Where Music Takes Form

Music is magic. Real magic. Not the fake kind in movies. The kind that hits you in the gut at 2 AM when you can't sleep. The kind that makes you cry in your car when that one song comes on. The kind that forces your body to move even when your mind says no.

My taste in music is as chaotic and diverse as my life. Indian classical sitting next to rock anthems. Vintage Bollywood sharing space with Western pop. It's all there. All part of me. Every melody that's ever moved me has a place in my heart. There's no rhyme or reason to it, just whatever speaks to me in the moment. Whatever helps me make sense of this messy, beautiful life.

But it's magic. Here one second. Gone the next.

And that's utter nonsense…

If I could pick any reality to live in, I'd choose one where music doesn't just vanish. Where it stays. Where it takes form.

I want to see the notes. Touch them. Watch them build something real.

Imagine it. The sounds from a saxophone turning into blue ribbons that twist through a smoky bar for hours after the musician's gone home. A mother's lullaby wrapping around her baby like a glowing blanket that keeps the nightmares away until morning.

Then there was the day my classmate played me Linkin Park's "Hybrid Theory" for the first time during my graduation days. At 22, I thought I knew music. I was wrong. Chester Bennington's voice. That voice that knew exactly what it felt like to be angry and scared and not know what to do with it all. In this world, we just sat there, two young adults not knowing how to say "I feel this too." But in my world? Chester's screams would have materialized between us. His pain taking actual form, connecting us without having to say a word. The shared music would have left visible threads between us, showing the exact moment our friendship deepened. Music wouldn't just be something we listened to together. It would be something we could see binding us.

Now as I watch S (my teenage son) practicing his Hindustani classical vocals, his voice carrying notes with a control and beauty that amazes me. There's a different kind of gap between us - not just generational, but in how we approach music. He with his disciplined ragas and me with my chaotic playlist. In my reality, I'd see the ancient melodies he sings taking form around him - perhaps as intricate golden patterns that reach back through centuries. I could see which ragas center him, which ones challenge him, which ones bring him joy. The structures his voice creates would be different from anything in my collection - more ordered, more precise, yet no less powerful. Sometimes when he hits a perfect note, it hangs in the air between us. In this world, it fades. In my world, it would stay - a perfect crystalline moment we could both treasure.

When (during Covid) my uncle got sick, I couldn't talk about it. Couldn't cry about it. Just played music. In my world, that music would've built something. A bridge maybe. Fragile at first. Easy to fall from. But every time I played those songs, it would've grown stronger. I could've watched my grief transform into something beautiful. Something I could walk across.

Can you picture a Coldplay concert in this reality? Chris Martin hits the first notes of "Fix You" and suddenly golden threads shoot from the stage. They weave through the crowd. Connect us all. By the chorus, we're standing in this massive cathedral of light that pulses with every drum beat. When those guitars kick in harder, the whole structure surges upward, lifting everyone's hearts with it.

Now imagine a Bon Jovi concert. When "Livin' on a Prayer" begins, Jon's voice would create these solid red pillars rising from the stage. By the time they hit that key change, the entire stadium would be held up by arches of sound. And during "It's My Life," every word about not backing down would form these protective shields around each person - visible reminders of their own strength. The guitar solos would shoot like comets through the air, leaving trails that linger for hours after the show ends.

Then imagine what Freddie Mercury would have created. God. Just think of it. His voice - that voice - wouldn't just fill Wembley Stadium. It would transform it. Each note becomes tangible energy. His operatic highs solidifying into towering spires. His raw emotional power manifesting as waves of color washing over the crowd. During those quiet piano moments, delicate crystal structures would form around each person, giving them their own private connection to his soul. And when he'd hit those triumphant notes, everything would explode into a kaleidoscope of light and texture that would remain visible for days afterward. People would make pilgrimages just to see the remnants of what his voice had built.

And Chester Bennington. Jesus. His pain would be visible. His rage would have form. When he screamed in "One Step Closer," jagged red structures would erupt from the stage, reaching toward the sky. Sharp. Dangerous. Beautiful. His softer moments in "Numb" would create these fragile blue spheres around each person in the crowd - protective bubbles made of pure honesty. Everyone who felt that same pain would see their bubbles glow brighter, connecting them to strangers who understood. Nobody would feel alone in a Linkin Park show. Chester's voice would build actual bridges between broken hearts.

It wouldn't just be Western artists. Imagine a Sonu Nigam concert, his voice creating these intricate, flowing structures that combine classical precision with modern emotion. During "Suraj Hua Maddham," the entire venue would be bathed in a warm golden glow that you could actually touch. Or Asha Bhosle performing "Chura Liya" – each playful note materializing as shimmering droplets of light that dance through the air, landing on shoulders and lingering there like jewelry made of sound.

And Geeta Dutt - her voice would do something entirely different. When she sang "Babuji Dheere Chalna," each note would create these delicate vintage patterns, like sepia-toned photographs taking shape in the air. During the haunting "Waqt Ne Kiya Kya Haseen Sitam," her voice would create a soft, melancholic mist that would envelop everyone in the room - a physical manifestation of beautiful sadness that would linger in the corners of a room for days. The emotional depth in her singing would build these intricate, nested structures - complex feelings made visible.

