I think music, in my opinion, is not about motivation in the way

The words of A. R. Rahman, the master of melody, resound like a gentle hymn: “I think music, in my opinion, is not about motivation in the way it’s—not a running base. It’s art. And my whole philosophy of music is different. It’s almost like cooking and serving to people, seeing them smile and enjoying the food, really.” At once, he lifts us beyond the shallow idea of sound as mere fuel for motion, and brings us to the sacred vision of music as nourishment, as communion, as a banquet of the soul.

To see music as a mere tool of motivation—as rhythm to run to, as a whip for speed—is to diminish its ancient power. For from the dawn of humanity, music has not been a servant of pace, but a mirror of spirit. The flute did not guide the runner, but the shepherd at twilight. The drum did not drive the soldier alone, but called the tribe together as one. Rahman, in his wisdom, refuses to chain music to mere movement, for he understands it to be a living art, a creation that stirs hearts, binds communities, and awakens visions greater than bodily strength.

His vision likens music to cooking and serving, and in this, he echoes the wisdom of all cultures. For what is a song but a recipe of tones, blended with care, spiced with silence, seasoned with emotion, and then laid before others to taste? And just as the host finds joy not in eating alone but in watching the guest’s smile, so too does the musician live not for his own applause, but for the nourishment of the listener’s heart. The song becomes a feast, the stage becomes a table, and the audience a family gathered in joy.

History itself testifies to this truth. Consider the tale of Johann Sebastian Bach, who wrote not for fame or riches but for the service of his congregation. His cantatas were food for weary spirits, each note prepared like bread for the hungry. Though kings and nobles later honored his genius, it was first the simple worshippers who, like Rahman’s smiling guests, were fed by the music he served. Bach’s legacy, like Rahman’s philosophy, teaches us that true greatness in art is not self-indulgence, but generosity.

Rahman also speaks to the power of humility. In comparing himself not to a warrior, not to a ruler, but to a cook, he shows that the artist is a servant, not a master. The musician kneads his melodies, stirs his harmonies, and sets them before the people with the hope that they may taste joy, comfort, or healing. And when he sees their smiles, he knows his work is complete. This is the humility of the true creator: to labor not for self, but for others.

The lesson, then, is profound. If you are a maker of any kind—whether of words, of deeds, of music, of food—do not think first of what glory you will gain, but of how your creation will nourish others. Ask yourself: will it bring smiles? Will it heal? Will it comfort? Will it strengthen? For in giving of yourself, you become more than a craftsman; you become a servant of humanity, and in serving, you rise higher than kings.

Therefore, let us act upon this teaching. Let every song you sing, every word you write, every work you labor upon be prepared as if for a feast. Do not hoard your gifts, but serve them, with care and intention, to those around you. And when you see the light of joy in another’s eyes, remember Rahman’s words: that the truest purpose of art is not possession, not power, but sharing. Thus shall your life, like his music, become both a banquet and a blessing.