Imagine stepping into a world where the everyday hustle fades away, replaced by the gentle hum of music and the quiet comfort of nature. That's exactly how it felt arriving at Karunbithil Shibira 2025 in Nidle, a peaceful village tucked away in Dharmasthala. After a serene one-kilometer walk from the main road, through misty paths, we reached the ancestral home of Vidvān Śrī Vittal Ramamurthy. It had a calming energy, like a quiet haven for focus, reflection, and of course, beautiful music.

I have heard so much about Karunbithil Shibira over the years, but this was my first time at the camp. I came with no expectations — only curiosity. Curiosity to learn, observe, and experience. As a student of both music and dance, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what those three days gave me is something I’ll hold on to for a long time.

Started in 2000 by Vidvān Vittal Ramamurthy and his family, Shibira has become a significant annual gathering for artists, students, and rasika-s across India. This was its 25th edition — a silver jubilee that felt both celebratory and sacred.

I offer my heartfelt gratitude to Vittal Sir and the entire Karunbithil family for welcoming us into their home — for this yagña, this sādhana.

From May 20th to 25th, the space transformed into a retreat for learning, listening, laughter, and silence. Music flowed constantly. The rain fell steadily, as if in tune with the mood — cool, quiet, and deeply alive.

One of the greatest blessings of this camp was being in the presence of stalwarts like Śrī V.V. Subrahmanyam and Śrī Neyveli Santhanagopalan, along with senior artistes such as Smt. R.N. Sreelatha, Śrī Hosahalli Venkataram, Śrī D. Srinivas, and Śrī Vidyabhushana — all of whom were part of the Shibira as esteemed teachers. It was a space where everyone came to give, receive, and reflect.

Unlike formal workshops, learning here didn’t happen only through structured sessions. Concerts became classrooms. Listening hours and hours to seasoned musicians pour their soul into every note — it taught us more than any syllabus ever could. The idea that listening itself is learning became clear to all of us. 

Śrī V.V. Subrahmanyam’s Kharaharapriyā is still echoing in my mind. The depth, the mastery — it was overwhelming in the best way. It made me think about the kind of tapas, discipline, and quiet dedication that must have shaped every phrase. You could feel a lifetime of music and surrender to each note.

Among the many unforgettable moments, my personal favourite concert was by Śrī Shashank Subramaniam on the flute. It was absolutely mind-blowing — there was so much to learn, absorb, and simply marvel at. The RTP in rāga Vāgadīśvarī was so precise and refined, it was very inspiring to listen to.

On the classroom side, Śrī Neyveli Santhanagopalan’s session stood out. It was a very humble, grounded session, where he taught us a couple of beautiful kṛti-s, a Varṇa and a Tiru̱ppugaẕ. The way he approached each line — with care, bhāva, and generosity  made it incredibly enriching. One among the kṛti-s was ‘Cālakallalāḍu’ in Ārabhi, filled with a handful of beautiful saṅgati-s - even the difficult ones, which he made us understand with such ease.

One varṇa that I particularly found challenging was the ‘Kamalacandrikā’ varṇa in Śuddha Dhanyāsi, taught to us by V.V.S. Sir. As an intermediate student, I found the dhāṭu phrases — especially in the caraṇa svara section quite complex to grasp in the moment. It was clear that this piece wasn't just about getting the notes right — it needed sustained effort, the kind that stays with you over years. Now, as I revisit it with a bit more clarity and patience, I’m able to appreciate its intricacies more deeply.

Our days began with music and ended with more music. Some days we sang for 13 hours, stopping only to eat or share a moment of silence. Morning practice sessions with Kruthi Bhat Akkā were especially memorable. Nights brought jam sessions, laughter, and long conversations. Some of us barely slept — and yet, there was no tiredness.

As a dancer among musicians, I felt no separation. I sang, I danced, I listened. There was no pressure to prove anything, no judgement — only encouragement and inclusion. We flowed together, even in our differences.

In the mix of solitude and community, I found something precious - new friends who shared the same love for the art. There were quiet moments of stillness, where the only sound was the rain. And there were loud, joyful moments too - shared jokes, chit-chats, and spontaneous performances. All of it, every bit, was part of the learning.

And, a big thanks and pranams to the kitchen staff for the sātvik, home-cooked meals that kept us going. It reminded me of the stories I’d heard from my parents — of their childhood days spent at their ancestral home with cousins, simple routines, and home-cooked food. Having grown up in the city, it felt like a glimpse into something I’d only heard of, now briefly lived.

What I took away from Karunbithil wasn’t just memory. It was a shift — a change in how I see the process of art. I realised that practice matters, but so does presence. That being around like-minded, passionate people changes how you grow. The shibira made me realise that art grows in stillness, in honest effort, and in the right kind of company. I may have been there for only three days, but what I found was a glimpse of something vast — something like the ocean. And walking away, I felt like I had only touched the shore. 

And as a student, I now understand — that’s how true learning feels. It settles in your heart and stays with you, quietly guiding you.

As I reflect on this experience, I am filled with immense gratitude to Vidvān Vittal Ramamurthy and the entire Karunbithil family for their generosity, warmth, and the spirit with which they opened their home and hearts to us. My humble namaskāram-s to all the legends, teachers, and everyone who made this Shibira what it was. With all my heart, I look forward to returning — to learn, to unlearn, and to be held by the music once again.