An Evening with a Legend:
My Divine Meeting with Pandit Ravi Shankar
It was a golden evening in June 2012, one that I will hold close to my soul for the rest of my life. That day, in Encinitas, California, I had the rare and humbling opportunity to meet the one and only Bharat Ratna Pandit Ravi Shankar — the sitar maestro, the legend who had taken Indian classical music to the farthest corners of the world.
Accompanied by two of my students and a close friend, I found myself seated quietly in the living room of his serene residence, my heart pacing with reverence and anticipation. The air in his home was already charged with something spiritual — a silence that spoke more than words ever could.
And then... he appeared.
A gentle figure emerged from his room, a halo of white beard, fragile in frame yet radiating an aura that was divine. He walked slowly, leaning on his cane, but his eyes were filled with light and wisdom that could only come from lifetimes of music and meditation. I instinctively rose and touched his feet. In that sacred moment, it felt as though I was touching the feet of Maa Saraswati herself.
For me, he wasn’t just a world-renowned artist; he was a grandfather figure. My grandfather, Pandit Kishan Maharaj ji, had shared a close friendship with him, both born in Varanasi, both sons of that divine soil where every street echoes ragas and rhythms. In that small living room in California, Banaras met Banaras again, far from the ghats but just as sacred.
As we spoke, the barriers of age and geography faded. For over three hours, we exchanged stories — some joyous, some reflective, all unforgettable. He spoke of his journeys through music, of performing for kings, queens, and crowds who didn’t even know what a sitar was but cried listening to him. He recalled anecdotes from Varanasi, shared names of friends, musicians, lost evenings filled with raag Yaman and soft laughter.
There was a gentle glow in his eyes when he remembered his homeland — a glow only a true rasik (lover of beauty) could carry.
Before leaving, we took a photo together — a picture that now lives framed not just on my wall but in my heart. He smiled as we promised to meet again, this time in India, in the lap of Ganga, our shared home.
But fate had other plans.
On 12.12.12, just six months later, the world went silent for a moment — Pandit Ravi Shankar left this earthly stage in the very same town where we met. When I heard the news, a part of me stood still. The weight of that evening, the blessings in his voice, the light in his presence — they all came flooding back.
I often look at that picture and wonder: did he know it was our only meeting? Perhaps great souls like him always know. But what I do know is that evening changed something in me. It deepened my gratitude, my purpose, and my devotion to music.
Pandit Ravi Shankar was not just a musician; he was an era, a movement, a river of ragas that will continue to flow through generations. That evening wasn’t just a meeting — it was a blessing, a silent initiation, and a reminder of what it means to live a life in complete surrender to the art.
And though we never met again in this lifetime, I feel his presence often — in the soul of my tabla, in the wind by the Ganges, in the pauses between notes.
He once said, "Music is the best means we have of digesting time."
And indeed, through that one divine evening, time itself stood still — and became eternal.
This is a beautiful post, thank you so much for it 🙏
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