October 24, 2004

Meandering through the crowded, garbage-strewn streets of Ranchhore Line, one of Karachi’s most densely populated neighbourhoods and little more than a giant slum, spiritual enlightenment is the last thing on one’s mind. Here, amongst the kids in the streets and the cracks in the walls, nestled in between crumbling pre-Partition buildings and overflowing gutters lie the keepers of one the subcontinent’s most revered musical traditions: qawwali. This area houses perhaps the greatest number of traditional qawwal families in the entire country. Bahauddin Qawwal, Farid Ayaz and the Niazi clan (all related) live right next to each other, while Zaki Taji Qawwal lives down the street. It is said that Anis-Khalique Nizami are also in the same neighbourhood.

But far from tracing qawwal bloodlines, Images set out to discover just what was happening to qawwali. To the uninitiated, qawwali might sound like little more than a pseudo-spiritual rumpus, but for those who see it with the mind’s eye as a refined form of higher learning, qawwali can be a route to spiritual ecstasy. An ancient art form that traces its roots to a little after the advent of Islam, chaste qawwali, today, is dying. It is being replaced by a highly commercialized, shabbily put together hybrid which mixes elements of real qawwali, eastern classical music, ghazal and pop. The inexperienced may be fooled, but for those who are associated with Sufi silsilay (orders) or simply have an appetite for the real thing, the current state of affairs is troubling.

 

‘The form of qawwali that is most faithful to sama is being practised in Pakistan. Indian qawwali has more of a filmi character. It is more of a muqabla between ladies and gentlemen. That is not the qawwali of our spiritual masters. In fact, that’s not even qawwali,’ says Zamman Zaki Taji

 

Qawwali itself is a watered down version of sama (which in Arabic means to listen). Though not quite secular in nature, according to most purists, the criterion that distinguishes qawwali from sama is that a qawwali can happen anywhere, whereas sama is almost always performed at Sufi khanqas or astanas. And while almost anyone can attend a qawwali, those who attend sama are a more select group, with a higher understanding of the sacred. Thus the argument pops up: is sama elitist? In a word, yes, for to quote Maulana Jalaleddin Rumi: ‘Tumaye har murgh ra injeer naist,’ (‘the fig is not fit for every bird’). But then, if it wasn’t for the magnetic power of qawwali, one assumes it would have been a tad more difficult for wave upon wave of native Indians to convert to Islam during the days of the Delhi Sultanate, roughly 800 years ago.

It is almost universally accepted that sama, and not the sabre, helped spread Islam throughout the Indian subcontinent. And despite what some revisionist historians might have you believe, it was not the Muslim kings but Sufi Shaikhs who helped proselytize the faith in India. While the kings were more concerned with politics and statecraft, the primary goal of the Sufis was to win over hearts. And the primary weapon of the Sufis was sama, as the locals already had an affinity for music. Combining verses from the Holy Quran, sayings of the Holy Prophet (Peace be upon him) and other religious figures with spiritual poetry and often composing parallel lyrics in local languages, the early Sufis commenced their tableegh.

And of the early Sufi spiritual masters, perhaps the greatest name is that of Hazrat Khawaja Moinuddin Hasan Chishty (RZ), better known as Ghareeb Nawaz. Dubbed Sultan-ul-Hind and Hind-ul-Wali (representative of the faith in Hindustan), Khawaja Sahib laid the foundation of sama in the Indian subcontinent at his khanqa (a sort of spiritual centre) in the desert city of Ajmer, then the bastion of Prithvi Raj Chouhan’s power. To this day, sama is still performed at the dargah in Ajmer in the way that it was heard by Khawaja Sahib and his contemporaries: in a style known as karka, with a simple dholak beat and poetry sung in early Hindustani (with shades of Brij Bhasha).

Sama evolved further in the following decades under the influence of Hazrat Ameer Khusrau, court musician of the Turkish Sultan of Delhi, Alauddin Khilji, and more importantly, the disciple of another great Chishty Sufi master, Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, Mehboob-i-Illahi (RZ). Ameer Khusrau helped give qawwali the form it has today, establishing the musical metres and composing the immortal lines that are to this day recited the world over by qawwals of all hues and affiliations. Khusrau’s Badhawa, Rang and Qaul (based on the hadith of the Holy Prophet (PBUH), ‘Man Kunto Maula, Fa Haza Ali un Maula’), have survived through the centuries and helped transport countless devotees into a spiritual state known as wajd, where one often loses oneself in realization of the Almighty, or as the late German authority on Sufism, Annemarie Schimmel, so beautifully put it, into “the ocean of the soul.”

But the wisdom of our spiritual masters seems to be a thing of the past. Today, the traditional sama is being wiped out and qawwali, as we once knew it, is on its deathbed. What remains makes qawwali purists (the few left) bury their heads in shame. What is wrong? For one, the level of poetry has plummeted. Qawwali was once an art-form where one could cut his or her teeth on chaste Arabic or Persian. Now, almost anything goes, as poets are a dime-a-dozen. Appalling lyrics, some only a little better than cheap Indian film lines, and poetry that strays into ghuluw (exaggeration) territory is more and more common. The orthodox ulema have always looked down upon sama and while the Sufi masters of old had the wisdom to counter their objections, the present crop of mostly pseudo-Sufis hardly have tangible answers.

Today, qawwali is used at times as an exotic entertainment tool by corporations and five-star hotels. Sama in luxurious surroundings, attended by men in expensive designer suits and women made up to the hilt, would surely vex the humble men of God who devised this form for the spread of the good word. If qawwali is surviving, it is at handful authentic khanqas, for there is no dearth of fake pirs in this country. But what do the traditional qawwals, the ones who carry the burden of bringing qawwali through this troubled time, have to say?

