music

Handcrafted

When effort surpasses reality, the picture isn’t one of suffering—it’s one of progress.

Look closely, and life isn’t just about enduring; it’s about adapting, creating, pushing forward. The human spirit isn’t wired for defeat—it is built to survive and overcome.

Seen this way, suffering takes a backseat to resilience, and struggle reveals itself as transformation.

In markets, “handcrafted” is a premium label, reserved for the unique and the carefully made. But for millions, handcrafting life is not a choice—it’s everyday survival.

Effort, persistence, and the refusal to give in—that’s the real handmade story.

Music for the Joy of It

You make music for the sake of music. Not for applause, not for approval, but for the joy of creating something beautiful. The artist who plays for the joy of performing brings a different spirit to the craft.

This music is free. It flows without restraint, carrying its tune far beyond the boundaries of an audience. It isn’t weighed down by expectations or shaped by what others want to hear. Instead, it’s a pure expression—spontaneous and full of life.

When applause comes, it’s welcome. But it doesn’t define the performance. It isn’t the point. The artist’s joy lies in the act of creation, the connection with the moment, and the resonance of every note.

Music made this way doesn’t just touch the ears; it touches the soul. It’s a reminder that the most authentic creations are born not from the need to please but from the desire to express. And that is what makes it linger, long after the last note has been played.

He appeared with a tap on my shoulder. Amidst all the jostle that the crowd indulged in, he appeared calm. The surprise of the riot of colour on his face caught my eye.

He smiled and showed me the vessel he held.  Ah money, I thought. It paints the town red. In this case, a deep devilish pink and adorned with trinkets in their glory.

The crowd continued to swirl and sweat in the middle of Madurai’s Chithirai Festival. I pulled out the wallet with great care and thrust a few notes into his vessel. It was his turn to be surprised.

Perhaps it was the quantum of money.
Perhaps it was the fact that I gave at all. Maybe it was the minor gymnastics I had to perform to pull out the wallet and extract a few notes.

His surprise gave way to a smile and lead to a pat on my head with a peacock feather that he seemed to pull out from nowhere.

Could he smile for a picture, I ask?
He stands, smiles and then in a minute dances to a new tune and melts into the crowd.

Long after he is gone, the azure blue stays with me.  Have you wondered if you wear a paint to earn a living?
His devilish pink, trinket trodden face, with that warm smile did that to me.
(at Madurai, India)

You cant miss the beats from miles away. A lot of it is happening in the immediate vicinity. But the bridge to the rest of it happens in memory.

Folklore adorns the main street as rural Madurai dances in ever so expansive ways. Bare chested with bells and whistles all over. Both in the adornments and in the ease of movement.

The Chithirai festival is here. There is a festivity in the air. There is dance & music. Not the choreographed staple that makes its staple on TV, but a rather authentic raw form. The steps don’t match all the time and the beats don’t rhyme.

But there is joy in the air. A gay abandon if you will. Of piety. Of culture and a spontaneous overflowing of happy energy. A new warp and weft to an old tradition.

It is such a treat to the senses. For it gives you a sense of culture and roots. It soothes the soul and renders a renewal of sorts. In each step and beat, a renewal to old memories and fresh dreams.

Some pictures evoke strong memories. There was a time when the house used to be filled with the sound of the anklet. The little miss used to be excited about it all.

I dont even know where the anklet is these days. But this picture took me back in time. To the sights, sounds and air of yesterday.

Some pictures do that all the time.

These anklets were our GPS device of sort. To notify where she was and when she was upto mischief. It kept our ears sharp and trained to take note of silence. The silence announcing mischief!

Most importantly, it triggers a thought or two about dreams and aspirations from a different time.

The instrument is called the ‘hang’. Came alive in the year 2000. And production gas stopped now.

