The fire within hasn't completely died out. But Vilayat Khan is a mellowed man these days. And though he doesn't like pop music and abhors fusion forays—saying he doesn't crave for honours and awards—he is loath to name his celebrated bete noire (Ravi Shankar). Ditto for Amjad Ali Khan when he rubbishes efforts by "some musicians" at promoting their children and writing new ragas.

In Delhi for a concert nearly after a decade, Khan's acerbic self doesn't seem to have completely disappeared. The 73-year-old sitar virtuoso is shocked at the way Indian cultural traditions have been pushed to the backseat by pop culture, regularly dished out by TV channels.

Says he: "I'm traditional, not orthodox. I move with the times but don't get carried away by it." As for pop music, it is something "to be seen and not heard". When he channel-surfs to mtv, he "closes his eyes in shame". Avers he: "It is music for the eyes, not ears."

Mention fusion music and he erupts with the suggestion that we take a look at Sangeet Ratnakar (the Bible of Indian classical music), which gives the variety in Indian music and a list of instruments with strings, bows, etc., each with a 100 species in its repertoire. He asks: "Do we need more?"

The reclusive maestro is also firmly opposed to some musicians creating new ragas, pointing out that there are as many as 4,84,000 ragas in existence, many of which remain comparatively unexplored. Says he: "Today anyone can make ragas. There is no criterion. Two or three ragas are being combined to create an admixture, how can you call them new ragas?"

When the discussion veers around to Ravi Shankar's ability to mesmerise the audience, he says: "Two things I hate most. One, to crave and manipulate for honours and the other to degrade music by resorting to gimmicks. I often hear that this or that Indian musician has popularised our music in the West. This is nothing but propaganda. For over 50 years I've performed in the West, but I've never lowered my standard to suit the taste of uninitiated foreigners."

Last year, the maestro returned the title of Padma Vibhushan conferred upon him by the government on the plea that his contemporary—and arch-rival—Ravi Shankar had not only been given the award much before him, but had also been conferred with the greatest honour Bharat Ratna. He quibbles: "There's always a story of wrong time, wrong person and wrong award in this country. I began recording in 1936, while, as far as I know, his talim (training) began only in 1938." Then in an afterthought, he's characteristically caustic: "If there is any award for the sitar, I should get it first." The Ustad has the unique distinction of having refused the Padmashree too when it was given to him way back in the 1960s.

But angry outbursts have begun giving way to emotional one-liners: "One should not be harsh with people as it hurts." This seems to be reflecting on his music too. His performance at Delhi's packed Siri Fort auditorium was but a shadow of what the maestro used to be in his heyday. Not only had those fiery fingers become softer, the speed, the control, the intensity and the nimbleness was all gone. All that remained was the passion to be above all.

This ultimate rebel in the world of Indian music was born in Gouripur, now in Bangladesh, in 1928, into a family of outstanding musicians. Ustad Vilayat Hussain Khan traces his heritage back seven generations to Torab Khan, an acknowledged master of the surbahar and sitar. He began his training with his father, the celebrated sitar player Inayat Khan and grandfather Imdad Khan. After his father's death in 1938, he continued his training under his mother Bashiran Begum, maternal grandfather Bande Hussain Khan and maternal uncle Zinda Hussain Khan, all accomplished vocalists. He gave his first public performance at the age of six. At eight, he made his first recording. The late President Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed conferred upon him the title of 'Aftab-e-sitar' (the radiant star of sitar).

A perfectionist to the core, the maestro recounts the rigours of his riyaz before his teacher. The routine was to run the fingers across the instrument 500 times in each session. "If I went wrong on the 499th count, the entire process had to be repeated," he reminisces. The sessions were pretty stretched out. Says he: "The time of our riyaz was counted in terms of candles burning out. If a person was a four- to five-candle 'riyazi', he was considered great."

Trained extensively in vocal music, Khan's obsession with the khayal has not faded till date. Even today, during recitals, he breaks abruptly into vocals to explain subtle nuances.

Today, he has attained the commanding heights of what he loves most—music. His gayaki ang—an act of replicating the intricacies of the human voice on the sitar—distinguishes him among several other musicians in the country. And the world acknowledges it. His critics have spared nothing to shower praise on him. "His sitar wails," says one. "He strums the sitar like a seasoned lover," says another. His music is also being archived at Princeton University.

Khan's legacy also stays alive, thanks to a line of disciples and his two sons—Sujjat Khan, 40, already a name, and Hedayet, 25, who, according to the Ustad, is yet to mature.

And what does he want from life? "Malik kare main gaata bajata duniya se jaoon (God willing I want to die singing and playing the sitar) or perhaps listening to a great person, so that I transcend from one plane of tranquility to another.."