When I told my father I wanted to learn to play the sitar, he was so pleased that he insisted I study with Ustad Sarage Odine, the most renowned sitar player in all of Kabul. Ustad Odine agreed to teach me three times a week but only for four months. “Then I will decide if you are a student worthy of my teaching,” he said. I ran out and bought an expensive three-string sitar made in India.
“Learning to play the sitar is a process,” Ustad Odine said at my first lesson. “You cannot just pick up the instrument and begin playing. First, you must show respect for your teacher. So, before we begin, bring me food and drink.”
During the first month of my lessons, the Ustad would not let me touch my new sitar. Instead, I learned to sit correctly and respect my teacher. Our housekeeper was kept busy bringing him food and drink. One day Ustad Odine called for whiskey. After several glasses he looked at me with eyes that seemed to have difficulty focusing. “The eyes see only what the brain will allow them to see,” he said. “You must loosen the brain if your eyes are to see beyond what is in front of you. Only then can you begin to understand the sitar.”
At the next lesson the Ustad swept into our house as if it were his own. A lapis lazuli bowl caught his eye. “What a beautiful bowl,” he said.
“It’s a very special bowl my father brought back from Badakhshan,” I said. “Here, you must have it.” I placed the bowl in his hands, expecting him to refuse it, but instead he said, “Tashakor. I will cherish it.” Each lesson after that, Ustad Odine would admire something, a silver spoon, a tribal rug. I was bound to offer it to him—and he always accepted. And he was drinking all of our expensive alcohol, while I had not yet touched a single string on my sitar.
After three months Afsana’s patience ran out. She was going to tell Ustad Odine that the lessons were over. I disagreed, but I couldn’t blame her. Afsana, by custom, always remained out of the room when he visited. I would have to confront the Ustad myself. Before I had a chance to say “Salaam,” Ustad Odine announced he was most satisfied with my progress and I was now ready to take up the instrument. He plucked one string of the sitar, ping! and said, “You must do exactly as I have shown you, and it must sound exactly like that.” I cradled the instrument in my lap, almost too terrified to put my finger to it, but the Ustad urged me on. Soon we were both plucking the same string—ping! ping! ping!—over and over again for what seemed an endless amount of time. Then suddenly, he stopped. “That will be your lesson for the next month. Practice it as often as you can.”
I was determined to be the best sitar player in all of Kabul. Day and night I plucked that one string: ping! ping! ping! Even after Afsana went to bed, I plucked that string—ping! ping! ping!—until she got up and pulled the sitar out of my hands. After that I was careful to play it only when she was out.
It was some time before I learned to play the next two strings, but the sound of that very first string still resonates in my head.