The Sound of the Earth

Reflections from a recent nature retreat

Some things can't be explained, only experienced! What I've learned from plants, from birds, from the particular silence you find deep in a forest or midway through a trek, is one of those things. You have to be there. You have to let it work on you before you can even begin to put words to it.

But I'll try.

I've come to feel that Hindustani classical music (Shastriya Sangeet) didn't emerge from theory or invention. It emerged from observation. Years upon years of watching, listening to, and interpreting the forces of nature, long before we became the sophisticated, technology-wrapped creatures we call ourselves today. We were once stranded on one of the most unforgiving planets, in one of the most demanding environments, and the only way to survive was to come together - in tribes, in communities, in civilizations.

I think music was the outlet that language could never quite be. Language takes you far - it lets us communicate, articulate, write, read, spread ideas across distance and time. But music does something else. It doesn't just express; it feels. It carries emotions that have no words, abstract and wordless things that language simply cannot hold.

The Bamboo Remembers

Playing the Bansuri in nature is its own kind of homecoming. You're playing an instrument made from the very bamboo, the very trees, the very source it came from. For years, that bamboo grows soaking in rain, weathering seasons, enduring - before it's ever shaped into something that can sing. It's no wonder Lord Krishna chose this instrument above all others. It's one of the simplest things imaginable, and yet it creates such beautiful ripples in the human mind.

Losing Our Roots

Sometimes I worry we're drifting further from where we began. First it was the rise of cities and the deforestation that came with it. Now it's the AI boom reshaping how we think and live. I grew up a musician in urban Mumbai - already several steps removed from nature as a child. But every time I go back into the wild, it feels like a reminder: go back to the sound of the earth.

Doing this with fellow musicians - especially students of music - is a privilege I don't take lightly. And here's the thing: you don't need a great mentor or any special equipment to experience the true depth of nature. You need only to go there, and stay quiet. Let your eyes, your senses, your ears stay open, while your mouth stays shut. Just listen. Just soak it in.

That's what I try to do every time I'm out there. I try to set aside my preconceived notions of the raag - not the rules themselves, but the rigid ideas I carry about how something should be presented and let the moment guide me instead.

Surrendering to Revelation

There have been moments on these retreats that felt like genuine revelation. On this most recent one, Raag Ahir Bhairav emerged in a way I hadn't anticipated. I've come to believe you sometimes have to surrender - to things you thought you already knew - for the real realization to arrive. There's always more underneath than you expect.

I hope Mumbai doesn't cut down Sanjay Gandhi National Park. I hope it stays intact, so I can keep doing this - with my friends, with fellow musicians, with creative people - for the rest of my life.

And I hope, someday, you'll join me. On a trek, a retreat, a workshop - wherever this takes us next. Let's experience this beauty together!