— Narasimhan Vijayaraghavan
From the ethereal banks of a timeless Kaveri, the Trinity looks down upon the neon-lit sprawl of the modern Sabha.
Tyagaraja, whose life-breath was a rhythmic prayer to Rama, stands with his tambura stilled in shock. Beside him, Muthuswamy Dikshitar, the architect of majestic sound-temples, gazes at the hollowed halls, while Syama Sastri, the master of intricate grace, sighs into the cosmic void.
“Where is the congregation of the soul?” Tyagaraja whispers, his voice trembling. “We offered these kirtanas as ladders to the infinite, not as background noise for a digital age. I see our verses sung with surgical precision, yet the chairs are but wooden ghosts. Has the rasika found a new god in the glowing screen?”
Dikshitar watches a young virtuoso singing to a mere dozen souls—hardly twice the number of performers on stage. “Our nectar is now a viral commodity,” he murmurs. “They ‘approve’ of our ragas from the din of a pub or the comfort of a couch, drowning out the sacred madhyamam with the clink of glass. Is the sanctity of the Sannidhi truly traded for the convenience of the app?”
Syama Sastri leans forward in anguish. “The youth possess the skill but lack the presence. They seek the ‘like’ but forget the ananda of a shared breath.
” Together, they watch the dark December clouds, wondering if their immortality is being preserved in a digital tomb—vast, accessible, and heartbreakingly cold.
