Naeem Hussain, 70, considers himself to be the only true shehnai player in Pakistan. As he performs Amir Khusro's kalam in his humble dwellings in Karachi's largest slum, Orangi, it seems as if he is playing the last tune of his life, the wailing note of his reed echoing with neglect.
Hussain rarely plays anymore because traditional instruments, especially the shehnai and sarangi, are dying out. 'Just look at my sad state here,' he says, pointing around his room where the off-white paint is peeling. 'By God's grace I've performed the world over, but today I'm struggling to pass the last days of my life in peace. There are times when I don't even have enough food on the table for my family.”
A disciple of India's late shehnai maestro Ustad Bismillah Khan, Hussain should be imparting his musical knowledge to the musical geniuses of tomorrow. But that is not to be. 'I'm hidden here from the rest of the world and the talent on which I've worked so hard for decades is about to die with me,' he says.
Sarangi player Akhtar Hussain is another musician struggling through trying times without any government support. He has taken shelter with his teenaged son in a small quarter at an imambargah in Karachi. 'Sarangi players are not dying out in Pakistan - the truth is that they have already died out,' says the 50-year-old. 'I can be considered the last one in the country, but even I'm nearing my end.'
Setting his sarangi aside, Akhtar Hussain complains that the government does not have any schemes through which to support classical musicians. 'The government would rather promote cricketers and sportsmen. Even when they do support musicians, they give financial aid to those who already own big bungalows and fancy cars,' says the asthmatic musician bitterly.
Along with musicians, the craftsmen who make traditional instruments are facing hard times. Zafar Ali is one rare individual in a city of 17 million people who can make a string-based classical instrument, including the sarangi. He now works at a small workshop in the National Academy of Performing Arts in Karachi for a meager salary of 5,000 rupees per month.
'I earn twice as much by working as a functionary at a public university,' says Ali. 'But even then it becomes difficult for me to support my five children,' he adds. 'I've been making classical instruments for the last three decades. Years ago, I would make four sitars per month and earn a decent amount. But now most of my work entails repairing instruments for the few people who still play or learn classical music. I haven't received an order for a new sitar in the past three years.'
Interestingly, there is one traditional instrument that has been spared the ravages of time. Pervaiz, who owns a small shop in Karachi's Tabla Gali, says that he sells between eight and 10 pairs of tablas per month. 'Over the decades, I have seen an increase in the sale of my hand-based classical drum instruments such as the tabla, dhol, and naal.' Hussain, another tabla craftsman, agreed that the instruments continue to sell well.
Septuagenarian tabla player Ashiq Khan, who performs at a five-star hotel for 6,000 rupees per month, has a theory about the tabla's ongoing popularity. He says youngsters today prefer learning the tabla, sitar and guitar over instruments like the shehnai because they know that by learning a few basics they can form their own band and start churning out marketable songs. Gulab Khan, who was formerly Abida Parveen's tabla player, agrees 'Newcomers aren't willing to learn the complete intricacies of the instrument, and apart from a few, most are just interested in making a quick buck.'
The other reason why tabla remains popular is that younger audiences have become familiar with its sound because of its frequent use by local pop bands. Junoon, which often used the tabla and dhol in pop-rock tunes, is a case in point.
For the most part, classical purists look down on such pop acts and term their fusion of instruments a 'confusion'. But sitar player Sajid Hussain concedes that the masses do become familiar with the sound of classical instruments through such collaborations. 'There aren't many people, especially among the younger generations, who know how a sarangi or shehnai sounds,' he says. 'When people see the tabla or sitar on their TV screens every now and then, they get familiar with its sound and sometimes they become interested in learning the instrument.'
Recently, Lahore-based bands such as Overload and the Mekaal Hasan Band have used the dhol and bansuri (flute), respectively, in their music. An upcoming band in Karachi, Taal Karisma, is also experimenting with sarangi in their fusion-based tunes. But traditional instruments will need more than a few fusion hits to keep going.
One has only to look across the border to see how pop music works side by side with classical music. In India, proper institutions nurture and promote classical music and performers are encouraged to do shows on radio and television. In Pakistan, however, state-owned and private broadcasters have absolved themselves of the responsibility to promote classical music.
'The broadcasters can call us at least once a month,' argues shehnai player Hussain. 'I haven't played for the state broadcasters in around 10 years. Meanwhile, private TV channels never called me back when I approached them. They only promote mediocrity in the name of pop now. Why can't they promote their own culture and tradition?'
Resentment fueled by a lack of opportunities often boils over as anger towards pop music. 'Pop is the murderer of music,' says sarangi player Akhtar Hussain. 'Those who play Western instruments are an untrained lot. I've spent 32 years of my life practicing my art and the strings of my instrument have cut deep into my fingernails, yet what do I get for my hard work? Nothing.'
If this state of affairs continues, the sighs and laments of traditional musicians may just replace the sounds of sarangi and shehnai tunes across the Pakistani soundscape.
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