The crescent moon, beamed down like a lopsided smiley face on the tastefully lit Nagaur Fort. It was apt that this perennial symbol of Islam should hold court for the resurrection of an ancient tradition – the durbar. A place that once formed the epicentre of the Sufi movement many centuries earlier, is now barely on the tourist trail in Rajasthan. Even people from Jodhpur, barely two hours away, smiled sheepishly, when asked if they’ve visited Nagaur. As the Sufi artists from India and beyond took the ancient stage in the large quadrangle of the fort with a long pillared hall as a backdrop, the centuries seemed to drop away with each passing note. The portly Maharaja of Jodhpur, sitting in the first row, clad in modest regality and a peak cap added that royal touch to the proceedings. Suddenly, we weren’t just commoners shivering in the biting two degree centigrade chill of the Rajasthan night. We were courtiers and ministers, visiting dignitaries and neighbouring monarchs, the crème de la crème. That is, until we stepped away from the intermittent handis of glowing coal embers. Then we were just cold, really really cold.
After the remarkable Meherangarh Fort restoration in Jodhpur, the Meherangarh Museum Trust, shifted focus to the slightly dilapidated but still fascinating Nagaur Fort. With Banyan Tree Events jumping on, the chisel and brush were joined by a colourful entourage of folk and Sufi musicians to let the world know that this fort was still alive and kicking.
After the invocation, sung acapella by a maulvi, the Manganiars, sons of the desert and performers of a rare strand in the Sufi genome, were the obvious choice to start the festival on the first day.
With characteristic vigour and surrender they ensured that this once-hallowed courtyard, silent for so long, reverberated with the soaring strains of Sufi Kalam. This spirited performance was followed by one, oozing with spirit.
Latif Bolat from Turkey, with only his baglama (a long-necked lute) for company, offered a stark contrast to the earlier group. While the music of the Manganiars was loud, robust and rousing, his was minimalistic, soulful and sedate. This intimate setting that he likes to create, offered him an opportunity to be the storytelling minstrel, employing the words of Turkish saints of yore. This of course, needs some translation but when you realise that the infinite has no language, you can comprehend the strange sounds, deep within, almost intuitively.
Bolat stayed on to join a ensemble cast of musicians, from Rajasthan and Delhi to provide an accompaniment to Dwani, a Kathak troupe led by Vashwati Mishra and Krishna Mohan, Birju Maharaj’s younger brother. While the core group of Kathak dancers were quite enchanting, in their subtle expressions and blurry, whirling pheras, the performance was often marred by two contemporary dancers hardly worth their tutus. As the two men pirouetted and tumbled in their tight tights, the dance segment that could so easily have been a welcome foil to all the brilliant music, ended up leaving a distinctly bitter aftertaste.
Luckily, some sugar was close at hand. Ustad Shujaat Husain Khan, sitar player, vocalist and son of the venerable Ustad Vilayat Khan was up next. Hailing from the Imdad Khan Gharana and practicing the style of gayaki ang, he was quick to warn us that he would not tread the beaten path, “Even I don’t know what I will play next.” And so he improvised, vocally and with strings, jumping scales and time signatures with an ease brought about by years of relentless riyaaz. And with three tabalchis forming a percussive arch around him, fervent nods and knowing isharas were all that kept this curious group motoring on, with minimal errors. The incredibly popular Ajmeri brothers (Shameen and Nayeem), on stage by the end of the short dinner break, built their case, layer by layer, timing the explosion almost to perfection, to the last late lateef shuffling into his seat. When it came, it was to the words of Allah, Allah, probably the best known and most loved Qawwali. The drone of the backing singers and musicians worked as an ideal foil to the brothers, contrasting in vocal styles and demeanour, allowing them to go off on their vocal jaunts, fingers pointing skywards, minds firmly focussed on channelling the Almighty.
As they concluded the calm descended once more in this antiquated compound, at least till the next evening.
Having arrived a little early to explore the many rooms, levels and labyrinthine of the palace buildings overlooking the quadrangle, one felt like Alice, running around in this sandstone wonderland, finding hidden treasures, basically giving an already fertile imagination a free run of things. Yet again, it felt like a merry jaunt back in time, especially with the azaan from distant mosques wafting through in a gentle echo.
As on the first day, the Sufi Durbar began with the Kalam of the Manganiyars of Rajasthan. This time they were led by that giant of a man, Kachchra Khan, so named to ward off the evil eye. Having run into him just before the performance, one couldn’t help revealing that his performances at Ruhaniyat had often coaxed tears to take a trip down the cheeks. “We are privileged to perform for you,” came the immediate reply, sincerity and spirituality shining through his smiling eyes.
Those same eyes, moist with devotion took the audience through one rendition after another, the kamayacha, sindhi sarangi, khadtaal and dholak all adding to that sweet spell of folk music. The hypnotic drone of Hafiza Begum Choudhuri and her group of women singers from the North East, offered a stark contrast, as they whispered through their performance like a gentle Assamese breeze.
Clad in the traditional Upper Egyptian galabiya (robes), a white turban, and talfiha (scarf) and at a little over six feet tall, Sheik Yassin El-Tohami isn’t someone you’d miss. As his group of backing musicians laid a foundation for his ethereal voice, the whole performance was like cooking the perfect biryani, with only the most gradual increases in temperature.
“My fasting is abstention from seeing any other
My iftar is that I am towards your Face returning”
Drawing from a sophisticated body of Sufi poetry, Sheik Yassin has a special like for Omar Ibn Al- Farid, a late 12th century, early 13th century Egyptian Sufi poet. As a munshid, there are few who can sing on the same platform as he. Not because he is the best singer, or the best musician or the best composer. The reason for his superiority, ironically is his humility. During the hour or so that he performed, it felt like you were taken from the darkness into the light, from the hopelessness of modern existence to the very gates of paradise, allowing you a brief gaze into the beyond. As a true man of God, he is wary of praise and does not take any credit for his profound gift, preferring to give all credit to his beloved Allah Al-Hayy (Allah the living).
After the sapping but wonderfully experiential performance, it would have been quite easy to write off any follow-up as a disappointment. But Barkat Sidhu had other plans. An exponent of the Patiala Gharana, he’s one of the few performers of Sufi Kalam in Punjabi. Drawing on the minds and words of poets like Bulle Shah and Shah Hussain, he’s a singing testament to the mindset of oneness that is prevalent among every performer at the Sufi Durbar.
The much travelled Nizami Brothers, Ghulam Sabir and Ghulam Waris, gave us a different flavour of Qawwali to mark the end of the inaugural Sufi Durbar.
With the kind of energy, love, devotion and skill that each of the artistes brought to the Nagaur Fort, it was easy to get lost in each performance and forget the larger picture. While the Sufi Durbar was a highly effective way to showcase the restoration work, even that wasn’t the larger picture.
It was the rebirth of an era, the dawn of a new cycle of music and mysticism, joining forces to unleash an energy rarely experienced. To say that the place did not contribute to this experience would be a gross injustice. The Naguar Fort was like the benevolent uncle, encouraging his wards, the musicians to reach the superlative heights that only those touched with an inner divinity can draw upon. As the courtyard, still under the crescent moon’s gaze, fell silent on the second day, it wasn’t the kind that left one feeling a hollow inside or a vague ringing in the ears. It was the silence of satisfaction, the silence of invisible loving vibes, the magnificent silence of the infinite.
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