Finding Stillness Between the Gadgets and Screens

Most days, my life is governed by a very specific rhythm. I work as a business consultant in the software industry, which means my world is largely digital. I start my mornings early with four or five games of badminton to keep my body moving and my energy up. But once that is over and my morning routine is finished, I transition into a world of pixels and meetings. I spend the vast majority of my day sitting in front of a laptop, attending call after call, working on solutions, and navigating the fast-paced demands of the tech world. It is common for me to wrap up my work only around 10:00 pm. It is a productive life, but it can also be a loud and crowded one, filled with notifications and the constant pressure of being "connected."

If you had asked me a few years ago if I had a creative outlet, I probably would have pointed to my school days. About thirty-five years ago, I was a different person. I was a student, and I played the straight steel flute as part of my school’s march-past band. I was actually one of the lead flutists back then. I remembered the feeling of the metal under my fingers and the precision of the rhythm, but as the years turned into decades, that part of my life simply faded away. Life happened. Career, family, and responsibilities took over, and I completely lost touch with the instrument. The flute became a dusty memory, something I used to do in a different lifetime.

Then, about a year ago, something small happened. I was doing what most of us do in our downtime—casually scrolling through Instagram. Amidst the endless stream of photos and videos, I came across a post by Harsh Dave and the Flute Gandharvas. There was something about the sound and the way the music was presented that caught my attention. I felt a spark of curiosity I hadn't felt in a long time. Right there, in the middle of my digital scrolling, I clicked on a registration link. I decided, somewhat on a whim, to give it a try. I didn't know it then, but that one click was the beginning of a journey back to myself.

Returning to music wasn't exactly like riding a bike. Because I had played the flute in school, the fingering felt familiar. My fingers remembered where to go, and that part of the process was pleasant and satisfying. However, the instrument I was picking up now was very different from the steel band flute of my childhood. I was moving to a side-blown bamboo flute, and that transition was a real test of my patience.

In the beginning, just producing a steady sound was a struggle. It takes a certain way of blowing, a certain focus of the breath, that I hadn't practiced before. There were moments during those early practice sessions where the constant blowing actually made me feel dizzy. I would have to stop, take a seat, and let my head clear before trying again.

The biggest hurdle, though, was the transition from the note Ma to the note Pa. For a long time, it felt like a wall I couldn’t climb. No matter how much I practiced, the switch just wouldn't happen smoothly. I would try over and over, feeling the frustration creep in, wondering if I had reached my limit. But I kept at it. Then, I remember the date exactly: September 17th 2025. I was sitting down for a casual practice session, not putting too much pressure on myself, when suddenly, everything fell into place. The transition from Ma to Pa came out perfectly. It felt like magic. In that one moment of breakthrough, all the dizzy spells and the weeks of repetitive practice felt completely worth it. I felt a surge of pure joy.

What kept me going during those difficult stretches was my teacher, Guruji Harsh Dave. It wasn’t just the way he taught the notes; it was his presence. He always has this warm smile and a very effortless way of playing that makes you believe you can do it too. He has a bit of playful naughtiness in his teaching style that keeps the lessons lively. Whenever I struggled, I would close my eyes and imagine myself playing with the same charm and confidence he has. His energy and his visible joy in the music became my motivation. I wanted to capture a little bit of that peace for myself.

As I continued to play, I realized the flute was giving me something I hadn't even asked for. We live in a world where we are constantly tethered to smartphones and streaming platforms. Our attention is always divided. But when I pick up the bamboo flute, I step into a different era. I call it my "natural digital detox."

Before I started playing again, my hand would automatically reach for my phone whenever I had a spare moment. Now, I find my hand reaching for the bamboo flute that sits right on my desk, next to all my gadgets. Sometimes I start practicing and lose track of time entirely, playing for hours without realizing it. It feels like I’ve returned to those pre-mobile phone days, when life moved at a slower pace and you could actually focus on one thing at a time. This small change has completely transformed my routine and my mindset. It has given me a quiet, private space that belongs only to me.

If you are struggling with something right now—whether it is the flute or anything else you’ve wanted to try—I would tell you not to wait. Don’t wait for the "perfect" age or the moment when you feel fully confident. Life is short. In the years we are given, we should make room for things that have meaning.

The flute is a unique companion. It is light and simple. It doesn't need tuning pins or complicated setups. It is just a piece of bamboo, a few holes, and the air from your lungs. There is something beautiful about how such a simple object can produce such deep emotion. Beyond the music, it is like a form of yoga. It makes you aware of your breath. It forces you to slow down and control your breathing, which naturally brings a sense of calm to the mind.

You don't need to be exceptionally talented to start. You just need to be willing to take that first breath. That first note might not be perfect—mine certainly wasn't—but it could be the start of a version of yourself that is more focused, more patient, and a lot more peaceful.

— Vinod Venkataraman