ABBA would create their own unique magic. When "Dancing Queen" played, swirling ribbons of silver and blue would spin out from the stage, creating this disco paradise we could actually touch. During "The Winner Takes It All," Agnetha's voice would build these transparent, fragile structures that show the beauty in heartbreak. And "Waterloo" - that would be something else entirely. Each reference to Napoleon would create miniature historical scenes in the air around us.

I've always remembered historical dates better through music. Thomas Sir, my history teacher, was the first to show me this trick. He'd sing songs in class that referenced historical events, making them stick in ways textbooks never could. In my reality, songs like "We Didn't Start the Fire" wouldn't just list historical events - they'd create actual visual timelines floating in the air. Every time I played it, the 20th century would unfold before my eyes, helping me remember exactly when the Korean War happened or when Einstein made his theories public. I'd see Thomas Sir's teaching method come to life, literally.

When RD Burman's compositions played, elaborate mathematical patterns would form in the air – complex, precise, yet deeply emotional. Kishore Kumar's voice would create these warm amber waves that would wash over the audience like a gentle tide, lifting everyone slightly off their feet during those perfect high notes. SP Balasubramanian's rich baritone would build foundations beneath everyone – solid structures you could actually feel supporting you as you listened.

It scares me sometimes. How naked we'd all be.

Your playlist wouldn't be private anymore. Everyone who walked into your apartment would see it. The happy love songs. The depressing breakup tracks. The weird shit you play when you're alone. All of it would leave marks. Like tear stains that never wash out.

They'd see the strong, fierce melodies I play when I need to remind myself I can do this single mom thing for another day. The quiet, gentle songs I put on after my son goes to bed when I finally let myself feel tired. The angry tracks that help me process the unfairness of doing this alone. The hopeful tunes that keep me going anyway.

But that's how we'd find our people. Really find them. Imagine walking into someone's home and seeing the exact same crystallized patterns from Chester Bennington's voice that you have in your own bedroom. You'd know instantly. This person gets it. Gets you. Or meeting another single parent and seeing that they have the same resilient structures built from the songs that keep us fighting. No awkward small talk needed. You'd see the soft blue glow of Kishore Kumar's ballads in their kitchen and feel at home immediately.

We'd fall in love differently, too. The person who first played you an ABBA song that left golden spirals in your living room? They'd always be a part of your space. The friend who introduced you to SP Balasubramanian, whose voice left those intricate patterns along your ceiling? You'd think of them every time you looked up. Our connections would be visible, tangible. The music people share with us would literally change our environments, just like the people themselves change our lives.

Some days I'm so damn tired of invisible things. I'm tired of feeling things so deeply and having nothing to show for it. When Bryan Adams sings "Heaven," I feel each word resonate through my entire body. That guitar solo is like a physical sensation climbing up my spine. When he hits those notes in "Everything I Do," declaring he'd die for you, I feel it in my chest like it's actually touching my heart. In my reality, those moments would create something tangible - maybe warm copper structures that pulse with each heartbeat, growing stronger with each listening.

When Sonu Nigam hits those emotional notes in "Abhi Mujh Mein Kahin," they feel more real than the room I'm sitting in. The purity in his voice cutting through all distractions. When SP Balasubramanian's voice fills my headphones during "Sach Mere Yaar Hain," it feels like he's telling my story - each note carrying decades of emotion.

And Kishore Kumar - when he sings "Kiska Rasta Dekhe," the longing in his voice makes my heart ache even though the song is older than I am. In my world, his voice would create these vintage-looking amber waves that would move slowly through a room, touching everything with a gentle, nostalgic glow.

The soundtrack of our lives wouldn't just be a pretty phrase people use. A R Rehman's film scores wouldn't just be background music – they'd create actual landscapes in my living room. The intricate patterns of "Kuch Kuch Hota Hai" would build romantic scenery I could walk through.

The classical ragas my son practices would build something completely different - ancient architectural forms that connect to traditions centuries old. When he performs a perfect Yaman or Bhairav, the structure would shimmer with a precision and beauty unlike anything else in our home. I'd see his growth not just hear it - the early practice sessions creating wobbly, uneven formations gradually becoming more stable, more defined, more beautiful as he masters his craft.

Bon Jovi's "Always" would have left these resilient red pillars throughout my living room from the times I played it on repeat during tough days. Bryan Adams' "Summer of '69" would have created a nostalgic golden haze in the corner where I dance when nobody's watching. The diverse collection of music that makes up who I am - from Kishore Kumar to ABBA, from Bryan Adams to Sonu Nigam - would create this beautiful, impossible tapestry on my walls that makes perfect sense to no one but me.

And the people who shared those songs with me? They'd be part of those structures too. The classmate who first played me "In The End" during college. The friend who introduced me to Bon Jovi's power ballads. My dad, who showed me the beauty in RD Burman's compositions. My son, who opened my eyes to the depth of classical traditions I'd barely scratched the surface of. Their influence on my life would be visible. Tangible. Their gifts to me would have form.

Because sometimes I need more than promises and metaphors and waves I can't see.

Sometimes I need something I can hold onto when everything else slips through my fingers.