THE weather here is pleasant, and it has been raining since morning. Bashir Baloch, the well-known folk singer of the city — he has so far been given 132 awards, including two presidential awards, over his career — sits gloomily at his residence. There is no one else in the room; just him and his awards.

In his highly conservative area of Killi Deba, situated in the heart of the city, I humbly request him to sing a song of his favourite singer. After some thought, and trying to bring some semblance of a smile on his lips, he agrees to sing one of Lata Mangeshkar’s songs. As he finishes, he tells me: “You know, I came to know about her at the age of 7, and liked her work so much that I started singing her songs at the age of 11.”

In his vicinity, almost everyone knows Bashir Baloch. Had that not been the case, the narrow alleys leading to his impoverished house would be hard to navigate correctly. “I was recently at the Chief Minister House from 11am to 9pm,” he continues. “I was promised a meeting with Chief Minister Abdul Quddus Bizenjo, but unfortunately he was busy the whole day. Finally, I pleaded to be allowed to come back home. He could not take out even five minutes for a meeting with me.”

Gone are the days when Bashir Baloch would, besides other programmes, be regularly invited on Radio Pakistan and PTV-Bolan, the state-run TV channel. With the remuneration he received, he supported his family.

But then, explains Baloch writer Waheed Zaheer, the private TV channel boom occurred after the turn of the millennium, followed by the social media revolution. “Now, there are channels after channels, so who will watch Bashir Baloch on PTV-Bolan, or listen to him on Radio Pakistan?” asks Zaheer. “Times have changed.”

Bashir Baloch has seven children and his eldest daughter is 16. The family lives hand to mouth. There is someone, he says, by the name of Nisar Shahwani who enrolled his children at a school in Deba, and also sends wheat for his family annually. “Had Nisar not stretched out his hand, I would not have been able to even send my children to school,” the singer says.

Besides Balochi and Brahui, he sings in six languages; singing is his life. In Balochistan and elsewhere in the country, Bashir Baloch says he has been respected wherever he has gone. People always know him, he says, and several people he has met in recent times have given him money despite the fact that they themselves were hard up. “What I need is some sort of official support from the government, so that I may continue my singing and financially support my family,” he explains. “As a folk singer, I think I should not be asking for financial assistance. But what else I can do? If this doesn’t happen, I will die from hunger along with the children.”

It is said that at the time of the 1965 war between India and Pakistan, singer Madam Noor Jehan boosted the morale of the armed forces, which made her even more popular. “That is what inspired me, too, as a singer,” says Bashir Baloch. “I did sing those songs of hers with a lot of interest, because Pakistan is my motherland.”

Folk singing is a herculean task. Among thousands, it is said, one folk singer is born. In a stunted society such as ours, they are unfortunately born to suffer endlessly. According to former Balochi Academy chairman Abdul Wahid Bandeeg, all of Balochistan’s folk singers’ story is the same as that of Bashir Baloch. “There is no end to their economic sufferings,” Bandeeg says.

Echoing this claim, Bashir Baloch says he would happily sing, but he has had to finally give up. There are, according to him, some 20 more folk singers in Quetta who are facing the same fate as his, but they are suffering silently. “I am not brave like them,” he says, his eyes brimming with tears. “They suffer, they sing, and they keep silent. I am shamelessly running from pillar to post for some financial assistance.”

Published in Dawn, May 1st, 2018