People forget themselves in my music. It's amazing.

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving the streets of Chennai slick and silver, reflecting the amber glow of streetlights like melted stars. Through an open studio window, a slow raga drifted into the night — a melody so gentle, it seemed to erase the very idea of hurry.

Inside, the room was a quiet sanctuary of sound — walls lined with reeds, veena strings, tamburas, and an old upright piano that carried the scars of time. The air shimmered with humidity, tape hiss, and something older than both — silence, alive and listening.

At the heart of this stillness sat Jack, turning a small reel of tape in his hand. Across from him, Jeeny stood near the window, her hair damp, her eyes reflecting the city’s light. She looked like she was half in the room, half in the melody that still hung between them.

Jeeny: “Ilaiyaraaja once said, ‘People forget themselves in my music. It’s amazing.’”

Jack: “Forget themselves… that’s an interesting way to describe success.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than success. It’s transcendence. He doesn’t mean they lose who they are — he means they remember what it’s like to not be burdened by themselves.”

Jack: “You make it sound like music’s a kind of amnesia.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The holy kind — the kind that frees you from your name, your story, your worries. Just for a few notes.”

Host: The ceiling fan turned lazily, scattering the sound of rainwater dripping from the roof. The faint hum of the city outside mingled with the distant cry of an auto rickshaw horn — and yet, inside, the melody played on, unbothered, eternal.

Jack: “You think that’s possible? To forget yourself? Even for a moment?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It happens in small ways. When you laugh without thinking, when you love without defense, when you listen to music so deeply that you stop existing as an observer.”

Jack: “And Ilaiyaraaja makes people feel that?”

Jeeny: “He made entire nations feel that. You don’t just listen to his compositions — you dissolve into them. He built bridges between the divine and the daily.”

Jack: “Big words. You talk about him like he’s some kind of saint.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he is — a saint of sound. Think about it: thousands of songs, hundreds of films, every genre from symphonic to folk. But it’s not just mastery. It’s empathy. His music doesn’t entertain; it understands.”

Host: A faint crackle came from the tape player as Jack pressed play. A few notes spilled out — strings, flute, faint tabla — something soft, something unmistakably Ilaiyaraaja.

The room filled with color without color, the kind of sound that lifts emotion out of language. Jack closed his eyes for a second, listening.

Jack: “It’s strange. I don’t even know the words, but it’s… peaceful. Like the sound knows me.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what he means — people forget themselves. Because for a moment, the music remembers them better than they ever could.”

Jack: “You think that’s why we chase art? Because we want to vanish?”

Jeeny: “No, because we want to belong — to something larger. For him, music isn’t escape. It’s return.”

Host: The wind stirred through the open window, the curtains fluttering, the smell of jasmine and rain drifting in. Jeeny walked closer, her voice low, soft, reverent.

Jeeny: “When I was a child, my mother used to play Ilaiyaraaja songs every morning. I didn’t understand them, but they felt like sunlight. I remember sitting by the window, watching dust float in the light, and thinking — this must be what heaven sounds like.”

Jack: “You think he knew what he was creating?”

Jeeny: “No true artist knows. They feel it. They become the channel. He once said he doesn’t compose — the music comes through him. That’s what forgetting yourself really means, Jack — not losing, but becoming a vessel.”

Jack: “A vessel for what?”

Jeeny: “For beauty. For grace. For what’s beyond the mind’s reach.”

Host: The song shifted — a swell of strings, a sudden chord progression that made the air tremble. Jack looked up, his eyes wide, his face caught in that in-between place where awe meets recognition.

Jack: “You’re right. It feels like it’s not written — like it’s remembering itself.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because great music doesn’t start with sound — it starts with silence. Ilaiyaraaja composes from silence, not over it.”

Jack: “And that’s why people lose themselves in it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because silence is the part of us we’ve forgotten how to live in.”

Host: The music faded, leaving a silence that wasn’t empty — it vibrated. You could almost hear the echo of emotion that lingered after the last note.

Jack: “You ever think that’s what artists want most — to be forgotten? Not their work, but themselves?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To disappear into what they create. To become the feeling they give others.”

Jack: “Then that’s not fame. That’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why he’s timeless.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the tape player, its small reels still turning, the magnetic strip glinting faintly in the lamplight.

Jack: “You know, I envy that — creating something that lets others escape themselves. Words can’t always do that. They make people think. But music makes people forget thinking.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Your words can too — when they stop explaining and start listening.”

Jack: “Listening to what?”

Jeeny: “To what the silence is saying back.”

Host: The rain began again, soft this time, a whisper on the windowpane. The city’s heartbeat outside matched the rhythm of the song still echoing in their minds.

Jeeny walked to the door, pausing, looking back at him with a faint smile.

Jeeny: “People forget themselves in his music because he never put himself first in it. That’s the secret.”

Jack: “You think that’s possible for all of us?”

Jeeny: “If we learn to create from love, not ego — yes.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the window glowing with faint blue light. The sound of the rain and the city blended, becoming one endless song.

In that tender, infinite quiet, Ilaiyaraaja’s words seemed to hum through the night like a benediction:

That the truest music doesn’t just make you listen —
it makes you forget who you are,
so that, for one breathless moment,
you can remember what it means to be alive.