Tiny Miracles From My Own Breath

For a long time, my life followed a very set rhythm. As the head of my family, I’ve always been conscious of my responsibilities. My days were a constant loop of work and more work, making sure everything was taken care of and everyone was provided for. It was a busy life, but it was also a noisy one. When the noise of the day finally quieted down, I found myself turning to a "poor pacifier"—my mobile phone.

I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I would sit on the couch or lie in bed and just mindlessly scroll through whatever was on my feed. Hours would disappear into that little screen. It was my default getaway, a way to numb the brain after a long day of making decisions. I wasn't really relaxing; I was just killing time. Deep down, I think I knew I needed something more, something that felt real, but I didn't know how to reach for it.

The flute had been hovering on the edges of my life for a while. I kept seeing these clips of Harsh ji playing on my social media. The sound was so grounded and peaceful. I’d watch a video, feel a spark of interest, and then tell myself, “I’ll look into this tomorrow.” But as the saying goes, tomorrow never dies. It just keeps moving further away. I had mentioned it to my wife once or twice, just a passing remark about how it might be nice to learn.

Then, one day, she walked into the room with a look of quiet determination. She told me she had already enrolled me in an orientation session. She didn’t ask; she just said, "Just show up." I felt a mix of thrill and a bit of a push. I needed that nudge. Without her taking that step for me, I probably would have spent another year just scrolling through videos of other people playing, instead of making music myself. That was the spark. I finally made up my mind to stop thinking about it and actually start exploring.

The beginning was anything but smooth. If you’ve never tried to play a side-blown flute, you might think you just blow into it and music comes out. It’s not like that at all. I struggled with the basics for what felt like forever. Moving my fingers from the "Ma" note to "Pa" felt like trying to teach my hands a language they didn't want to speak. Then there was the sound itself. For a long time, it was mostly just hissing—the sound of air wasting away.

I remember trying a thousand times just to get a clean "Pa" sound on the side flute. There are different octaves, and trying to differentiate between them felt like a coin toss. One moment I’d get it, and the next, it would vanish. But strangely, I never wanted to give up. I wasn't frustrated in a way that made me want to quit. I was too thrilled by the fact that my own breath was turning into something audible. Every time I touched the flute and followed the instructions, I felt like I was participating in a tiny miracle.

The real shift happened on a random mid-morning. I had some work to finish, and I knew there was a public park across the street from where I was going. On a whim, I packed my flute in my bag. Once I finished my errands, my legs didn't even ask for permission—they just walked me straight into that park.

I found a small, empty amphitheater and sat down on the stone steps. I was still very new to the side flute, barely a few days in. I closed my eyes and started playing the basic scales—Sa, Re, Ga, Ma—and a few simple patterns I had practiced. Usually, I’m quite aware of people around me, especially as a family man who has to lead and be seen as "composed." But that day, it didn't matter.

I knew I wasn't hitting all the notes perfectly. I knew the park caretaker was watching me with a curious look, probably wondering what this man was doing playing random notes in the heat of the morning. I knew there were apartments nearby with people who could probably hear my shaky notes. But for the first time, I was blissfully inside a different zone. I was just enjoying the experience of the wood against my lips and the vibration in my hands. The caretaker eventually came over and just lay down on the grass a few feet away from me. I don’t know if he was just tired or if he actually liked the sound, but it didn't matter. I felt a peace I hadn't felt in years. I knew then that I was on a beautiful journey.

This new hobby started changing how I handled my real life, too. Not long ago, I had an incredibly long day at work with my team. We didn’t finish until 11:30 PM. Everyone was exhausted, but for some reason, they wanted to go out to the beach early the next morning. They had booked a boat ride and everything. My old self would have said, "No way, I need my sleep." I told them I’d see how I felt when I woke up.

Then, one of my team members said, "Do bring your flute along, we want to listen to you play!"

That changed everything. The idea of having an audience—and the chance to play in a new environment—erased my tiredness. I was up and ready on time. We took a fishing boat out into the open sea. When we were far from the shore, they killed the engine. It was just the sound of the waves splashing against the hull. I took out my flute and played right there in the middle of the ocean. My team was a captive audience—they literally had nowhere else to go! But they sat in silence, listening. I was so glad I chose that experience over a few extra hours of sleep. The flute had given me a reason to say "yes" to life instead of retreating to my bed or my phone.

Today, playing the flute has become my "me time." It is a period of the day that I protect fiercely. I wouldn't trade it for anything. When I hold the flute now, the nervousness I felt in the beginning is mostly gone. My grip is softer, more comfortable. I don't feel like I'm fighting the instrument anymore; I feel connected to it.

Every small improvement, every time a new melody finally clicks, it feels like a breakthrough. The joy I felt on Day One is still there, but it’s deeper now. It’s no longer just about making a sound; it’s about the fact that this sound comes from me. It’s my breath, my effort, and my quiet moment of peace in a loud world. I’m no longer the man mindlessly scrolling through his phone to escape. I’ve found a way to come back to myself.

— Srikanth Sridharan