Music of the Soul

A narrow dimly lit lane leads to the hovel where Qasim Miyan stays with his wife and children. Qasim met me at a mushaira and invited me to his home during Ramzan. Qasim was a Sufi Qawaal with a clear leaning towards ‘mausiqui’, the spiritual part of Sufism.

So on the 19th day of Ramzan, come iftar, Qasim and I partook a frugal meal of dates and milk. We later sat and discussed music and as he spoke his face transformed, a glow seemed to wipe away all his wrinkles and his eyes took a faraway look. He spoke of the nuances of shayari, how ashiqui (the ode to the beloved) transcended to mausiqui. How the great shayars through out time had a personal relationship with the almighty and how for them there was no difference between pursuing a consort or communicating with the almighty.

It was getting dark and Qasim called one of his sons to get a few lamps. In the flickering light of the lamps I saw Qasim sit in a corner, faintly clicking his fingers and nodding to some tune that was playing in his head. He signaled his sons, a mere flick of a finger, and with perfect understanding they trooped in with a set of tablas and a harmonium. They handed Qasim a sarangi and soon all three were busy tapping and tuning their instruments. I just sat back, waiting for the music to begin. As he sat tuning his sarangi, Qasim looked up and said;

“bhaijaan, hum sub toh thaireh qawaal, humare ehsaas hi hamare ruh ki jabaan hain, aur yeh ruh hi hamari sachayi hain (brother, we are just qawaals, feelings are the language of our soul and our soul is our truth). You see poverty all around me but do you not see my feelings that are overflowing straight from my soul, do you not see how my feelings are reaching out and speaking with the almighty and how that truth is the real essence of my existence, my soul…”

With these whispered words he began to sing a couplet by Khusrau. In the flickering light of the lamps his face was lit up, the tiny beads of sweat glittered like some shining jewels. His fingers flew over the strings of his sarangi and every once in a while his hands would abandon the sarangi and reach out towards the sky entreating the almighty to accept some offering, his fingers weaving in the air, sometimes beseeching, sometimes urging. His voice reverberated through out the tiny room, his words swirled around, strangely echoing as they hit the walls and returned to envelope me again and again. The flames danced as if swinging to the words…. Rumi followed Khusrau, then came Niaz, Hafiz, Hasraf Mohani, Zaheen Shah…. All words straight from the very soul, all words of absolute truth… they talked of submission, of bewilderment, of the almighty’s power and his grace, his beauty and his mercy. The tiny room seemed to expand and grow, the little flames danced till they seemed to light up the whole world, the music became a conversation between galaxies…. And I sat, unblinking and mute.

When I finally left Qasim Miyan’s little hovel I saw that hours had passed. Quite surprising really, I swear I felt I was in there for just a few moments….