Ustad Shujaat Husain Khan and Pandit Rakesh Chaurasia unite for a historic musical dialogue in Hyderabad

It is a wonderful inheritance. But when I do get to step on stage and perform with someone I’ve never performed with before, I have to lean on how we feel about each other as human beings. If there is mutual respect and enjoyment in each other’s music, it becomes very simple. I think with Rakeshji, there is that.

We are very relaxed with each other. We enjoy each other’s company. I am little older to him, so there is fun and respect. Although we are bound by tradition and want to keep that alive, we also want to have the freedom to respond to how we feel at that moment.

My music feels vocal and like conversation because I follow what is called the gayak, which is the vocal style of playing, introduced to the instrumental world of Indian classical music by my father. Of course, it is difficult because you have to pull four or five notes and follow the vocality very closely. It is something that he started, and we have followed that. When the sitar meets the bansuri, it’s a conversation, not a debate. It is a silent understanding of each other’s instrument and each other’s individuality as an artiste.

My father did redefine the whole thought process of instrumental music in this country. I don’t get into debates and arguments about this, as it is fairly obvious how his thought has changed instrumental music altogether. I don’t collaborate too much with different people, but yes, as two human beings, we have a curiosity of what will happen on the day. I’m not curious about what he does, or what he plays, or how beautifully he plays, or what the varsity sound like. I know all that. The curiosity is when we get together and play, and which direction the music is going to take while we are playing together.

Panditji’s legacy is not something I carry so much as something I live inside. Reverence, for me, means rigor: staying true to swar, raga, and the spiritual intent of the bansuri. But my guru also taught me that music must remain alive. If I only repeat what has already been said, I am not honouring the lineage — I am freezing it. Courage comes from trusting that sincere exploration, rooted in discipline.

The bansuri exists only as long as the breath does, so every phrase has an awareness of impermanence. When I play alongside the sitar’s sustained resonance, I become more conscious of contrast — allowing pauses, letting notes dissolve rather than resolve. Silence becomes a shared space, not an absence. It’s in those moments that breath, string, and raga meet most honestly.

A first collaboration like this carries a special kind of vulnerability. There is excitement, of course, but also a quiet nervousness — because you are stepping into an unknown musical conversation. At the same time, there is surrender. With a musician like Ustad Shujaat Husain Khan, you trust the depth of shared tradition. Once the raga begins, anticipation gives way to presence.

In a jugalbandi, virtuosity is secondary to awareness. I listen for direction — where the raga is leaning, how the mood is shifting, and what Ustadji is suggesting rather than stating. His pauses, his meends, even his restraint speak volumes. Listening deeply allows the dialogue to remain respectful, playful, and alive, rather than declarative.