Ustad Bismillah Khan has been a presence in my life since I was seven years old. Today, as the country grieves his loss, I have only one thing to say: He is still here with us. Saints don’t die and, for me, Ustadji is nothing less than a saint. For, he had a God-given gift.

When he lifted the shehnai, pressed it to his lips and blew into it, he created music, he created magic. So melodious was the harmony that it transformed the simple instrument to the level of the classical.

He is truly without precedent, without an equal. Which is why I have never played a jugalbandi with him. A musical duel can be held only between equals. I have never felt myself equal to this great man. Once at the New York Town Hall, they wanted us to play together. But I said I would prefer to honour him by welcoming him on stage and playing first like a shishya.

Since we both play wind instruments, he loved me a lot and I was his favourite. We travelled a lot by bus in the early days when musicians didn’t jet-set around in planes or live in luxury hotels. We just had our instruments, the company of each other and a tour bus that took us from one concert venue to another. During our tours together, and there were many, Ustadji taught me much about music and life.

Mostly it was about life, since I learnt from him a sense of humility and simplicity. No matter how great he was, he thought nothing of sitting down on a charpoy in the middle of nowhere at a little dhaba. He would eat roti and daal with relish and we would talk about everything from music to politics to the most mundane. Yet, when he picked up his instrument, he could transform a simple music hall into a grand temple where even the gods were happy to listen to his shehnai.

... contd.