Why should we exert any effort beyond merely using our ears when listening to music? Why must we engage our minds at all? The answer lies in the evolution of taste and sensibility. As mentioned earlier, we are born with only a handful of primitive desires. At that level, entertainment requires no effort. But the moment you wish to move from the ordinary to the extraordinary, your mind must undergo a certain kind of training.
Take food as an example. We find immense pleasure in a plate of spicy Bengali kosha mangsho or the sharp aroma of shorshe ilish. The mere mention of these dishes can make our senses stir with anticipation. Why does this happen? Because, as Bengalis, our sense of smell and taste have been familiar with these flavours since childhood. Yet place the same menu before a Westerner and they might wrinkle their nose and say, “Yuck.” The complex chemistry of those spices is unfamiliar to their palate, and they may not possess the digestive resilience to tolerate such intensity. What feels unpleasant or even painful to them may be a source of deep satisfaction for you. This difference is created by experience.
Consider another example. The first time you tasted stinky tofu, the pungent smell might have made you recoil in disgust. You might even have felt nauseated. Yet curiosity or the search for new flavours might have led you to try it again. Someone who cannot tolerate it may dismiss it as nothing more than rotten food. But a person who manages to grasp its true flavour may eventually fall in love with it. Today, that person might happily visit a restaurant with their family just to enjoy that same tofu, discovering beneath the terrifying smell a remarkable umami taste. Foods like blue cheese, durian, caviar, truffles, or natto belong to the same family—delicacies that rarely offer instant delight on the first bite. To appreciate their deeper character, one must taste them repeatedly and learn the hidden chemistry within them. This gradual cultivation of taste is known as an acquired taste.
The same principle applies to the visual arts. When a novice viewer first sees Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night, Pablo Picasso’s Guernica, or Claude Monet’s Water Lilies series, they may perceive little more than colours and abstract lines scattered across a canvas. Yet a true art connoisseur might spend countless sleepless nights analysing the subtle craftsmanship embedded in these paintings. Some may even spend years saving money simply to stand before these masterpieces once in their lifetime. Why? Because they know that beneath those seemingly simple layers of paint lie epic struggles of the artist’s life, or profound expressions of cosmic melancholy. The ability to see these deeper meanings is not innate—it is acquired through years of studying the grammar and history of art.
The same can be said of sculpture. To the untrained eye, Michelangelo’s David, Auguste Rodin’s The Thinker, or Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa might appear to be nothing more than pieces of carved stone. But to those who understand the essence of classical sculpture, seeing these works in person can feel like the crowning achievement of a lifetime. When they observe the delicate tension of human muscles emerging from rigid marble folds, or sense the pulsation of veins carved into stone, they transcend the ordinary world. This ability to see is not something nature grants us automatically; it must be cultivated through relentless effort, attention, and devotion.
Classical music is no different. It is one of those refined experiences that, like other acquired tastes, carries a certain aristocratic depth. It is not merely something to hear with the ears; it is something to experience almost meditatively. To enter its inner world requires a small investment of effort, patience, and time at the beginning. At first it may seem monotonous. But once its magic touches your nerves, the pleasure begins to grow exponentially.
Only then will you understand why the extra effort was necessary. Once you reach that elevated plane of taste, ordinary catchy songs will no longer satisfy the hunger of your soul. Instead, you will become a connoisseur of melody, someone who recognises the extraordinary hidden beneath the ordinary. Remember, cheap pleasure requires no labour. But to experience artistic joy, one must shape oneself to be worthy of the art.
The reasons why I myself began listening to classical music are described in Asurer Surlokjatra.
If you feel you have found your answer, let us return to the main article: “Asurer Surlokjatra (Index)”