Every story arc begins somewhere. Some begin with ambition. Some with accident. This one begins with a pulse.

Before playlists were curated, before headphones created private worlds, before theory gave language to tempo and thaalam—rhythm existed quietly in the background of my life. It was there in the sacred cadence of mornings, in the hum of radios searching for clarity, in the mechanical click of cassette decks, in the cultural explosion of the 90s airwaves.

What once felt like scattered moments—devotional mornings, crackling radio signals, gleaming Hi-Fi systems, late-night music videos—now reveal themselves as chapters in a larger composition. Rhythm began as something I inherited, slowly became something I claimed, then something I reflected on, experienced deeply, and eventually sought to understand. What started as background sound would one day become structure.

This five-part journey traces that progression. Not just how I listened to music—but how rhythm listened back. How it shaped thought. How it organized emotion. How it built something foundational long before I understood its mathematics.

Because long before I played rhythm, rhythm was already playing me.

The Morning Pulse

It was 5:30 a.m. The sun hovered just below the horizon. Pigeons lined the cable wires stretched between apartment buildings like disciplined notes on a staff. And inside our home, Suprabhatam flowed through the air—M.S. Subbulakshmi’s voice—devotional, commanding, expansive. The apartment didn’t just wake up; it resonated.

And then there was the aroma! Fresh South Indian filter coffee—strong, earthy, unmistakable—rising from the kitchen and weaving itself into the music. The fragrance and the chant became inseparable. Even today, the faintest whiff of filter coffee can transport me back to those mornings faster than any photograph ever could.

Carnatic compositions would follow, often drawn from my father’s treasured audio cassette collection. That was my first exposure to the universal set of rhythm—percussion embedded within melody, tala structuring time itself. I didn’t know the language yet. I didn’t know the theory. But somewhere in that vast universal set of sound, a subset quietly waited for me. The Mridangam. I didn’t know it then. But the pulse I heard each morning would one day become the pulse I tried to play.

If mornings gave rhythm its sacred cadence, technology would soon give it shape and ownership.

From Transistor to Hi-Fi

I remember my grandfather’s transistor radio. Turning that large circular dial was an experience in itself—the static buzz, the gradual clarity, the tiny victory when the needle landed perfectly on a station. There was something magical about that analog unpredictability. Then came the upgrades!

One afternoon after school, my parents unveiled what felt like the future—the Philips FW332 Mini Hi-Fi System. A single CD player. Dual cassette decks. An LCD screen display. Built-in radio. Two standalone speakers. I was speechless. And when compact discs entered our home, it felt revolutionary. Today, CDs may be retro. Back then, they were pure gold.

But technology alone doesn’t shape taste. Exposure does.

The 90s and the World Expands

Growing up in the golden age of the 90s feels, in hindsight, like a privilege. Cable television was a luxury. And when MTV entered our living room, it opened a portal. Suddenly, music from across the globe flowed into our home—Western pop, rock, global charts—interwoven with the richness of Indian melodies. For me, this wasn’t just entertainment. It was expansion.

Music began to organize my thoughts. It helped me process emotions. It unlocked creativity in ways I didn’t yet understand. I’m not claiming genius—but I am grateful for the realization that sound could steady the mind and elevate the spirit. Simpler times, yes. But deeply formative ones.

Looking back, I realize none of this was random. It was building toward something larger.

The Pulse Before the Play Button

Long before I owned a device that felt personal, rhythm had already claimed its place in my life. It began in devotional mornings, traveled through transistor static, matured in Hi-Fi systems, and expanded through 90s airwaves. I didn’t chase music at first. It surrounded me. It shaped me quietly, steadily. That was the origin.

The next chapter is about ownership—the first-time rhythm felt like it belonged entirely to me. The first time I pressed play and knew the soundtrack was mine.

And then it was…
Rewind. Play. Repeat.