As a schoolkid, I often accompanied my family to temple festivals. Evenings were dedicated to singers performing popular film songs. The challenge before my family elders was to identify the raaga, each tune was based on. Unlike many of today's keyboard composers, the music directors of that era were masters of improvisation, weaving unique melodies from classical roots. Recognizing those ragas was our delightful puzzle.
We always sat far from the loudspeaker horns tied high in the trees. We knew it was the melody, not the noise, that truly brought joy to our ears and souls.
Today, the soundscape has changed. Volume is king. Heavy beats overwhelm the tune. In just a couple of decades, cacophony has taken over. And this transformation in music reflects something deeper, a wider cultural shift away from subtlety toward excess.
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Classical dance forms, which demand years of discipline, now struggle for attention against cinematic freestyle moves that require none. Tennis, once admired as a graceful game of "touch," is now dominated by raw power. Even marriage ceremonies, once brief and solemn, have ballooned into multi-day, high-decibel spectacles.
Our festivals too tell the same story. Rituals once performed with reverence are now executed with an aggression that pollutes rivers and even causes stampedes. What was meant to unite us has become a mindless contest of loudness, as if devotion is measured in decibels.
But real joy is never loud. Happiness resonates in a different register. It rests in silence that offers peace, in calm that renews hope. The maestros understood this. Their music had a soul because it breathed. The space between notes mattered as much as the notes themselves.
And so in a quiet corner at home, headphones on, away from noisy get-togethers and restless crowds, I sit wondering:
The most powerful note is often the one you barely hear.
What do you think? Share your thoughts. 
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