When Tansen Sang and The Skies Listened

Every year, when Delhi ki pehli baarish starts and the smell of mitti floats in, my mind drifts back to a story my dadi once told me. We were sitting on our old balcony, chai cups warming our hands, rain drumming softly on the railing, and I remember asking, “Dadi, kya koi really gaake baarish bula sakta hai?” 

She smiled, almost as if she’d been waiting for that question, and softly said one word: Tansen.  My dadi told me how Tansen wasn’t just any singer — he was Ek aisa kalakar jiske suron ko asmaan bhi sunta tha.
Hundreds of years ago, in Emperor Akbar’s darbar, Tansen would sing a raga called Megh Malhar. And legend says that slowly, as his voice rose and fell, the burning hot air would cool, clouds would gather, and rain would finally come to wash the earth clean.

As a kid, this story felt like magic. Even now, sitting at my window with myplaylist on shuffle, it still feels magical.

Imagine: no mic, no speakers, no viral reels — just a human voice so pure that the sky itself couldn’t resist.

Megh Malhar: the raga of rain

When I grew older, I got curious about what makes this raga so special. Megh Malhar belongs to the Malhar family of ragas — ancient melodies tied to the monsoon. Even the name sounds like poetry: “Megh” means cloud.

They say its swaras — the notes — flow like rain itself. Sometimes gentle and teasing, sometimes powerful and heavy, but always carrying a promise: relief from heat, hope for farmers, and joy that dances in the first drops on dusty roads.

And though I don’t fully understand classical music, even listening on YouTube at midnight feels strangely calming. The tanpura’s hum in the background, the singer’s voice weaving those notes — and suddenly, the rain outside feels closer. Like I’m part of something older and bigger than just this moment.

Tansen wasn’t born into luxury. He started as Ramtanu Pandey in a small village near Gwalior and learned music under Swami Haridas. His talent became so legendary that he was invited to Akbar’s darbar — becoming one of the Navratnas, or nine jewels, of the Mughal court.

Imagine that scene: marble floors slick with humidity, courtiers sitting in silence, and Tansen, tanpura resting against him, eyes closed as his voice rose into the warm air.
And outside, the sky slowly darkened, leaves began to dance in the breeze, and before long, the first drop fell.

It wasn’t just performance; it was prarthana, a dialogue between artist and nature.

My dadi also told me the story of Raga Deepak.
Once, Tansen was asked to sing Deepak, a raga so hot it could light lamps just by its power. The legend says the lamps did ignite — but the heat burned Tansen himself.
To save him, two women (some say his students) sang Megh Malhar, and the cooling rain brought him back.

Even if it sounds impossible, there’s a deeper message there: music isn’t just about power; it’s about balance. Where there’s fire, there must be water. Where there’s intensity, there must be calm.

These days, when rain hits Delhi — smudging auto rickshaw lights, turning roads into rivers, and making everything smell of mitti — my mind always wanders back to Tansen.

It feels strange that someone who lived centuries ago still finds a way into our playlists, our rainy evenings, and our imaginations.

While scrolling Spotify or random YouTube playlists, sometimes I stumble on Megh Malhar sung by today’s artists.
And somewhere in India, there are still musicians practising these ragas every dawn, sitting cross-legged with a tanpura, trying to catch the same magic in their voice.
It makes me realise: Tansen might not walk among us anymore, but his music — and the khoobsurat vishwas that music can touch the sky — hasn’t disappeared.

We might not literally believe someone can make it rain just by singing. But the idea behind the story still feels real — that art, when it’s honest and fearless, can move things.
Not always the weather, maybe, but our hearts, our memories, the way a rainy day feels softer when your favourite song plays.

And maybe that’s why, even as a Gen Z kid with Wi-Fi problems and homework tabs open, I still think about Tansen whenever it rains. Not just as a legend, but as proof that music isn’t only something to hear — it’s something to feel.

In the end, maybe it doesn’t matter if the rain really fell because of his voice. What matters is that centuries later, the story makes a kid like me look up at grey skies and wonder.

Because deep down, we all hope our words, our songs, our art — could change the world around us, even if just a little.

And in that moment, between the thunder and the first drop, it feels almost possible.

Threya

Monsoon Memories - Artwork by Jagannath Dinu