WORLD MUSIC DAY
On June 21st, as dawn unfurls its golden tendrils across mountains and metropolises alike, the world pauses—if only briefly—to celebrate the oldest, most fluid language known to humanity: music. From the temples of Varanasi to the jazz clubs of New Orleans, from the steppes of Mongolia to the cathedrals of Europe, World Music Day is less a date on the calendar and more a collective heartbeat—one that thuds in rhythm with joy, grief, longing, love.
Across continents, instruments speak: sitar and saxophone, dafli and djembe, guitar and guzheng—each echoing a culture, a soul, a story. Amid this global orchestra, a question arises, quiet as snowfall in a forgotten orchard: Where does Kashmiri music stand today?
Not on performance charts or YouTube views, not in stage lights or sponsored reels, but in its true essence—where is the soul of Kashmiri music? Does it hum through the streets of Srinagar anymore? Does it stir in the dreams of young musicians? Or does it, like the old chinars, stand stoic and silent, losing leaf after leaf to time and neglect?
Kashmiri music has never merely been about entertainment. It is not a pastime; it is a presence. It is the voice of snow on pine needles, the murmur of willows in moonlight, the cry of a lone boatman in fog, and the sigh of saints meditating beside springs. It is both whisper and thunder, both cradle song and funeral dirge. It once lived in the breath of the people—like salt in the air, like silence after prayer.
Rooted in ancient spiritual and poetic traditions, this music was never an appendage but an artery—one that pulsed with Bhakti, Sufism, romance, and resistance. It drew its lifeblood from the vakhs of Lal Ded, the lyrics of Habba Khatoon, the ghazals of Rasul Mir. It absorbed Persian grace, Central Asian rhythms, and native soulfulness. Its instruments were not simply tools but extensions of the spirit—the santoor with its crystalline lilt, the sehtar and its veiled melancholy, the rabab with its dusty fire, the wasool like a heartbeat echoing through valleys.
In its golden age, the valley resounded with voices that carried history and heartache, sanctity and satire. Ghulam Hassan Sofi, with his dusky baritone, rendered the verses of Mehjoor and Rasul Mir into living laments. When he sang, it was as if the very earth paused to weep and listen. His voice carried within it the ache of dislocation, the scent of cypress groves, the longing for permanence in a world perpetually shifting.
Raj Begum, the nightingale of Kashmir, did more than sing—she claimed space for the feminine voice in a culture often hesitant to grant it. Her voice, delicate and defiant, captured the inner lives of Kashmiri women—their silent strength, their unspoken sorrows. She turned everyday grief into lyrical transcendence. Her renditions did not just echo through rooms; they entered the bloodstream of a people. With every note, she told women: you, too, belong to this music, this land, this history.
No reflection on Kashmiri music would be complete without naming Vijay Malla, Ghulam Nabi Sheikh, Kailash Mehra, Shamima Dev, Abdul Rashid Hafiz,(folk singer)Gulam Ahmed Sofi (Folk singer) ,Neerja Munshi and Arti Tiku—voices who straddled centuries. They made spiritual and Sufi poetry sing again in living rooms, shrines, and studios. They did not merely revive music—they redefined relevance. Shamima Dev infused her performances with emotional elegance. Vijay Malla, with his silken voice, exhumed the classical roots beneath popular renditions. Kailash Mehra brought bhakti poetry back into collective memory, where gods and humans conversed in melody.
And then there were the instrumental alchemists. Among them, none shone brighter than Pandit Bhajan Sopori. A man whose relationship with the santoor transcended musician and instrument; he was the prophet of sound. Under his fingers, the santoor didn’t just produce notes—it remembered, wept, meditated. He married Hindustani classical traditions with Kashmiri Sufiana maqam, blending ragas with rustic memory, devotion with experimentation. His son, Abhay Sopori, inherited not just the instrument but the mission. With bold collaborations and new compositions, he ensured that Kashmiri music would not be confined to nostalgia—it would breathe into future.
