Chandigarh, July 26: Rishab Rikhiram Sharma’s latest instrumental composition, The Burning Ghat, is not just a piece of music—it is a passage. A slow, sacred procession that moves not only through sound but through soul. Released on July 4 and filmed on the banks of the Ganga at Manikarnika Ghat in Varanasi, the track has captivated both listeners and notable voices in the entertainment world. But what gives it such arresting power is not only its sonic elegance but its philosophical depth and emotional resonance.
At its heart, The Burning Ghat incorporates Indian classical music—particularly rooted in the meditative ragas of the Hindustani tradition. The composition leans into the tonalities of the rudra veena, bansuri (bamboo flute), and a deeply resonant tanpura backdrop. The use of slow alaaps (non-rhythmic melodic improvisations) and the absence of percussion until the piece subtly unfolds reflects an unhurried, ritualistic pace. Sharma allows silence and space to be as expressive as sound—drawing from the raga tradition not only to build mood but to initiate a kind of inner cleansing.
The music flows like the Ganga itself: sometimes still, sometimes meandering, but always sacred. And this is no accident. Varanasi’s Manikarnika Ghat is one of Hinduism’s holiest cremation grounds, a place where death is not seen as an end but a release—a final purification before the soul departs for liberation (moksha). In incorporating the sonic vocabulary of mourning and transcendence, Sharma does something rare: he doesn’t perform the place; he becomes it.
Thematically, The Burning Ghat meditates on mortality, impermanence, and spiritual surrender. But it is not dark or funereal. Instead, it offers a kind of sonic reconciliation. The music does not try to escape death; it meets it head-on—with grace, humility, and an open heart. There is a tenderness in the phrasing, a deliberate attention to tonality that evokes not grief, but acceptance. In this sense, the piece reflects shanti—the peace that arrives not from avoidance but from profound understanding.
The healing quality of this track lies in its ability to carry the listener through the full arc of emotion: from disquiet to surrender, from sorrow to stillness. It doesn’t offer resolution so much as it offers presence. In a world that rushes past endings, The Burning Ghat teaches the listener to dwell in them—slowly, reverently, and with compassion.
This is what sets Sharma’s work apart. He is not merely composing a tribute to a sacred space. He is composing from within it. Every note, every breath of silence, is steeped in the philosophy of the space: that fire, though destructive, is purifying; that death, though feared, is liberating; that silence, though empty, is full of return.
Listeners across the world—many of whom may have never stepped foot in Varanasi—are responding not just to the sonic beauty but to the deeper emotional undercurrent that this music carries. In a time of widespread noise, disconnection, and fear of stillness, The Burning Ghat offers a pause. A breath. A soundscape where endings are no longer terrifying but sacred.
What this piece ultimately touches in the soul is the forgotten ability to sit with the inescapable truths of life—grief, loss, letting go—and find peace not despite them, but through them. It is a musical requiem, yes—but also a sonic rebirth.
In that flame on the ghat, Sharma gives us a mirror: of death, of peace, of what it means to surrender to the divine rhythm of things. And somehow, as we listen, something in us is soothed. Something burns. Something is released.
