Strings of Sitar: Meditations on Love (Part 6/n)

The other day, I was having a conversation with a “fan”, and they hit me with a question that caught me completely off guard: “Why did you choose the sitar as your instrument?”

Now, you’d think I’d have a rehearsed answer ready for a question like that. After all, I’ve been asked about my choice of instrument many times before. But this time, the question hit differently, like it demanded an answer that was a little more honest, a little more vulnerable. And as I stood there, words just escaped me. I fell silent. Time seemed to slow down around me. Very movie-like where other people are moving fast, but for you, time has slowed.

On hindsight, the perfect line to describe me at the moment is a line by Kabisurjya Baladeba Ratha, “କି ହେଲା ରେ, କହିତ ନୁହଇ ଭାରତୀରେ!”— roughly translated, “Oh, what just occurred, I am unable to express it in words!” That’s exactly how I felt. It was one of those rare moments when vocabulary, metaphor, and all the clever explanations I’d usually rely on just didn’t feel right.

Maybe, for the first time in life, I was speechless.

In that moment of silence (more like trance), a sort of vision bubbled up. I could see, from up close, the sitar strings vibrate softly, creating music, emerging out of thin air. And, no, I was not under the influence of any psychedelics. Something about those vibrations spoke louder than any answer I could give. In that moment, it felt like it wasn’t about choosing the sitar, not really. It felt more like the sitar had chosen me. Or maybe, in some strange way, we’d found each other.

Now, as I have mentioned beforehand, I could not, for some reason, think of why I love my sitar. But as I thought about it more, the question in my mind shifted — morphed, really — from “Why do you like sitar?” to a much bigger, more daunting question: “What is your idea of love?”

I know, it sounds like the perfect setup for a poem. Believe me, I considered it. But here’s the thing—I’m terrible with poetry. Sure, I could ask someone to turn my thoughts into verse, but that would feel dishonest. The idea would no longer be mine. And maybe that’s why I’m here, writing this blog instead. I’m a long-form thinker, an explainer. Poetry isn’t my language; essays are. Give me a topic, and I’ll expand, dissect, stretch it out in a way that feels natural to me. So, here I am, trying to unravel my idea of love the only way I know how—through words that spill out in paragraphs, not stanzas.

Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll wake up with a sudden epiphany and start writing poems. But for now, this is my space—where my thoughts can meander and unfold. So, let’s get back to where we started.

"What is your idea of love?"

Write it down if you can — on paper, in the comments, wherever you feel comfortable. Although in this blog, I shall be going more into what I think of how I want my partner to be. The reason I’m asking you to do this is simple: I want you to have your own answer first. I want your ideas to be your own, not coloured by what you’re about to read from me. And hey, if my perspective somehow adds another tile to the beautiful mosaic of what you already believe about love, that’s wonderful. But go into this knowing that you’re about to read the thoughts of a single guy (pun very clear and very obviously intended), one who’s still figuring out the answer himself. :)

Now, to think of it, for a person so unlucky in love, I write a lot about love.

Now, finally, les gooooo.

The sitar is such a beautiful instrument. It has this unique way of teaching me about life without saying a single word or meaning to say anything. Honestly, it’s moments like these—those random flashes of insight—that remind me just how much my music is shaping me. I love my sitar, and maybe that's why I can see myself clearly only through it. Yes, the sitar has its own sound but I see it the way I see myself. There are hundreds (if not thousands) of people that play the sitar, and I don't think any of them would have come down to this realisation.

When you listen to a sitar, or guitar, or any stringed instrument, do notice one thing next time: the entire instrument makes the instrument what it is; all the strings (21 in my sitar's case) on the instrument help in making the instrument sound like what it does; and yet, you shall never see two strings overlapping- you'll never see two strings touching each other. Now, do keep in mind that every string in itself is complete- they can produce sound that can qualify for music, and yet, it's the confluence of all the strings that make an instrument what it is. And yet, just one string overlapping on another can disturb the entire sound and the instrument's sound. See, what once was a beautiful sound, now is just a buzzy twang that irks your ear.

I want love to be that way. Me and my partner being complete souls and then coming together to make music as two already very complete things. There should not be any overlap of the strings, i.e., one person should, in no way, be dependent on the other. The concept of "Do jism, ek jaan" comes to "life" here. Two strings playing two different, very beautiful and complete sounds come together, and they create another complete, very different from the original, yet very much related sound.

This brings about so many aspects of love.

First, there’s the idea of giving your partner space. Just as the strings on a sitar don’t touch, yet work together to create music, love should allow each person to have their own space within the relationship. You don’t need to be wrapped around each other every moment to feel close. In fact, respecting each other’s individuality can deepen that closeness.

Secondly, there’s trust—an element embedded in giving space. Allowing your partner to breathe, to have their own world and interests, shows a level of faith in them, their life, and in the relationship too. When one feels the need to cling tightly, it often reflects an insecurity, a lack of trust. But when you trust someone, you give them freedom, knowing that they’ll choose to come back to you.

Thirdly, and finally, respect—an aspect that is already covered in both, space and trust. True respect means acknowledging that your partner is their own person with their own journey. It’s understanding that they have dreams, fears, and a self that exists outside of the relationship. When we hold our partners in this kind of respect, we honour their individuality, and in doing so, we cultivate a love that’s not possessive but liberating.

Here's an excerpt of Javed Akhtar ji saying something similar:

In this kind of love, both partners remain whole, grounded in themselves yet open to something larger. It’s a love that doesn’t suffocate but expands, allowing each person to grow both individually and together. You can feel a sense of expansion in these statements, like a vast unfolding rather than a narrowing. It’s like two infinities meeting, not to become one in the usual sense, but to create a space that’s even greater—an infinity that holds both the infinities.

Maybe that’s what love really is: two endless beings coming together to create something larger than either of them alone. It’s not about completing one another but about amplifying, intensifying each other’s essence. And perhaps that’s the most beautiful music two people can make—a sound that not just fills a silence because it is supposed to, but a sound that has all the melodies and silence embedded in it, of two complete souls, each resonating fully to their potential, and somehow together forming a new infinity.