There is the sitar, and then there is the instrument in Ravi Shankar’s hands.
This isn’t just a matter of virtuosity. India has long turned out masters every bit as accomplished, some greater, most barely known beyond its borders.
The change is structural. Shankar modified the instrument by adding kharaj (bass) strings tuned to the deep tonic, and by fitting a second resonator gourd along the neck so those low tones could open out and linger. The idea drew from older lineages of the Indian lute, the Rudra Veena especially, where the lower register has always borne the music’s gravity.
With that single change the sitar learned to speak from deeper ground.
When fully realised, the sound transforms. The pluck thickens and rolls with resonance. It recalls a tiger’s low growl, deep, primal. And then, unbidden, an image forms: Shiva, absorbed in meditation high in the Himalayas.
In the opening alap of Raga Gaud Sarang, a mid-afternoon raga, he remains in the lower register, unhurried.
As he draws those long meends (see note below) across the bass strings, something ancient stirs. The greater length and low tuning establish a firm fundamental, while the added resonance gathers around it in a dense halo of overtones. The curved bridge (called jawari) keeps the vibration alive, so the tone does not settle, but breathes, tilts, and ripples.
The melody that emerges possesses precision and intent. The swara is not merely a struck note, a fixed pitch. It is a tonal molecule, shaped by its graces and intonation, by its approach and placement within the phrase. The melodic line unfolds within the grammar of the raga and the boundary conditions it imposes, and resolves to its natural conclusion.
Most sitars dance light and agile. Ravi Shankar’s custom design carries weight, both in the hand and in the ear. But that weight would remain inert without the mastery to awaken it.
The lower octave can be unforgiving. Higher on the instrument, brilliance and velocity can sometimes paper over small sins. Here, every decision lies bare.
To make the bass strings truly sing demands flawless execution across those extended meends. The swara is drawn out, coaxed, burnished, and allowed full flower. A single hesitation or clumsy glide and the whole line can unravel.
Fitting the bass strings is one thing. Realising the swara fully in that register is quite another. With Ravi Shankar, the two meet seamlessly: intonation held true, pressure and release finessed to the breath, the swara born rather than forced. This is why it does not register as a thud or a trick, but as something integral to the music.
It also requires a disciplined hand on the andolan (a controlled oscillation around the swara). Even the smallest inflection on those thick strings carries consequence and must be sculpted with care. The resonance invites lingering, but the raga calls for restraint.
This is one of those moments where the swara stands in full dignity, or the performer stands exposed.
Note: There is no Western equivalent of meend. Glissando and portamento come close, but do not capture its essence. A meend traces a specific contour, often touching implied tones along the way without explicitly resting on them. In Indian classical music, it is foundational; it is how the raga speaks. If one must use a Western term, glissando or portamento will do, but with a mental asterisk.