The only thing I ever remember asking my parents for in second grade were music lessons. I remember my teacher came with a muffler around his neck, but with no muffler on his motorbike. The arts were a low priority compared to other necessities and the lessons soon faded.
After school, I would quickly finish my chores during everyone’s siesta, so I could squeeze in a few minutes of listening to Rabindrasangeet only after folding all the clothes from the laundry and before preparing the afternoon tea for my family. I hovered over the Gitabitan trying to understand the complicated Bengali words while playing Hemanta Mukherjee and Kanika Banarjee on vinyl records, very softly, so no one would wake up.
My Bengali vocabulary was severely limited, and I didn’t have a dictionary, but somehow these lyrics soothed my soul. It was not always clear to me whether these songs were being sung to God, a true love, or a saint. This object ambiguity, today I know, is very much in the Sufi tradition of Rumi and others where the "Beloved" could be anyone. I tried to understand the many layers of meaning, and grasp the essence of each song. At the time, I didn’t realize I had embarked on a personal spiritual quest, - a philosophical journey, - searching for meaning that fundamentally shaped my values and belief systems with Rabindranath Tagore as one of my teachers.
My childhood was difficult, to say the least, the environment was excruciating. And then there was the massacre of the Bengali people. Rabindrasangeet was my only sanctuary.
After the war I found a generous and loving teacher Nitai Shah who appreciated Tagore’s genius and discounted his lessons if I would learn to play five Tagore songs on the harmonium per week, and teach him and his other students. I sang at school, at BUET (Bangladesh University of Engineering and Technology (where my father was a Professor)) as well as in concerts and gatherings like the International Mother Language Day at the Shaheed Minar; but soon we left for America. There were five in our family and we could each take only one suitcase. So at the age of almost 12, I gave away most of my belongings, stuffed a few things in a handbag, and brought my harmonium as my only piece of luggage.
In America there was school, work, family, more work and more school. There was no audience, community or time for music where I lived whIch was Madison, Wisconsin at the time. Family members often questioned why I still kept my harmonium. But whenever things got tough, I reached for my harmonium. What remained of the day was sustained by music and the words of Tagore. It answered questions I had not yet asked. I realized that the universal values of Rabindrasangeet was part of my DNA. The emotion in my voice, the drone of the harmonium, my misty fingers, blended into this heart space, where I became one with the Universe. Amidst all the noise, chaos and heartbreak I could reach that place that is timeless and constant. This was my form of meditation.
My spiritual challenges in life manifested in the physical when I was diagnosed with thyroid and breast cancer in the same year. The fact that these ailments were in the throat chakra, which is the center of expression, (i.e. speaking our truth) and the heart chakra, which reflects our ability to nurture and be nurtured, did not escape me. Other ailments indicated I had to leave the past behind. It was a blessing and a wakeup call. Somewhere I knew my path to healing the voice and the heart was through music – they were inextricably linked. I promised myself that if I got better I would get back to my music. My one true love. This was how I was going to nurture myself.
I wanted to make a CD collection of my favorite Tagore songs for my daughter who barely spoke Bengali. I wanted her to understand the language of my soul, the beauty of Bengali, best expressed in Rabindrasangeet. There were many challenges. My first production engineer lost all my files and refused to recover the work or complete the project. I lost money, momentum, motivation and found it difficult initially to bridge the musical dialogue between the East and the West. Percussionists told me my rhythm was off when I was performing an unusual 7/8 beat song (Song 12) and they were trying to accompany me with a standard 4/4 beat. But in every twist and turn the lesson I learned was to remain upbeat and keep my heart open. As I continued to navigate challenges to my health and spirit; I learned to listen to what my body was whispering.
One day, feeling rather discouraged and returning home from a business a trip, I met a Sudanese cab driver, Muhammad Mubarek. When he learned I was originally from Bangladesh, he started reciting Rabindranath’s songs in Arabic! I was blown away by his passion for Tagore - he said Rabindranath Tagore and Pablo Neruda were the greatest poets of all time. I said I would add Jalauddin Rumi to the trifecta. I realized Tagore’s message was universal and that spoken language was not a barrier to the heart. I knew then this CD was not just for my daughter. He said, “God is great, that is why we met” and that I must continue working on my CD. I had never recorded a song before – I am an engineer – what do I know about producing music? But, once I set my intention, the Universe conspired to bring forth amazing scenarios, serendipities, synchronicities and more angels appeared: a German tabla player Daniel Hirtz, with missing fingers who had replaced them with his spirit, my brilliant sound alchemist Liv Singh, the remarkable percussionist, Dheeraj Shreshtha, the foremast Nepali tabla player in the world, Mark de Cozio with his generosity, amazing piano playing and chords, and the genius of Satyam Patel, my exceptionally healing voice coach. I was reminded that the only thing that was important was to sing from the heart and everything else would take care of itself. I learned that the Universe always has my back and the awesome manifesting power of intention.
The arts, writing poetry, songs, music, stories, researching science & engineering, teaching physics and mentoring in metaphysics, all continue to heal my body, expand my mind and lift my spirit – I am now cancer free. Edmund Hilary said, “It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” This journey has not been just about creating art, or overcoming challenges but more about finding my voice and conquering my own heart. In Sanskrit ‘Sangeet’ means singing together, in concert, or in celebration and in Bengali and Hindi ‘Sangeet’ means song. So HEARTSANGEET is the music of my heart, a celebration of our oneness, our heart connection through song, music and prayer. I hope this music reaches your spirit and fills your heart the same way it does mine.
With all my HEART,
Shahriar
wwwheartsangeet.com