When the World Went Still

In the golden court of Akbar the Great—emperor of Hindustan, lover of the arts, and patron of genius—there stood a man whose voice could summon rain and set lamps alight.

His name was Tansen.

A master of melody.

A jewel among the nine gems of Akbar’s court.

If A singer whose ragas didn’t just echo—they breathed.

One evening, after a divine rendition of Raag Megh Malhar, as the last note dissolved into silence, Akbar sat still—eyes closed, soul adrift.

And then, with the softness of wonder, he asked,

“Tansen… who taught you to sing like this?”

Tansen bowed his head, voice quiet.

“My Ustaad, Haridas. Swami Haridas. The best musician by far.”

Akbar raised an eyebrow. “Better than you?”

Tansen smiled gently. “I am but a shadow. He is the sunrise.”

The emperor frowned. “I must hear him. Invite him to my court.”

Tansen shook his head. “He won’t come, Badshah. He sings for no man. If you truly wish to hear him… we must go to him.”

Akbar smiled. “So be it,” he said. “If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad… then Muhammad shall go to the mountain.”

“And where is this Haridas?” Akbar asked, intrigued.

“In the jungle. In a small cottage by the Yamuna. He sings at dawn—around the hour of Brahmamuhurta.”

Akbar, never one to be denied a mystery, agreed.

That very night, disguised as humble travellers, Akbar and Tansen slipped out of the palace and journeyed into the dense forest, the moonlight their only companion. They reached Haridas’s quiet ashram well before dawn and waited beneath the shadows of peepal trees. Tansen warned, “Do not make any noise. He should not know of our presence. Just listen.”

They waited. And waited.

But the air remained still. No sound. No sitar. No voice.

Daylight broke over the forest floor like gold over stone.

Akbar turned, puzzled. “What happened?”

Tansen bowed his head again. “Perhaps… he didn’t feel the music today.”

Akbar was silent for a moment. “What next?”

Tansen replied, unsure, “Tomorrow. Again.”

And so, the next night, they returned—silently, reverently.

This time, just as the stars began to fade, the air shifted. The leaves rustled. And a soft drone from the tanpura emerged.

Then came the sitar—fragile, fierce, fluid.

Then silence. A breath.

And then—his voice.

Swami Haridas sang.

It was not music. It was meditation.

Not sound—but soul.

Notes rose like prayer, fell like dew.

The world went still. Even the birds seemed to pause mid-flight.

Akbar sat motionless. His eyes wide. Then slowly—closed.

For that one hour, he did not breathe. He did not blink.

The world vanished.

When the music faded, and the forest returned to its hush, the emperor remained still.

Tears clung to his lashes.

He had heard something beyond humans.

On the way back, through the winding paths of the silent jungle, he whispered to Tansen,

“You were right. You are nothing when compared to him. You are just brass. He is pure gold.”

Tansen smiled—not with pride, but with peace.

“I sing for the king of Hindustan,” he said.

“He sings for no court… but for the King of all Kings. The Almighty.”