Play is often described as movement, strategy, laughter, bonding — but rarely do we pause to listen. To hear play. Yet, as we examine traditional Indian games closely, we discover that sound is one of their most profound cultural signatures. The rustle of seeds, the clatter of dice, the excited calls across a crowded room — these aren’t just noises. They are echoes of heritage, memory, and human connection.
Last month, I was thrilled to be invited to collaborate with the path-breaking Anil Srinivasan, who is well known for contributing a new genre in Carnatic music using the classical piano. For a New Year’s Eve concert with the Brahma Gana Sabha as part of the Music Season, he conceptualised a performance called ‘Kala Katha Kreeda’. While Janaki Sabesh, the well-known storyteller, was to do the narration for the ‘Katha’ or story segment, I was puzzled by what would be done with ‘Kreeda’. How could games be adapted to the musical performance on stage?
I was told that I needed to talk a little bit about the Parama Padam or the traditional Snakes and Ladders, after which the musicians would use the movements of the game to construct the pallavi, the lyrical part of the concert, where the musician demonstrates his creativity.
What followed was incredible. I listened with closed eyes to the mesmerising music and could almost see the movement of game pieces up the ladders and down the snakes, sometimes moving up high on the board only to slither down the snake again until a glorious and wonderful finale. It was truly an incredible evening, but one that may not be easy to recapture. However, it got me thinking about the sound of play.
As one grandmother told me, ‘My remembrance is that sixty-seventy years ago, much of the recreation and fun was within large undivided families. Popular games were the Dayakattam (Chaupad). Competition was fierce and noisy. Participation cut across generations, and sometimes neighbours would join in. Others would be active spectators, encouraging one side or the other. Over weekends, this would be a long session extending to a good 4-5 hours.’ The sound of voices rising and falling; laughter punctuating the tension, brass long dice rolling with a ringing clatter, and the inevitable clink of steel tumblers filled with hot coffee — these are not incidental sounds — they are defining elements of the experience.
The acoustics of a traditional game session were shaped as much by people as by materials. It pulled in neighbours, grandparents, children, and onlookers, forging an atmosphere of community. Sound signaled participation, excitement, and belonging.
But it is not only the voice of the people but much more. It is the clatter of shells as they are tossed on the floor, the rattle of dice in a cup or coconut shell before they are thrown, the soft skittering sound of tamarind seeds being tossed on the ground, the rhythmic click of stones as a player expertly tosses them up and catches them, the whir of a top spinning and even the breathless chants in a game of Kabaddi — in tree shaded streets lined with homes or courtyards or playgrounds, these sounds wove an acoustic ecology to each game.
Somewhere we have stopped listening, stopped playing, and stopped coming together, and these sounds are fading and with it the unfettered laughter and joy of unstructured play. But if you close your eyes and listen to your memories, they can take you back, and in that moment, you can hear the sound of play.