Ilaiyaraaja is ubiquitous.

That much is known to anyone raised in any land that breathes the winds of Tamil music. His melodies are more than just songs; they are lifelong companions, shape-shifting with the listener’s needs—a father’s wisdom, a teacher’s lesson, a friend’s warmth, a child’s wonder. His music is a sanctuary: where you purge your sins, where you cleanse your soul, where you stand in front of yourself—stripped of pretense—questioning your biases, unlearning patterns forged by society and routine.

Take, for instance, the way capitalism has planted in us the notion of work as an obligation, something disassociated from life and pleasure, something that's designed to get in the way of it. No matter how employers romanticise it, work—under capitalism—is a bargain struck with exhaustion. You toil, so you may ‘earn’ your right to leisure. Even the self-employed, who claim autonomy, eventually aspire to escape—to a retirement that signals the end of labour, the permission to finally begin to live.

But then, there is Ilaiyaraaja.

At 14, he was already immersed in music, traveling across South India with his brother. He might not have thought of it that way, but his ‘work’ had already begun. And yet, fast forward past the decades of revolutionising Tamil music, past the 1,000 films, 7,000 songs, and immeasurable cultural, philosophical, political imprints—cut to 2025, he is now 81.

If this were a feature film, a screenwriter would do what screenwriters do: frame him in sepia tones, retired, perhaps tending to a garden like Vito Corleone, basking in a peaceful life after music, after work. The old genius at rest, the yesteryear legend who has supposedly moved on—for is that not how it's supposed to be?

But Ilaiyaraaja, of course, has always defied templates: of expectation, of structure, of label. He questions the very structure that dictates when a man should stop, when an artist should fade into memory. And so, at 81, what does he do? He composes Valiant, a four-movement symphony, and premieres it in London’s Eventim Apollo Theatre, becoming the first-ever Indian composer to present a full-length Western classical symphony in the UK, conducting the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra—as if to remind the world that his genius is neither confined to the past nor to a single form.

Each time you attempt to define him, to hold him still in your grasp, he slips through your fingers—like water—laughing at your desperate need to categorise and contain. You think his legacy is his film music? He composes a Western classical symphony. You think his strength lies in fusing Indian and Western traditions? He composes in pure symphonic form, undiluted. You assume men in their 80s must reconcile with diminishing faculties? He writes intricate compositions in just over a month, displaying razor-sharp concentration and physical stamina. You dig into his past to honour his greatness? He pulls you into the present, smiling.

And here's where it gets even better. You call this work? He refuses. You call this achievement? He shrugs. You see, Ilaiyaraaja scoffs at capitalism’s divisions between work and leisure, at society's rules designed to keep the well-oiled machine of civilisation running. For him, music is not work. It is not an industry, a transaction, or a means to an end. Music is life itself. Or perhaps, it is the other way around.

People marvel at how he continues to create, to perform, to compose at this age—still processing his music through those familiar, factory filters of productivity and efficiency. But no, he is not working. He is not being productive. He is simply... being. He is an artist in constant play, a spiritualist in perpetual wonder. And therein lies the secret, it seems. For Ilaiyaraaja, creation and discovery are the same.

So, yes, Ilaiyaraaja is a newsmaker this week.

But let’s be honest—Western symphony or otherwise, this non-conformist genius has been a newsmaker every week across his lifetime.