritual dialogue between disciple and master. He invoked Pandit Ravi Shankar not just through raag, but through bhav, blending tradition and emotion in a way that only a true shishya can. For a moment, it felt like the spirit of the maestro himself had descended upon the stage, smiling quietly at the continuity of legacy.
It was guru-bhakti in its purest form, and as listeners, we were mere witnesses to a love so sacred it transcended lifetimes.
When the Voice Became a Prayer
And then, the sitar paused. Rishab lifted his face to the stars and began chanting the Shiva Stotra. I have never heard a voice like that before. It wasn’t trained to perform; it was trained to transcend. Every syllable was like a bell echoing in a Himalayan cave. The “namah śivāya” danced on his tongue like sacred fire.
Tears welled up in many eyes, including mine. You don’t plan for such moments. They just happen, and when they do, something inside you changes forever. It was soul-stirring, enlightening, and almost otherworldly. Jaise kisi ne andar ke dard ko sehla diya ho. For those few minutes, I wasn’t in Patna, I was on the banks of the Ganga, watching light flicker across ancient ghats.
Bollywood, But From the Soul
When he transitioned into Zara Zara from Rehna Hai Tere Dil Mein, I thought it would be a simple instrumental rendition. I was wrong. With his sitar, he didn’t just play the melody, he invoked the emotion. The sensuality of the original song was now replaced with a haunting tenderness. The soul of the music, stripped of lyrics, was more exposed, more intimate.
Then came Tumhi Dekho Na from Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna, but in Rishab’s hands, it became something else entirely. Not a song of romantic longing anymore, but of viraha, spiritual separation. The kind Mirabai must have sung about for her beloved Krishn. He made the song feel like an atma-vishleshan, and in doing so, gave us a glimpse of what love sounds like when it is both temporal and eternal.
The Burning Ghat: Where Music Meets Moksha
But nothing-nothing-prepared me for The Burning Ghat. A composition of his own, it was less a performance and more a guided journey through Manikarnika Ghat. The sitar wept, trembled, and then roared like fire touching water, like death meeting freedom.
You could feel Kashi breathing through his strings. The chaos of cremations, the quiet acceptance of antim yatra, the promise of moksha. The music captured the essence of life and death not as opposites, but as dancers in the same eternal rhythm. By the end, there was silence. The kind that heals.
A Night That Lingered in the Sky
As the concert came to an end, we looked up-and the stars seemed to shine differently. Was it because the music had lifted the weight off our chests? Or because we had, for those two hours, seen a reflection of the divine? Maybe both.
Rishab Rikhiram didn’t just play music that night in Patna. He showed us a mirror to the self. He gave us a glimpse of what it means to truly listen - not just with the ears, but with the soul.
The crowd eventually dispersed. But inside, something stayed. Something shifted. I walked back home quieter than I had arrived, yet fuller. And in the distance, the faint echo of a sitar still hummed, like a whisper from the stars.
कुछ संगीत रूह को छूते हैं - और कुछ उसे जगा देते हैं।
Rishab’s music did both.
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