Is The World Changing?

Some years back, I witnessed one of those Mutual Admiration Society ceremonies—lavish, glittering affairs, where everyone who is anyone in South Indian cinema turns up. The evening’s purpose was noble enough: to felicitate the music maestro Ilaiyaraaja, whose genius and contribution to Indian music are beyond question. The hall was overflowing with reverence. Words like legend, icon, and timeless floated through the air with ease.

And yet, amid all that celebration, came a moment of quiet revelation. In his concluding speech, Ilaiyaraaja said something that cut through the noise. Paraphrased, it went something like this:“I have composed innumerable pieces of music, but none that I can truly call my own. Music has existed since the dawn of creation — in the rustle of leaves, the chirping of birds, the rhythm of the waves, and in the beating of the human heart. It has evolved with life itself. Whatever I have composed must have already existed somewhere, sometime. I have merely repeated that music.”

It was a disarming confession from Illayaraja, one that turned the grandeur of the evening on its head. Here was a man celebrated for his originality, calmly asserting that originality itself was an illusion.

Those words lingered. In art, as in philosophy, there is nothing wholly new under the sun. Every act of creation is, in essence, an act of re-creation — an echo from the past dressed in a different form. Old wine poured into new bottles. The essence is ancient; only the container is recent.

Science, too, tells a similar story. Every “invention” is but a rearrangement of existing elements — atoms reshuffled, energies redirected, materials rediscovered. The universe permits transformation, not creation ex nihilo. When we speak of nanotechnology, artificial intelligence, or genetic engineering, we are not creating the new, but revealing the old in subtler patterns.

Perhaps, then, the story of human civilization is not one of invention but of reinvention. We keep circling back, convinced that each return is a leap forward. History, it seems, does not repeat—but it certainly rhymes.

Consider our world today. We proclaim an age of progress, of enlightenment, of moral and material advancement. We speak of liberty, equality, and human rights. We flatter ourselves that the old barbarities have been conquered by reason and democracy. And yet, scratch the surface, and the same primal truths stare back. Might remains right. The forms of power have changed—swords have given way to sanctions, thrones to algorithms, gold to data—but the essence of dominance endures.

We build empires of code instead of stone, wage wars in cyberspace instead of battlefields, and manipulate opinions through screens instead of scrolls. The costumes have changed, but the play is the same.

Perhaps Ilaiyaraaja’s remark was not merely about music but about the larger pattern of existence. Every note he plays is drawn from a universal reservoir of sound; every human act, too, arises from an ancient template of desire, fear, and ambition. We keep reinventing our tools, but seldom reinvent ourselves.

And so, one is tempted to ask: has anything truly changed? Or are we simply better dressed, better connected, better distracted versions of the same restless species—still chasing permanence in a transient world?

Relativity governs more than just physics; it pervades thought, art, and morality. What we call new is only new in relation to what we remember. What we call progress is often just motion—a movement of form without transformation of essence.

Perhaps this realization is not cynical, but liberating. To recognize that we are part of an ancient continuity is to acknowledge humility. We are not solitary geniuses, nor masters of creation, but participants in an ongoing symphony that began long before us and will continue long after.

Ilaiyaraaja, in that brief moment of candor, reminded us that true artistry lies not in claiming ownership over the song, but in becoming a conduit for it. The melody flows through us, not from us.

And maybe, just maybe, the same could be said of life itself.

So, after all the noise has faded, one question remains—echoing softly in the corridors of time:

Do you suppose anything has really changed?

(The author is an Indian Army veteran and a contemporary affairs commentator. The views are personal. He can be reached at kl.viswanathan@gmail.com )