Zaki Taji Qawwal of the Sikandarabad gharana, accompanied by his son Zamman Zaki Taji, is one of the senior-most qawwals of the country. The son starts off explaining what he thinks is happening to qawwali.

“The atmosphere has changed. At the astanas and dargas, one still gets to hear qawwali in the same vein as was heard at the dargah of Khawaja Ghareeb Nawaz. The khandani qawwals are carrying on the tradition of classical qawwali and I personally think qawwali has a very bright future. Yes, the number of qawwali purists may have declined, but they are still around and very passionate. But it’s true: today, true qawwali is restricted to the silsilas.”

But is today’s qawwali faithful to the spirit of sama, or has it transformed into something else?

“Yes, one can say it is not the same as the original sama, mainly because more and more non-khandani qawwals are coming into the picture. That’s not a bad thing, because everybody should get a chance to do what they want, but it should be very clear that that is not the qawwali of our forefathers,” Taji says.

By khandani qawwals, Taji goes on to explain that these are the descendants of the qawwal bachchay, a set of 12 young men who were taken under the wing of Ameer Khusrau, who personally instructed them in the art of qawwali. Surprisingly, considering the presence of the ancient khanqas in India, Zamman Taji observes that the state of qawwali is much worse in India than it is in Pakistan.

“Without a doubt, the form of qawwali that is most faithful to sama is being practised in Pakistan. Indian qawwali has more of a filmi character to it. It is more of a muqabla or competition between ladies and gentlemen. That is not the qawwali of our spiritual masters. In fact, that’s not even qawwali.”

A lot of qawwal parties have started adding modern instruments to their live setups. The instruments used in traditional qawwali are usually not more than a dhol, tablas, sitar and harmonium, known in qawwal parlance as a baja. Now, it is not uncommon to see synthesizers, drum machines and even bass guitars in the qawwal repertoire. Is this a good thing?

“Experimentation is always good. The thing is, the younger crowd is attracted by these instruments. Today, if they are being pulled in by the lighter fare, maybe later they’ll start listening to the pure stuff as well. If you want to pull someone towards you, you have to first listen to what they have to say,” the younger Taji says.

“But these modern instruments never are and never should be used when performing at the khanqas,” cautions Zaki Taji.

As for comparing the poetry of spiritual masters past and the poets of today, the elder Taji is resolute that there is no competition.

“Take, for instance, the famous na’at written by Ghareeb Nawaz, Janaan-i-ma-Muhammad (Peace be upon him). To this day, after so many centuries, it still has a magnetic pull to it. It was written with purity of heart. The kalaams of our Sufi masters have such sweetness that modern poetry cannot compete. When we record a qawwali written by a modern poet, at the most it is remembered for about six months to a year. This has survived for 800 years.”

Classical qawwali has nearly always been performed in Persian or Hindi. But that trend, too, is changing, with qawwalis being rendered in extremely pedestrian Urdu. What say the qawwals?

“The purists still demand to listen to qawwali in farsi. If there are only 100 true listeners and 900 non-listeners, we’d rather have the respect and appreciation of those 100 over the 900 any day. This silsila of sama is ancient, and is not going to die just yet,” sums up Zamman Zaki Taji.

Bahauddin Qawwal, recipient of the Tamgha-i-Imtiaz, is another senior-most qawwals of the country. Though now in frail health, he is still passionate and animated in his speech when talking about the state of qawwali.

“Qawwali is indeed on the rise, but at the same time, its face is being disfigured more and more. In its essence, qawwali is a mode of communication to express peace and love to the world. Some elements are trying to modernize qawwali, when most people in the subcontinent want to hear qawwali in its original form. I’ve toured the world, and all over the demand is for qawwali as it was performed in the time of Ameer Khusrau. Today, there is an effort to transform qawwali into a mere ruckus; something for nach, kood. I don’t like taking names, but if you perform qawwali in a disco or pop format and sing lyrics like ‘mere naal pyar kar lai,’ that’s not qawwali, that’s disco,” the senior qawwal observes. “If people stand up and start singing qawwali, what’s the difference between it and nach gana?”

Through the mouths of its own master practitioners, qawwali seems to have a mixed future ahead. While mainstream qawwali — the proverbial music for the masses — might be on the rise (admittedly, ARY’s QTV has devoted a fair share of its broadcast day to airing qawwalis), sama, the immortal voice of the Sufi soul, may just be ready for fana, or annihilation. When qawwals start dressing up in gaudy costumes not much different from rock stars; when the spiritual essence of qawwali is lost and it is turned into a mere pop spectacle, perhaps the end is near. But like tasawwuf itself, it shall survive in one form or another, as latent energy brewing at the edge of the subconscious, waiting to be discovered by the true seeker. Ultimately, the state of qawwali can best be summed up in the following dhoha of Khusrau’s, uttered when the sage arrived in Delhi to find that his beloved spiritual master, Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, had passed away into the hereafter: ‘Gori sovay sej par, mukh par daaray kes, Chal Khusrau ghar aapnay, saanjh bhayee chahu des,’ [the fair maiden rests on the wreath (of roses), her tresses covering her face. Let us, Oh Khusrau go back now, the dark dusk settles in four corners].

‘Images’ would like to acknowledge the contribution of Mr Tauseef Ansari to this piece. Without his invaluable coordination, it would have been extremely difficult contacting the respective qawwals

Please Visit our Sponsor (Ads open in separate window)