But what fundamental sounds. Real cool stuff! Fantastic discovery on the streets of Amsterdam #Hang #Amsterdam #Music #MusicalInstruments

There is no end to discovery that #travel brings. Here is an instrument called the HANG the sounds of which I heard for the first time yesterday! By the streetside as an artist wielded it at ease with his cycle providing the backdrop. The #Hang is an instrument that came into being in the year 2000. Shaped like an UFO, it offers an awesome range of sound and music!
I dug more into Wikipedia only to find that no more of the Hang will be produced for its creators are focusing on a new instrument called Gulag! #amsterdam #amsterdamcity #Discovery #music #hang #streetmusic

Two women and their music

A wedding  holds unequivocal attention. Always. For, it means a new set of promises. A new beginning in togetherness, love, joy and such else.

I sit in one such wedding today.

Before proceeding any further, I must make a confession of sorts: Every time I am at a wedding, for some reason there are tears in my eyes.

Its a curious kind of emotion tinged with joy, resulting in the odd tear to pop up first and then opening the flood gates. There have been occasions where random strangers seated in the next chair would shuffle their feet, slowly lean away and do everything possible to make it known to the everyone in the vicinity and passing flies on the wall, that we were seated next to each other by quirk of fate and nothing else.

Sometime back, me and missus were invited to a wedding. The groom was a friend. The bride was an acquaintance. They were really nice people. We wished well for them. As the wedding vows were exchanged, tears commenced their solemn roll down my cheek.
The missus, visibly embarrassed, left to herself, would have gone incognito. She did pass a few boxes of tissues with delectably discreteness. ‘Stop it’, she said in a hushed tone, ‘before someone thinks you had an affair with the bride and still long for her.’

That thought stopped those damn tears on their tracks. Since then, I have tried to adorn a monk like poise wearing a visage of intensely meditative calm, at weddings. The tears somehow contained just before they broke free of the eyelash. Or thereof.

Those memories run amuck as I sit in this wedding.

The bride is almost family. The young lady, who my mind still places as the school kid from next door, is getting married today. All the interspersed years between her being a school kid to now stand in reams of gleaming Kanjeevaram she is draped in. I realise that ‘time is fleeting’ is a saying that is greatly understated.

The wedding is at Tirunelveli. Down in the deep South. The quaint place and all the simple conversations hold every inch of my mind.

As the music wafts in, the aroma from a surfeit of jasmine flowers on many several heads are only suitably contrasted by the bright jewelry on many necks. The atmosphere of a Tamil wedding in Tamil Nadu, with food served on leaf, is barely settling down with filter kaapi beginning to course the veins, when I slowly become aware of the tears are brimming at the corner of my eye. Again.

I let them be. But this time, I realise that it is the music that is playing its part. There are two women playing the nadaswaram. I keep looking at them and soak in every nod of their head, tap of their feet and the wafting tune from the instrument. They have poise and panache, suitably matched with a certain playful practice to their craft.

They seemed to be in the flow. It shows on them. And on my eyes too. These were two women with many years behind them. They must have taken to music a long time ago. They are devoid of the slickness that city dwelling offers and retain a familiar rough edge to the smooth music.

They finish.

As they are packing up, I walk upto them and tell them that their performance was awesome. They fold their palms in unison and say ‘thank you’. Head bowed. I linger.  I ask them where they are from. ‘Valliyur‘ they say. A small picturesque town that is a distance away. Some more conversation reveals that they have a pretty busy calendar.  They have been playing the nadaswaram since they were eight years old.

I have a lot more questions to ask. How did they start? How do they survive in a man’s world, in a small town? How many hours do they practice and so on. But they don’t have time for me, as they reach for the filter kaapis from the brass cups.

There is something in them that moves me. My eyes brim again with precocious tears. There is something in these women that move me beyond words. The tears lurk and then fall over the brim.

Then I think of a poem a colleague shared.

I should be content
to look at a mountain
for what it is
and not a comment on my life
David Ignation

I think of these women and their music.  Somethings become clear.  Ah, poetry. Somethings remain muddled. Maybe thats were the music is.