While the concert is instant communication with the audience

Host: The studio was wrapped in a dim amber glow, the kind that makes shadows stretch like forgotten memories. A faint buzz of the mixing board filled the silence, broken only by the soft hum of a tuning guitar. Through the half-open blinds, the city’s night pulsed — cars, neon, and the distant echo of music from some unseen bar.

Jack sat slouched in a leather chair, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. His grey eyes, tired but sharp, stared at the soundboard as if waiting for it to confess something. Jeeny, barefoot, her long black hair tied loosely, stood by the piano — a sheet of scribbled notes in her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, though her voice, when it came, was calm, certain, warm.

Host: The air was thick with anticipation — that electric, invisible pressure that exists right before creation, when the world is silent but full of everything.

Jeeny: “Shankar Mahadevan once said — ‘While the concert is instant communication with the audience, composing is a creative process where a song comes up out of nowhere and then transmits happiness to many, translates into money, fame, or whatever.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yeah, I’ve heard that one. He makes it sound mystical — like songs just drop out of the sky. I don’t buy it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be surprised by beauty.”

Jack: “Beauty doesn’t surprise me anymore. It’s engineered. You know how this works — structure, chord progressions, emotional triggers. Music’s a formula, Jeeny. You solve it, it works. You mess it up, it dies.”

Jeeny: “You really think that? That art is an equation?”

Jack: “It’s math that makes people cry. Rhythm is numbers. Melody is proportion. Harmony is balance. You put it together right, and you get emotion. That’s science, not magic.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe magic is just science that still remembers to feel.”

Host: The rain began outside, gentle and rhythmical, a perfect metronome for their argument. The red light above the door blinked softly, as though marking each pulse of tension between them.

Jack turned toward the window, smoke curling from his cigarette, his face half in shadow.

Jack: “You want to believe in something divine about it. I get that. But I’ve seen too many nights where nothing comes — no inspiration, no spark, just empty noise. Then the deadline hits, the client calls, and you turn that emptiness into a song. That’s not divine, that’s survival.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see, Jack? Even in that emptiness, something moves. A sound, a word, a rhythm — it’s born from nothing and becomes something that lives in someone else’s chest. That’s not survival. That’s creation.”

Jack: “Creation or projection? People hear what they need to hear. We’re just mirrors.”

Jeeny: “No, we’re vessels. Mirrors only reflect. We transmit.”

Host: The word hung in the air — transmit — like a single, shimmering note that refused to fade. Jack flicked ash into an empty coffee cup, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “You make it sound holy. But composing’s just another trade. Some of us bleed for it, sure, but at the end of the day, it’s still about getting paid. Shankar even said it — ‘translates into money, fame, or whatever.’ That’s the truth. You sell what you make. Otherwise, you’re just talking to yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s the lowest version of truth, Jack. He didn’t mean the money part was the purpose — he meant it’s the byproduct. The real gift is that something comes from nowhere and travels into someone’s heart. Tell me — have you ever written something that made someone cry?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Once.”

Jeeny: “And didn’t it feel like something larger than you touched you for a moment?”

Jack: (quietly) “It felt like pain that finally had a melody.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the miracle. Pain becoming music, silence becoming sound, loneliness becoming communion. That’s what he meant — the song comes up out of nowhere.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not from uncertainty, but from emotion pressing too close to the surface. The piano behind her reflected the soft studio light, its black and white keys glistening like old bones of memory.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette forgotten in the ashtray.

Jack: “You ever notice how composers always talk like prophets? ‘The song comes from nowhere,’ ‘the muse visited me.’ Maybe they just don’t want to admit it’s all repetition. There’s nothing new under the sun — just new arrangements.”

Jeeny: “And yet those arrangements still make hearts beat faster. Isn’t that new enough? Look at Beethoven — he was deaf, Jack. Deaf! And he still heard symphonies in his mind. Where did that come from if not from somewhere beyond the self?”

Jack: “Beyond the self, or buried deep within it. Maybe there’s no muse. Maybe we’re just echoes of everything we’ve ever heard, repeating it until someone mistakes it for something new.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe life itself is repetition, and art is how we make it bearable.”

Host: A long silence fell, heavy but not hostile. The rain softened, becoming the faintest whisper against the glass. In that silence, the hum of the soundboard seemed louder — steady, alive, like the quiet breath of the universe itself.

Jeeny walked to the piano and pressed a single key. The sound was soft, tentative. Then another. Then a third. The notes fell into each other, fragile but complete.

Jack watched her — not interrupting, not analyzing, just listening.

Jeeny: “Do you hear that? It’s not math. It’s not formula. It’s something being born. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t write it. It came — like breath.”

Jack: “It’s simple.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But it’s alive.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He leaned back, letting the melody settle over him like warm rain. For the first time, the cynicism in his expression cracked, revealing something unguarded — nostalgia, maybe. Or recognition.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we still chase it, after all these years? Even when it hurts, when it pays nothing, when it feels pointless?”

Jeeny: “Because deep down, we know music is the only thing that makes chaos beautiful.”

Jack: “Or maybe because it’s the only thing that makes us feel less alone.”

Jeeny: “Same thing.”

Host: The piano fell silent, leaving only the quiet hum of electricity. Outside, the rain stopped completely, and the reflection of the city lights returned to the wet pavement — shimmering, fractured, alive.

Jack stood and walked to the window. He looked out at the skyline, where antennas blinked red against the darkness — signals sent into the void.

Jack: “So, the concert… that’s the instant communication, right? The feedback loop — sound, applause, emotion. That’s real.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the world responding to you. But composing — that’s you responding to the world.”

Jack: (softly) “And what if the world doesn’t answer?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep composing. Because creation isn’t a conversation — it’s an offering.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice filled the room, calm and luminous, like the last note of a song that lingers even after the sound has gone. Jack turned back, eyes meeting hers, a quiet realization dawning in their shared silence.

Jack: “Maybe Mahadevan was right. Maybe songs don’t come from us at all. Maybe they just pass through.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’re not the source, Jack. We’re the channel.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed, the world outside reduced to silhouettes and shimmer. Jack reached for his guitar and strummed a single chord — hesitant at first, then steady. Jeeny joined in, her voice humming a tune without words, something raw and unfinished, but achingly human.

For a brief, unmeasured moment, they weren’t debating anymore. They were transmitting — to no one, to everyone, to the night itself.

And in that fragile, fleeting union between logic and feeling, between sound and silence, the truth of Mahadevan’s words unfolded —

That music, like freedom, like love, begins in nowhere,
but somehow finds its way to everywhere.

Host: The song faded, the light stilled, and the world held its breath —
as if listening to what could not be seen,
only felt.