It was the autumn of 1983, during Navratri, when I was just 15 years old, that I had the unforgettable opportunity to perform my first solo ghazal concert. We were living in Bokaro Steel City then, in our home at Cooperative Colony. The colony had around 400–500 houses, with a large ground at the center where the Triveni Puja Samiti organized grand Durga Puja celebrations each year. That year, I was given the stage for a solo 90-minute ghazal performance.
From my childhood, I was deeply drawn to ghazals. My parents played a pivotal role in nurturing this love. My mother was associated with Akashvani Ranchi, where she often sang songs, ghazals, and bhajans from lyrics provided by the radio station. My father together with my mother composed the music for them. From these, I carefully chose a few ghazals to present at this concert. Alongside, I had spent countless hours listening to records and cassettes—rewinding, forwarding, and absorbing the nuances of the voices of Jagjit Singh, Pankaj Udhas, Talat Aziz, and Anup Jalota.
Music was always around me. My father noted down timings of ghazal programs on the radio so he could listen late into the night, and I often sat with him. Friends also played a role—my classmate Saurabh Chandra had a fine collection of ghazal records, while my father’s friend, Kamat Kaka owned LPs that I visited often to listen and learn. At home, a Panasonic two-in-one tape recorder gifted by my uncle from the US became my constant companion in practice.
When I look back, I realize how much the environment influenced me. At school, my history teacher, Dasgupta Sir, passionately explained Mughal history, and it was through him I first came across Bahadur Shah Zafar’s poetry. In a school gathering, I once sang Lagta Nahin Hai Dil Mera Ujre Dayaar Mein, which earned me warm appreciation. These small moments built my confidence step by step while I was studying at St.Xavier's School, Bokaro Steel City.
For my first concert, I was fortunate to have three senior musicians accompany me. On tabla was Surjeet Sinha, widely respected for his beautiful playing; on harmonium, Rana Jha ji, a renowned guru of classical music in Bokaro; and on guitar, Bapi da, who lived just behind our lane and later went on to play professionally in Mumbai and Kolkata. Having such accomplished artists support a young performer like me was a blessing.
That evening, I sang ghazals that had become a part of me—Jagjit Singh’s Hothon Se Chhu Lo Tum from Prem Geet, Talat Aziz’s Raaste Yaad Nahin, Rehnuma Yaad Nahin, and an Anup Jalota ghazal, Kamsin Ho Mohabbat Ki Baatein, along with a few others that I had picked up from my parents’ compositions and the popular ghazal repertoire of that time.
I still remember being handed ₹300 as an honorarium for that performance. I divided it equally among the three senior musicians who had accompanied me, as a token of respect for their guidance and generosity. For me, their blessings were the real reward.
Now, as Navratri unfolds once again, memories of that first solo concert come rushing back. It was not just a performance—it was the beginning of a lifelong journey with ghazals, nurtured by family, teachers, friends, and the musical environment of my early years.
