Margazhi Needs Patrons, Not Purchasers

I have been thinking about whether to write this at all.

Margazhi is close to the heart for many of us. It is not just a month of concerts and dance recitals—it is where years of practice, discipline, rejection, hope, and quiet perseverance finally find a stage. Because of that, any conversation about Margazhi deserves care, not noise.

But silence, at this point, feels dishonest.

Over the last few years, a pattern has become hard to ignore. People—anyone, NRI or resident—are paying money to secure Margazhi performance slots. And if we are being truthful, NRIs are doing this more, largely because they can. This is not said with bitterness or resentment, but with concern for what this is slowly doing to the ecosystem.

Let me be clear before anything else:
This is not about who is “allowed” to perform.
NRIs performing on merit is completely valid. Welcome, even.
This is about money becoming the entry point.

Why Paying to Perform Changes Everything

Margazhi works because it is supposed to be difficult.
You wait. You get rejected. You perform at odd hours. You improve. Someone listens. Slowly, you earn your way forward.

When money enters as a shortcut, that entire rhythm breaks.

Organisers—many of them overworked and underfunded—realise that a slot can be “managed” rather than curated. And once that happens, the incentive to listen deeply, to take risks on unknown talent, to nurture the next generation, starts disappearing.

This is not corruption in the dramatic sense.
It is something more dangerous—convenience.

Why This Kind of Recognition Is Actually Worth Nothing

This may sound harsh, but it needs to be said plainly.

Recognition that is paid for carries no real weight.

People inside the ecosystem know. Gurus know. Accompanists know. Serious rasikas know. A Margazhi slot bought with money does not translate into respect, invitations, or artistic standing. It produces a concert, a poster, a photograph—but very little else.

More importantly, it does not build a journey.

Real recognition has momentum. One good performance leads to another. Feedback sharpens you. Expectations rise. Paid recognition stops at the performance itself. When the money stops, so does the platform.

And history is unforgiving in this way. Margazhi remembers voices, styles, moments, risks taken. It does not remember who paid to be heard.

The Cost Is Paid by Someone Else

Every paid slot quietly displaces someone.

Usually someone local.
Usually someone who has structured their entire life around this art.
Usually someone without the privilege of money as a backup.

Margazhi has limited days and limited stages. When those are occupied by money, merit doesn’t get postponed—it gets erased.

And the saddest part is this: young students are watching. They are learning what the system rewards. When effort no longer appears to matter, they leave. Slowly, silently.

A Different, More Meaningful Role—Especially for NRIs

If you are an NRI artiste reading this, I want to say this with respect.

Your love for the art is not in question.
Your journey is not invalid.
Your desire to stay connected is understandable.

But if you have financial capacity, your greatest contribution is not buying a stage for yourself.

It is:

• Supporting sabhas without influencing who performs

• Sponsoring young local artistes

• Paying accompanists well

• Funding rehearsal spaces, documentation, scholarships

• Strengthening the ecosystem so the best naturally rise

This is how the arts have always survived—through patronage, not transactions.

A Quiet Boundary Worth Defending

This is not a call-out. It is a boundary.

Anyone—NRI or resident—paying to perform is weakening something precious. And recognition gained this way, honestly, is of no real value. It does not deepen the art. It does not build legacy. It does not endure.

Margazhi deserves better from all of us.

Let the stage remain something you earn,
and recognition something that arrives when your work is ready—
not when your wallet is.

If we protect that idea, even imperfectly, Margazhi will continue to mean something long after this season ends.