Taking legal action against pirates is a headache for artists

The words of Ilaiyaraaja, the legendary composer whose music has carried the soul of India for generations, are spoken with both sorrow and fatigue: “Taking legal action against pirates is a headache for artists like me.” In this simple yet profound lament, he reveals the burden placed upon the creator in a world that too often dishonors creation. For the artist, whose duty is to weave beauty out of silence, should not be dragged into endless struggles of law. Yet when pirates steal their labor, selling or distributing without consent, the artist is forced to become warrior and litigant, protector of his art rather than simply its maker.

At the heart of his words lies the clash between creation and exploitation. The artist gives from his spirit—hours of labor, sleepless nights, melodies pulled from the unseen realm of inspiration—and offers it to the world. But the pirate takes without honor, without acknowledgment, and in doing so, cheapens not only the work but the bond between creator and audience. Ilaiyaraaja’s lament is that to resist such theft, he must step into courts, hire lawyers, and endure long battles—yet all of this drains the energy that could have birthed new music.

History has shown this struggle time and again. In the 16th century, William Shakespeare himself fought against unauthorized printers who pirated his plays, selling them cheaply without his consent. Some of his works survive today only in “bad quartos,” hastily written transcripts stolen from the stage. Even the Bard, the greatest dramatist of the English tongue, was not spared the pain of piracy. His genius endured, but his livelihood and legacy were threatened by those who sought profit from his labor without respect. Ilaiyaraaja’s words echo the same eternal truth: the theft of art is as old as art itself.

The deeper tragedy is that such battles distort the very purpose of art. For music, poetry, and painting are meant to unite hearts, to lift spirits, to create harmony in the soul of a people. Yet when piracy spreads, it breeds mistrust, conflict, and bitterness. The artist feels betrayed by the very audience he sought to serve, while audiences, lured by convenience and cheapness, forget the sacred duty of honoring the labor of the creator. Thus, piracy is not only a crime of law but a wound in the moral fabric of culture.

Yet Ilaiyaraaja’s words also carry a heroic undertone. By naming the burden, he calls future generations to recognize the need for justice. Just as societies once rose to protect the rights of farmers to their land or inventors to their machines, so too must we rise to protect the rights of artists to their creations. For without such protection, the artist is diminished, and when artists are diminished, the soul of society itself begins to wither.

The lesson is clear: those who love art must also defend it. If you partake of music, pay the artist his due; if you share it, do so with honor; if you lead, create systems that protect creators from endless battles in courts. Just as one would not steal bread from a baker or grain from a farmer, so too must we not steal songs from the musician. For the bread feeds the body, but the song feeds the soul—and theft of either is a betrayal of life itself.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, heed Ilaiyaraaja’s lament: let your love for music be not only in your ears but in your actions. Support creators, honor their labor, and resist the easy path of piracy. For to protect the artist is to protect the wellspring of beauty itself. And when you do so, the artist will no longer need to fight battles in courts, but can return to his true calling: to give you songs that heal, inspire, and endure beyond the boundaries of time.