But many contributors stood not under the spotlight, but in the quiet devotion of everyday artistry—Ali Mohammad Sheikh, Ghulam Nabi Dolwal (Janbaaz), Pushkar Bhan, Naseem Akhtar. These names may not adorn billboards, but their voices once filled the homes of Radio Kashmir listeners—during war and peace, wedding and curfew. They were the cultural anchors of the everyday Kashmiri—the ones who gave voice to a people’s spirit when the streets had none.
Then came the 1990s. A decade of turmoil and tears. But even amidst the smoke of gunpowder and the silence of exile, music persisted—muted, yet unbroken. It found refuge in voices like Wheed Jeelani, Qasir Nizami, and Muneer Ahmed. They sang to an aching generation—songs of yearning, of belonging, of the homeland as memory. Qasir Nizami and Wheed Jeelani, in particular, became the sound of loss laced with love. Their voices wove exile and hope into elegies that could be hummed across continents.
A newer generation has since risen—Shazia Bashir, Raja Bilal, Kifayat Faheem, and others. They carry the delicate weight of legacy and the push of modernity. They have given old folk songs new breath, introduced urban audiences to rustic rhythms, and ensured that the Kashmiri language still finds room in melody. Yet even their voices, often drenched in techno-beats and hybrid genres, seem to be asking: can the old flavours survive in the glitter of new age mimicry?
Because the truth is bitter. Kashmiri music today exists more in remembrance than in reality. Its instruments gather dust. Its custodians die unsung. The santoor is no longer taught in schools. The rabab lies locked in storerooms. The wedding songs of the Gujjars and Bakarwals are fading with each passing season. The folk traditions are being outpaced—not by evolution, but by erasure. And it is not the fault of the youth alone.
The system has failed. Cultural institutions—once charged with preservation—now yawn in bureaucratic apathy. There are no state-sponsored archives. No fellowships for traditional musicians. No government-led efforts to digitize the vanishing treasures of Kashmiri melody. What was once heritage is now hearsay. Artists die waiting for pensions. Their songs live on only in frail cassettes, poorly stored vinyls, or in the memory of a fading generation.
And yet, not all is lost.
World Music Day, though celebrated globally with hashtags and hashtags, could still mean something deeper here in Kashmir. It could be a mirror—not to see ourselves in fame, but in reflection. It should not be a festival of consumption, but a day of cultural conscience. For we don’t need to ‘revive’ Kashmiri music as if it were a relic. We need to re-root it, like a sapling planted anew in fertile soil.
Let music return to shrines where once mystics sang. Let classrooms ring with both Beethoven and Bhajan Sopori. Let radio stations allocate space for raj-nama and ruf. Let old recordings be cleaned, digitized, distributed. Let awards be named after forgotten voices. Let pensions reach the living legends. Let young singers be trained not just in technique, but in tradition. Because a tradition without torchbearers becomes a tomb.
Revival is not nostalgia; it is necessity. Music is not accessory; it is identity. If Kashmir is to retain its cultural soul, it must first retrieve its song. And if we do not listen—really listen—we risk losing not just melodies, but meanings. Because to forget music is to forget memory. And to lose memory is to unmake a people.
Kashmiri music does not seek pity. It seeks presence. It does not ask for applause—it asks for engagement. It needs listeners who feel with the heart, not just hear with the ears. It needs young singers who carry the vakhs of Lal Ded and the sighs of Habba Khatoon like sacred flame—worthy, weathered, warm.
So today, as the world tunes into its chorus of cultures, let Kashmir’s note not go unheard. Let its music rise again—not as a fading refrain, but as a full-throated call. Let the Santoor play at dawn, let the Rabab whisper at dusk. Let folk songs echo from hills again. Let the silence of neglect be replaced by the sound of reverence.
Because some songs may sleep, but they do not die. All they need is for someone to sing them again.
(Author is RK Columnist and can be reached at: [email protected])
