OOn April 14th, Bharat Sundar, a Carnatic musician, composer, vocalist, and rhythm enthusiast, visited the University of Chicago for a lecture-demonstration titled “In Tune with Time.” The session explored the living interplay between rhythm and melody in Carnatic music, and it did so with a rare combination of depth, humour, and ease.
The audience was wonderfully diverse: some encountering Carnatic music for the first time, others deeply immersed in it, spanning different nationalities and age groups. What united everyone, though, was a shared curiosity and a genuine delight in having someone so engaging guide us through ideas that often feel either intimidating or unnecessarily complicated.
He began by discussing the pitfalls of comparing the Carnatic raga system to “scales.” While this reductionist framework can be useful as a cognitive shortcut, it fails to capture the essence of melody in Carnatic music. Ragas, he explained, gain their identity not from fixed sets of notes, but from phraseology that is vast, fluid, and ever-evolving patterns of movement.
In fact, he suggested learning should almost be reversed: instead of starting with fixed notes and trying to reach the raga, one should first absorb the phrases that define the raga. The notes then become reference points, mere approximations of something far more alive.
Structure has value, but only when we remember it is a simplification, not the thing itself. Without that awareness, we risk clinging to the simplification and losing the search it was meant to enable.
It was profound, but delivered with such clarity and lightness that it never felt heavy.
He then moved into the relativity of time, how laya and talamfunction as frameworks through which Carnatic music organizes time. Within these structures lies a world of immense creative freedom. One can work within a fixed meter while choosing how to engage with the gaps, adding, subtracting, stretching, or compressing them. Even a constant pulse begins to feel entirely different depending on how one inhabits it. We also got a glimpse of his Dwijavanthi Thillana, one of his own compositions, where he spoke about his process of experimenting with time, spacing, and rhythmic play. A video with this illustration is attached below!
He also referenced historical composers like Arunagirinathar, highlighting the playful complexity of meter, language, and meaning in works such as Muthai Tharu. His translation of select stanzas was both illuminating and entertaining, especially when he demonstrated how misalignment between melody, rhythm, and meaning can lead to unintentionally comedic effects. Total fun. Attached below is a glimpse of this illustration!
He also highlighted the importance of understanding how a language should sound when sung, illustrating how Tamil intonation and its inherent sinuosity can subtly shape the way another language, like Hindi, is rendered in music, and why such nuances are worth careful awareness.
The Q&A session that followed was a delightful end to the evening. It reflected how comfortable and engaged the audience felt. There was none of the usual hesitation or apologetic framing of questions. Instead, there was ease.
One question explored whether ragas carry inherent emotional associations. His response dismantled that assumption gently: emotions are deeply subjective and also subject to deep conditioning. To illustrate, he rendered Shubhapantuvarali in multiple emotional registers, mourning, vibrant, and yearning, showing how interpretation reshapes perception.
Another question asked what it means to compose “within Carnatic music.” How does one begin to compose with all the constraints that the art form has set in place?
He responded by reflecting on influence and authenticity: what we create is shaped by what we have absorbed. If something feels true to the artist, it can belong within the tradition, even if it stretches its boundaries that have been familiar to us thus far. No one, he implied, is policing creativity that is honest. And even if someone is, the worst they can do is to choose not to engage; a small price to pay for the joy of exploration and honesty. In that sense, the boundaries of the art form expand through sincerity rather than conformity.
Someone else asked about improvisation and avoiding repetition. He explained that it begins with intention, whether one even wants something to sound new, after which improvisation becomes a balance between spontaneity and years of internalised practice.
We were treated to glimpses of Sahana, Charukesi, Thodi, Shubhapantuvarali, Kosalam, Karaharapriya, Abheri, and even a playful “Shanmukhapriya rap.” At one point, Snarky Puppy’s beats were even compared to a Dwijavanthi composition, a moment that perfectly captured the evening’s spirit: expansive, humorous, and joyfully unbounded.
More than anything, the evening carried a feeling worth preserving, curiosity without intimidation, joy without dilution, and depth without heaviness. Perhaps the most profound takeaway for me personally was his reflection on how the human need to organise information often causes us to forget that art is not merely a system to decode, but an experience to inhabit.
Humour, he showed, can be a powerful bridge into classical forms, not by simplifying them, but by making them human. By the end of the session, Carnatic music felt no less profound, but far more alive, accessible, and intimate.
The room felt like it had only just begun to open up. If this evening was any indication, UChicago will be hoping for many more sessions like this, and a growing audience, newly in awe of both the art and the artist.
