I had long known about the mesmerising Sufi devotional music known as qawwali thanks to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, of course. But it was the opening sequence of Mira Nair’s film The Reluctant Fundamentalist around ten years ago that got me interested in learning more about this genre. I have been hooked since.
The film, based on Mohsin Hamid’s brilliant book, opens with the qawwals singing at the home of a well-to-do family in Lahore. This particular piece with its melody, song structure, and accompanying chorus stayed with me.
An online search for the music and artists threw up Fareed Ayaz and company’s performance of Kangnaon Coke Studio. My YouTube account has since been responsible for a few thousand views of the video over the years.
Fareed Ayaz and co. were to perform at Harvard University in September as part of a series titled “75 Years of Azadi: A Celebration of South Asia,” but didn’t get visas in time. By then I had already booked my ticket.
The concert went ahead, but with Harvard alum Ali Sethi from Pakistan based in New York. Besides his mega viral worldwide hit Pasoori, he performed several well loved songs from the past decades while riffing with the audience, which included some of his former professors at Harvard.
This time I went home and searched online for Luddi Hai Jamalo. I am quickly adding to the YouTube view count for all the different versions of that song.
This year seems to have become one of personal exposure to and appreciation of musicians from Pakistan. In April, the 2022 Grammy for Best Global Music Performance awarded to Arooj Aftab for her Mohabbat introduced me to her enthralling voice and musical arrangements. For my year-end recap YouTube informs me that I’m among her top 3% listeners.
Arooj Aftab’s treatment of Hafeez Hoshiarpuri’s ghazal Mohabbat is an absolute sensory delight. You bet that I was there when she and her troupe performed at the Berklee college of Music, her alma mater, in October.
“Between the first Pakistani win at the Grammys, the first Pakistani film to be selected at the Cannes Film Festival, a Pakistani song topping the most-searched list on Google, local actors featured in international series, and the highest-grossing film in the history of Pakistani cinema, 2022 has been a banner year for Pakistani art,” observes Surbhi Gupta, South Asia Editor at New Lines magazine.
Back to Fareed Ayaz Abu Muhammad and Brothers, who finally obtained their U.S. visas. The Pakistani Association of Greater Boston booked them for a performance on November 25 at a suburb 35 miles west of Boston. By the time I tried getting tickets the show was sold out. Our Southasian network came to the rescue and after a flurry of WhatsApp messaging, I had secured a spot for an evening of qawwali.
A low stage with a resplendent white, pink, and gold backdrop at one end of a large hall lit with crystal-like light fixtures and a central chandelier set the mood. A multigenerational audience in an array of outfits ranging from shalwar suits, chooridar pyjamas, suits, saris, ridas, sherwanis and a variety of caps lined up for the entry wristbands. Many, like me, had stoles draped over one or both shoulders — men, as well as women.
No one seemed fazed by the announcement that the 7pm show would start at 7:45 pm. The extra time provided an opportunity to catch up with old friends or find connections with new ones over food being sold in another hall.
Besides the biryani, kebabs, samosa-chole-yogurt combo boxes for sale, there was complimentary tea, mithai (sweets), and a make-it-yourself paan station with fresh betel leaf, jars of red and green goop, fennel seed-based dry mix and a tiny round box of chuna or slaked lime. No instruction sheet.
While I’ve enjoyed many a meetha (sweet) paan and watched them being prepared, the DIY version didn’t go well. I spooned the ingredients onto the leaf alright, but when it came to chuna, I dropped a large blob instead of slapping a hint of it on the leaf. The stinging sensation at a corner of my mouth lasted for days despite the rasmalai I immediately gobbled as an antidote.
In the food line I met Rupesh and his partner who had driven over an hour for the event. Rupesh’s love of qawwali began in his hometown Hyderabad, India, where he attended many performances. In contrast, this was the first live qawwali for Faaiz from Lahore, a recent college graduate in the Boston area. He had only experienced qawwali on YouTube so far. In the six years he has been away, however, live qawwali shows have become popular with his friends back home. The generation gap leapt out when I mentioned Amar Akbar Anthony. He had never heard of this popular 1970s Hindi film featuring the qawwali-based hit song Parda hai Parda.
Most tickets, like mine, had no assigned seating. Someone announced that the two front rows directly in front of the stage were ‘reserved for VIPs’. Given the global propensity to equate money with importance, this meant those who had bought the more expensive tickets.
The level floor made it difficult for people at the back of the hall to see the stage, and many got up to find a better view. Some lined up along the sides of the hall, while a few went and sat on cushions in front of the stage. Some like me stood at the back of the room.
The qawwals were still warming up when a young man in black drew attention by getting up from his seat and dancing, waving his hands with loud ‘waah, waahs’. After a few minutes, Fareed Ayaz addressed the him directly with a good humoured but firm ‘aap baith jaiye’ (please sit). Clearly, this level of enthusiasm was out of sync at this stage of the qawwali session.
I understood from this mild admonition early in the performance that the audience needs to follow the qawwals’ cues. Each song progresses to a crescendo, leading towards the qawwali’s climax. The audience too must experience the music internally before expressing themselves outwardly. In the sufi tradition the musician strives to achieve a union of the self with the spiritual through the medium of music.
Also, as my friend Pratyush noted, qawwalis sung at the beginning of the program are devotional, moving to the more popular and well known songs later.
The qawwals engaged in powerful singing for over two hours interspersed with an enunciation of specific lyrics and phrases. With only a basic knowledge of Urdu I couldn’t catch all the meanings and nuances of the layered poetry – but not to worry, I told myself, can always catch up through a YouTube video.
The main vocalists Fareed Ayaz and Abu Muhammad also made space for other members of the troupe to sing solo. The audience responded to the rhythm of the tabla, the dholak and the clapping with raised arms, hands slightly bent at the wrist. This steadily built up to clapping. Many started to stand and move rhythmically in place. The enthusiastic young man in black saw that it was safe to get up and start dancing again.
One ways of expressing appreciation to the qawwals is presenting them respectfully with currency notes. Many approached the stage, some multiple times, sometimes taking others along with them.
As always, Dama Dam Mast Qalandar at the end of the evening got just about everyone up and moving. I first heard the Bangladeshi singer Runa Laila’s rendition of this beloved song, but there are so many versions and variations available to enjoy.
This was a special evening not just because I was able to watch a live performance of the qawwals that I greatly admire but also because I experienced firsthand how the music connects and elevates us. Thanksgiving break in the USA is marked by large family gatherings that more recent immigrants like me miss. Being with fellow qawwali lovers from the Southasian diaspora that weekend more than made up for any feeling of deprivation.
I wonder which music video I will obsessively watch next. Any recommendations?
Born in Dehradun, India, where she grew up, Manisha Sharma has lived in the Boston area for over two decades. She works as a consumer insights professional and attempts to stay engaged with South Asian issues, causes, and culture.
Note on Southasia as one word: Following the lead of Himal Southasian, Sapan uses ‘Southasia’ as one word, “seeking to restore some of the historical unity of our common living space, without wishing any violence on the existing nation states”. Writing Sapan like this rather than all caps makes it a word that means ‘dream’.