His Music Is A Sanctuary

ILAIYARAAJA ubiquitous. Anyone raised in any land that breathes the winds of Tamil music knows that. His melodies are more than just songs; they are lifelong companions, shape-shifting with the listener's needs—a father's wisdom, a teacher's lesson, a friend's warmth, a child's wonder.

- SUDHIR SRINIVASAN

His music is a sanctuary where you purge your sins, cleanse your soul, stand before yourself—stripped of pretence—question your biases, and unlearn patterns forged by society.

Here is Ilaiyaraaja. At 14, he was immersed in music, travelling across South India with his brother. He might not have thought of it that way, but his 'work' had already begun. And yet, fast-forward past the decades of revolutionising Tamil music, past the 1,000 films, 7,000 songs, and immeasurable cultural, philosophical, and political imprints—cut to 2025, and he is now 81.

If this were a feature film, a screenwriter would do what screenwriters do: frame him in sepia tones, retired, perhaps tending to a garden like Vito Corleone, basking in a peaceful life after music, after work.

The old genius at rest, the yesteryear legend who has supposedly moved on—for is that not how it's supposed to be?

Ilaiyaraaja has always defied templates: expectation, structure, and label. He questions the structure that dictates when a man should stop and when an artist should fade into memory.