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t's bedtime in Madras, the early-retiring south Indian metropolis,
and A.R. Rahman is curled in a swinging bamboo chair
meditatively sucking on chocolates. He is also just getting ready
for work. A little before midnight, he heads to a hi-tech recording
studio in his home, buries a pair of earphones beneath a mop of
moddish curls and starts to do the many things he does: writing
music, electronically reproducing the sound of a full orchestra and
singing in a hypnotic, sometimes heartbreaking strain. Thus
another song is born bearing the credit "By A.R. Rahman"--the
stamp that virtually guarantees a hit on the Indian music scene.
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AN
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