The idea of music is to liberate the listener and lead him to a

Host:
The night had the stillness of reverence. The studio lights were dimmed, replaced by the soft pulse of amber LEDs on mixing consoles and the slow whirl of a ceiling fan. The air smelled faintly of wood, electricity, and memory — the scent of creation in its quietest form.

In the center of the room sat a grand piano, its lid raised, its surface catching reflections of tiny lights like stars scattered across water. Jack sat at the keys, his grey eyes half-lost in the soft shadows, his fingers tracing idle chords that hung in the air like questions left unanswered.

Across from him, Jeeny stood near a rack of old vinyls, her brown eyes glowing with thought, her expression soft — the kind that knows both sound and silence intimately. She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, her heartbeat syncing unconsciously with the slow rhythm of the room.

The faint hum of sound filled the space — notes half-formed, melodies searching for their meaning. And through that hum, A. R. Rahman’s words rose like prayer, delicate and transcendent, as if whispered by the air itself:

"The idea of music is to liberate the listener and lead him to a frame where he feels he is elevated."

Jeeny:
(softly)
“Liberate.” That’s the word that catches me every time.

Jack:
(nods, still playing a single lingering note)
Yeah. Not entertain. Not impress. Liberate.

Jeeny:
That’s what makes it divine, isn’t it? The way music doesn’t just enter your ears — it enters your soul and rearranges the furniture.

Jack:
(smiles faintly)
You make it sound like therapy.

Jeeny:
It is. But not the kind that heals you — the kind that frees you.

Jack:
From what?

Jeeny:
From yourself. From the noise inside your head. From the stories that won’t stop telling themselves.

Jack:
(pauses)
Yeah. Music doesn’t fix you; it unlocks you.

Host:
The note he’d been holding faded into stillness, leaving only the faint echo of strings and the low hum of air-conditioning. It was the kind of silence that followed revelation, not absence — full, heavy, alive.

Jeeny:
You ever notice how the best music feels like it’s taking you somewhere? Like a journey — but not through space. Through you.

Jack:
(smiling)
Yeah. Every chord’s a door. Every rhythm’s a heartbeat you forgot belonged to you.

Jeeny:
And when it’s done right, you come out the other side lighter.

Jack:
Or heavier — but in a way that makes sense now.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Liberation doesn’t always mean joy. Sometimes it’s release through tears.

Jack:
A kind of surrender.

Jeeny:
Yes. Because elevation isn’t about rising above your pain — it’s about seeing it from higher ground.

Host:
The piano responded to his touch again — a series of chords, low and steady. The sound bloomed and faded, leaving ripples in the room like a stone dropped in water. Jeeny closed her eyes, and for a moment, there was only music — the language that requires no translation.

Jack:
You think Rahman meant that? Not just the listener’s elevation — but the composer’s too?

Jeeny:
(softly)
Of course. Music frees the one who makes it just as much as the one who hears it. It’s communion.

Jack:
So creation isn’t control. It’s release.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Every note is an offering — not to be owned, but to be shared.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Then the composer’s not the master. He’s the vessel.

Jeeny:
(nods)
And when he’s truly listening, the music writes him.

Host:
The light from the console flickered across their faces — a rhythm of gold and shadow. The air in the studio seemed to breathe with them now, charged with invisible harmony. Outside, the city glowed in quiet distance, unaware of the small act of divinity unfolding in one dimly lit room.

Jeeny:
You ever play something and feel it lift you? Like it isn’t coming from you, but through you?

Jack:
(quietly)
All the time. It’s the only reason I keep playing. Those moments — they’re rare, but when they come…

Jeeny:
It’s like touching God.

Jack:
Or at least understanding why He made sound before words.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
“Let there be music.”

Jack:
Exactly. Before meaning, there was vibration.

Jeeny:
And vibration became voice. Voice became emotion. Emotion became music.

Jack:
And music became freedom.

Host:
The notes flowed from his fingers now, gentle, fluid — a melody that seemed to find its way rather than be composed. Jeeny watched, her breath slowing, the space between them filled not with words but with something purer: understanding.

Jeeny:
It’s funny. We spend our whole lives trying to make sense of ourselves. Then one song — one melody — and suddenly, we don’t need sense anymore. We just are.

Jack:
That’s liberation.

Jeeny:
(nods slowly)
That’s elevation.

Jack:
You think it’s possible to live like that — to stay in that state all the time?

Jeeny:
(smiles faintly)
Maybe that’s what enlightenment is — staying in tune when the world keeps changing key.

Jack:
(chuckles softly)
Then most of us are out of tune ninety percent of the time.

Jeeny:
And that’s why we need the music — to tune us back to ourselves.

Host:
The rain began outside, gentle and even, its rhythm falling perfectly in time with the piano. Jack’s melody wove itself into the sound of the world, no longer competing, but conversing.

Jeeny:
When he says “liberate the listener,” I don’t think he just means make them feel good. I think he means make them remember who they are.

Jack:
(smiles faintly)
Yeah. Music as mirror.

Jeeny:
Exactly. The right song doesn’t teach you something new — it reminds you of something ancient.

Jack:
That you were always more than your fears.

Jeeny:
More than your failures.

Jack:
More than your name, even.

Jeeny:
And that elevation isn’t a place — it’s a state of being.

Host:
The final note lingered — long, luminous, perfect. Then silence followed, vast and full. For a moment, even the rain seemed to hold its breath. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered in the dim light, and Jack’s hands fell still, resting lightly on the keys, palms open — not in defeat, but in peace.

Host:
And in that sacred stillness, A. R. Rahman’s words echoed — no longer just a definition of art, but a philosophy of life itself:

That music is not entertainment,
but liberation —
a bridge from noise to understanding,
from chaos to clarity,
from the cage of self to the expanse of spirit.

That its purpose is not applause,
but ascent —
to carry the listener to a space beyond words,
where the soul remembers its own infinite rhythm.

And that in the sound between sounds,
in the silence that follows,
we find not escape,
but arrival.

The piano gleamed softly in the low light.
The rain turned to mist.
And as Jack and Jeeny stood together,
eyes lifted, hearts still echoing with melody,
it was clear —

They were no longer merely listening to music.
They were inside it.
Free.
Elevated.