What is an enemy or two when it comes to balancing the scales between the critique and the appreciation of our heritage? I have no qualms about occupying the humble station of the listener. Though I do not specialize in the rigors of musicology, I possess an ear that can discern between a relevant performance and an "unkoshered" musicale. All too often, we surrender authenticity at the altar of the commercial—embracing 'what sells' at the cost of what is sacred. But when we stylize ourselves as the self-appointed champions of a cultural genre, it becomes an ethical imperative to remain veracious to the trade.
The recent "Thumri" evening at Islamabad's elitist club promised an immersion into the "soul of romantic longing," yet for the discerning ear, it unfolded more as a clinical autopsy than a celebratory embrace. While the stage was set for the "agony and ecstasy" of the genre, the execution felt like a victim of elitist capture, where academic pedantry overrode the very sensuality it sought to explain.
For Thumri to survive as a "living, breathing fire," it must be rescued from the hands of the anatomists and returned to the virtuosos
Ally Adnan, a seasoned raconteur, wove an intellectual tapestry that was undoubtedly sophisticated but ultimately misplaced. It was a masterclass in cultural anatomy that the audience hadn't necessarily enrolled in. By transforming the auditorium into a "classroom of listeners," the presentation suffered from a broad-spectrum overdose. Instead of dilating on the delicate nuances of Thumri, the discourse felt repetitive, lacking the surgical focus required for such a nuanced genre.
Perhaps most jarring was the presenter’s demeanor. The constant expressions of disapproval—characterized by the raised lip, furrowed brows, and haughty snubbing of the audience—felt like a betrayal of the spirit of the evening. To dismiss the enthusiasts—those without whom the event would collapse into silence—is to forget that art is a shared breath. In a marathon 2.5-hour session, one must expect the human element: a wandering eye, a fidget, or a muffled phone. To treat these as academic affronts is to lecture into a void.
The most glaring disconnect lay in the casting. While the children of the legendary Farid Ayaz (Ghayoor-Moiz-Qawwal & Party) are maestros of their own craft, asking Qawwals to "double up" as Thumri singers is a fundamental category error.
Thumri is a private whisper; Qawwali is a communal shout. The inclusion of clapping and the robust, driving energy of the qawwal-bachay made a mockery of Thumri’s essential stillness. What resulted was a "potion" of Qawwali-inflected performance that stripped the genre of its intimacy. The rendering of “Moh se bol na bol” felt like a hopeless versification, revealing a gaping hole in musical composition where old structures were lazily draped over new poetry.
Furthermore, the presentation largely ignored the titans of Pakistani Thumri. Names like Iqbal Bano, Ustad Barkat Ali Khan, Zahida Perveen, and Mehdi Hassan were left in the shadows, their contributions sacrificed for a generic, academic narrative.
The Missing 'Shringara'
The disappointment extended to the vocalists. While Kanwal Iftikhar’s singing was technically prudent, it was devoid of the "flirtatious fervor" that is the genre's lifeblood. Thumri is, at its core, a coquettish conversation between the lover and the beloved. It requires Shringara (romantic love) and a certain nazakat (elegance) that no amount of slide-decks can replace. It was a performance of prose where the world begged for poetry.
For Thumri to survive as a "living, breathing fire," it must be rescued from the hands of the anatomists and returned to the virtuosos. Future showcases should prioritize female virtuosos who understand the specific stylistic demands of the genre, rather than relying on the "same old" male-dominated Qawwali ensembles.
Ultimately, it was a night where the academic met the ecstatic, but they failed to shake hands. Thumri remained a ghost in the room—discussed at length, but never truly felt. We must learn where to draw the line: knowledge should illuminate the music, not extinguish its pulse.