In the land where the mountains breathe poetry and rivers hum lullabies; a voice once rose with the scent of spring and the ache of centuries. That voice, which belonged to Gulam Nabi Bulbul, fell silent yesterday—and with it, something within Kashmir itself turned to silence. His departure is not merely the death of an artist, but the dimming of a torch that lit up the cultural corridors of a wounded yet resilient civilization.
Born in 1949 in the serene village of Batsum, Gulam Nabi Bulbul was not just another child of Kashmir. He was its echo, its rhythm, its song. Long before the world would come to know him as a master of folk tradition, the whisper of his destiny was carried in the breeze that rustled through his village fields. In a region where art was both a refuge and a form of remembrance, Bulbul instinctively found his way to music—not as a career, but as a calling.
His story reads like folklore. In the early sixties, a young, untrained boy from a modest background was called upon to perform before Education Minister Sham Lal Saraf during the Jashn-e-Kashmir cultural festival. Armed with nothing but raw passion, Bulbul stunned the gathering with his performance of Kral Koor. That performance wasn’t just a boy’s debut—it was Kashmir asserting its melodic heart through one of its own.
It didn’t take long for his talent to find a mentor. Under the rigorous yet affectionate guidance of Khazir Mohammad Shah, a rabab maestro of local renown, Bulbul was initiated into the deeper, sacred domains of Kashmiri music. From those lessons sprang an artist who would go on to become one of the most authentic voices of the valley—sensitive, spiritual, and steeped in tradition.
Bulbul’s journey was not defined by glamour or grandeur, but by grace. He played the sarangi not merely with technique but with feeling. It seemed as though the strings vibrated not with notes but with memories. His music was not entertainment; it was an act of cultural preservation, a sacred thread tying the present to the past.
As a dancer too, Bulbul redefined performance. His command over Bacha Nagma, an intricate and fading folk tradition, was unrivalled. When he balanced a glass of water on his head while dancing, it wasn’t a gimmick—it was a metaphor for the equilibrium between art and discipline, heritage and humility. His stage presence was magnetic, yet he remained remarkably grounded, never allowing applause to eclipse his mission.
Bulbul’s art was holistic—a fusion of voice, movement, and instrument. Each concert was a total experience, a journey that transported the listener into the emotional fabric of Kashmiri life. Whether he sang of love, longing, or loss, the audience felt every note in the marrow of their bones. His song “Tresh Chete Shah Kule Jigar Phule lu lu” is still remembered as a folk anthem, reverberating across generations like an old prayer carried on the wind.
Yet, what made Gulam Nabi Bulbul truly extraordinary was not only his art, but his intent. He wasn’t interested in trends, nor was he seduced by commercial success. At a time when musical traditions across India were giving way to digital facades and marketable gloss, Bulbul remained fiercely loyal to the soil he came from. He continued to sing using traditional instruments—sarangi, rabab, harmonium—and refused to dilute his sound with artificial modernity. In doing so, he became a cultural custodian, a living archive of Kashmir’s spiritual and artistic soul.
But preservation was not enough. He also passed on what he had learned. Through mentoring aspiring musicians like Gulzar Ahmad Ganai and Manzoor Ahmad Shah, Bulbul ensured that the folk flame would not extinguish with him. He was not just a performer; he was a teacher, a mentor, a guide. And in those he mentored, he lives on—not as memory, but as practice.
As his reputation spread beyond the valley, he became a regular presence on Radio Kashmir, the same airwaves that carried warmth into the hearths of countless households. His voice became part of the collective soundscape of a people torn by conflict but united by culture. He sang in Delhi and Bombay, but no matter the venue, he sang for Kashmir, from Kashmir, as Kashmir.
In his final years, Bulbul remained a figure of immense dignity. He watched as newer forms of music gained ground, often shallow and detached from heritage. He mourned the diminishing presence of Bacha Nagma, lamented the disappearance of folk rituals from weddings and festivals, and spoke often of the responsibility that came with being an artist in times of change. Yet he did not resist the future with bitterness. Instead, he doubled down on his mission—to preserve what could be preserved and to pass down what could be passed down.
And now he is gone. With his passing, Kashmir loses not only a singer but a symbol. A bridge between generations, a flame in the fog. In a region where identity has often been contested and fragmented, Bulbul offered a cohesive language—music. And his was a music that knew no division. It could be heard by the shepherds in Gurez and the scholars in Srinagar alike. It spoke to both the devout and the wandering, the young and the old.
The valley today is quieter, not just because of his absence, but because it has lost one of its most eloquent voices. But grief, in this case, is not silence—it is a song remembered. It is a tune hummed by someone walking by the Jhelum, a note lingering in an old radio, a line of Kral Koor whispered by a child too young to know who first sang it.
Bulbul has returned to the dust of his beloved valley, but he has not vanished. His music, etched in the collective heart of Kashmir, will continue to live—not just in recordings and tributes, but in the soul of a people who understand that to sing is to survive, and to remember is to resist.
Farewell, Bulbul of Kashmir. The night may have claimed your voice, but the dawn will echo with your songs for many lifetimes to come.
(Author is RK columnist and can be reached at: [email protected])
