The art of Qawwali

He whirls slowly but unsteadily at first-like a pirouetting dervish intoxicated with the very rhythm that moves him-in concert with the rising and falling intonations. At once harmonious and cacophonous, the overpowering music builds, as the man moves faster, while the credence seemingly accommodates, impossibly in sync.

The heady mixture of music and sanctity is mesmerising. And as the rhythms reach their crescendo, the rapidly twirling blur now collapses to a heap on the floor, fulfilled in a haze of man, music and mysticism.

From Bhajans to gospel choirs, that music moves the spirit is a notion steeped in the very foundations of the human consciousness.

Though fictionalised, these are events that have unfolded where a soulful, gritty and undiluted ancient mystical musical art is practised-anywhere where Qawwali is still sung from the heart.

With its distinctive chorus, Qawwali is instantly recognizable. But its much less commonly explored. If not an enigma, then the qawwali is still a flavour on the fringes of the mainstream interest.

Here in Pakistan, the last bastion of the authentic Qawwali, we still have much to appreciate and celebrate in an art simultaneously at its evolutionary zenith and its twilight.

Qawwali grew out of what are generally considered to be the efforts of one man, Amir Khusrau Dehalvi. Khusrau, a musical prodigy, is held in such high esteem that he is regarded by many (although almost certainly apocryphally) to be the inventor of both the Sitar and the Tabla, the very foundations of Indian classical music.

He was yet another unusual man amongst the mix that made up the decidedly unorthodox followers of the renowned Sufi Nizamuddin Auylia, a famous disciple of Baba Farid Shakar Ganj. Nizamuddin’s khanqah in Delhi, used music-to the consternation of many- to great effect in spreading the message of the Chisti Sufi order. It is little wonder then, that it was under this liberal patronage here that perhaps one of the most innovative of Asian musical styles came together.

The importance of Nizamuddin in Khusrau’s life is the stuff of legend, and his most famous qawwali rung, ascribed to him when he was just twelve years old, having just met Nizamuddin for the first time, and having decided to pledge allegiance to him as a disciple.


Aan pari darbaar tehaaray,
Mori laaj saram sab rakh lay;
Tu to saaheb mera Mehboob-e-Ilaahi,
Mohay apnay hi rung mein rung lay.
I have come and fallen at your door step,
For you to safeguard my pride, my dignity,
You are my man, Oh beloved of Almighty,
Dye me in your hue.


In this mileu of a staggering variety and diversity of languages, of musical styles and backgrounds, Khausaru began the distillation that eventually led to the formal style of qawwali emerging. This fusion of Persian poetic traditions, Indian classical music, rendered in Hindvi-the language of the masses-found ready success. The pulsating verve and mesmerising form won zealous devotees as it developed into a means of becoming gharq—the final stage of a sufi, parallel to the Buddhist nirvana—amongst sufi orders.

These are roots that remain pertinent to the art today. Qawwalis speak metaphorically on life, love and divinity. Speaking of the wedding day, of ishq, and rather famously, of intoxication, the narrative is in a style that is
characteristically the domain of the sufi.

With the waning of the movement, came an ossification of Qawwali, and it now remains remarkably archaic. To this day, a remarkable number of the Qawwalis performed today are ones that are thought to have been written by Amir Khusrau or his contemporaries.

And yet, for all its historic roots and an almost article-of-faith sufiana importance what makes Qawwali resonate with so many is how these are merely superfluous details, appendages unneeded to appreciate this enchanting and almost hypnotic experience.

The poetry is elegantly minimalistic- saturated with rustic, earthy and often almost mundane symbols tied together in a language that is effortlessly eloquent and simple.

The rhythm brings the poetry to life, quivering with the soul of the mehfil-the listeners. The intimate interaction between the audience and the performers blurs the line between the two. Unfettered by the inadequacies of the spoken word the atmosphere comes to encapsulate a greater meaning and significance. Improvising, repeating stanzas and dipping into there own repertoires of poetry, the qawwals mould the pliant form. With extemporisations both obvious and nuanced, these poignant verses come to take on a life of their own- no two Qawwalis ever being quite the same.

As the credence builds, and the rhythm moves faster, the tremulous notes reach a soul singeing crescendo. Carried along in this inertial deluge of poignant, resonating music is an exhilarating, ecstatic experience, one that establishes-momentarily at least-a new, novel paradigm. And you come to appreciate why what you are witnessing, this forceful symbiosis of music and man, has for so long been considered a form of meditative supplication, through which so many strove to achieve a higher plane, even a means to gain closeness with god.

It was this especial universality that made Nusrat Fateh Ali gain adulations from such an eclectic mix of enthusiasts. The halls of the University of Washington, among others, resounded with sustained applause not merely in appreciation of the virtuoso that Nusrat was, but also in admiration for an experience that is inimitably exhilarating in an idiom that knows no borders. Perhaps a testament as great as any to an art that began as a means of spreading the message of universal love.

In an epoch where contemporary music for its meaninglessness is so
ubiquitous, qawwali is like coming up for air. With rhythm weaved into its very fabric and the words that touch the heart. For despite their earthy simplicity, qawwalis speak with a language of similitudes a deep profundity. They say the best poetry is one which you learn from whenever it’s read, and as the undulating tones of a qawwali touch the very soul of your being, its easy enough to feel you grow a bit every time.

Today Qawwali, like so many classical arts, dies a slow death. Most of it twisted beyond recognition by the forces of contemporisation, what is probably the last generation of true Qawwals, appeal to a rapidly shrinking group of enthusiasts. Schools (gharans), that proudly trace their lineage to the original ‘Qawwal bacchon ka gharana’ established by Khusrau, now seem doomed by our modern obsession with all things superficial. Its heart rending to realise that this art, over seven centuries old, linked inextricably to a period of great thought and religious renaissance- will soon cease to exist, probably in our own lifetimes.