— Narasimhan Vijayaraghavan
It is that time of the year again. The Magical Margazhi Music Season has descended upon Chennai, a city whose December air is thick with raga, rhythm, and reverence. In 2017, UNESCO formally acknowledged what rasikas long knew in their hearts, by admitting Chennai into its Creative Cities Network as a City of Music. This badge of honour sparkles anew each December, as sabhas compete with one another in a symphonic display of tradition, talent, and tantalizing tiffin.
Yet, 2025 marks something of a renaissance. Sabhas, those chandeliered sanctums of classical culture, have gone unabashedly digital. The venerable Music Academy, the Lords of Carnatic cricket, now in its 99th year, has opened its portals not to an overnight serpentine queue of rasikas with photo IDs in hand, but to the ethereal click of the online cart. The once-sacrosanct ritual of waiting from the wee hours for the December 2nd bonanza of season tickets has vanished—this Margazhi, not a single physical queue sullies the Academy gates. Technology has pranced in, wielding both convenience and controversy.
But if commerce can evolve, can the concerts themselves remain immune? For decades, the auditorium has been a temple, and the act of physical presence a pilgrimage. Performers swear their music takes flight when eyes meet eyes and applause crackles through the hall like celestial thunder. A sabha connoisseur once put the matter less delicately: “Attendance is divine. And besides, who will replace the holy trinity of Kasi Halwa, Rava Dosa, and filter coffee?” It has long been the unspoken credo that Carnatic music must be experienced with stomach and soul alike.
Yet, this romantic proclamation begs a sobering question: who, truly, fills the seats today? Walk into any major hall and the demographic truth reveals itself—silver hair, slow gait, eyes sparkling with undiminished ardour. These are the rasikas who built Margazhi brick by brick, whose devotion sustained the art through decades of cultural churn. Many of them now find themselves unable to journey into the city’s labyrinth of traffic, logistics, and late-night concerts. There exist countless others, dispersed across India and the world, who ache to be part of this seasonal joy but cannot.
Why must participation be limited by mobility? Why confine Margazhi within walls when it can flow like the Cauvery into waiting homes?
Live streaming—at a reasonable fee—offers a new front-row experience, the best of acoustics without the scramble for seats. Families may gather, young ears may be initiated, and the diaspora may feel the warmth of Chennai’s musical embrace across oceans and time zones. Far from cannibalizing physical attendance, a thriving virtual audience could enlarge revenues and democratize access. And even where tickets sell out on paper, the empty chairs that often dot auditoriums would no longer signify opportunity lost. They would be portals to a global rasika community.
As for the gastronomic ritual so fiercely guarded—fear not. The era of quick commerce ensures that Kasi Halwa and its delectable allies can reach the home audience with almost the same punctuality as an alapana.
Chennai’s Margazhi Season has always been a dialogue between heritage and reinvention. The sabhas must now recognize that the elder rasikas, who once waited in queues under winter skies, deserve to enjoy the art they nurtured from the gentle comfort of home, without guilt and without longing. The music will soar, the devotion will remain undiminished, and perhaps a new kind of divinity will arise—where the living room becomes the kutcheri hall, and every household a connoisseur’s haven.
Margazhi is too magical to be gated. Let it stream, and let the world listen.
