Roshan Ara Begum visited Lahore, the music capital in Pakistan then, during her teens to participate in musical soirees held at the residences of affluent citizens and the aastana of Chun Peer in Mohalla Peer Gillaanian inside Mochi Gate. Another reason for her occasional visits to this city was to broadcast her songs from the then All India Radio Station, Lahore, and her name was announced as Bombaywali Roshan Ara Begum. She had acquired the popular nomenclature Bombaywali because she shifted to Bombay (now Mumbai) in the late 1930s from Calcutta, the place of her birth, to be near to Ustad Abdul Karim Khan from whom she took lessons in classical music for many years. I still remember her performance at Chun Peer’s abode in early 1941, when she pleasantly surprised local musical heavyweights and connoisseurs with her expertise in rendering classical compositions.

Possessing a rich, mature and mellifluous voice that could easily lend itself to the expression of a wide range of intricate classical asthai-antras, Roshan Ara employed her natural talent in the promotion of the art which requires a high degree of cultivation and training. Her singing was marked with a full-throated voice, short and delicate passages of sur (tones), lyricism, romantic appeal and swift taans. All these flourishes were combined in her unique style that reached its peak which was from 1947 to 1982. Her vigorous style of singing which was interspersed with bold strokes and perfect laykari, left no doubt that she was the greatest exponent of the Kirana gharana style of khayal singing after the demise of both her mentor Ustad Abdul Karim Khan and his equally talented cousin Ustad Abdul Waheed Khan.

Even before migrating to Pakistan, Roshan Ara Begum was acclaimed the best exponent of Kirana gharana style of khayal singing in the subcontinent. She embodied in her art all the exquisite tonal qualities and attributes of her mentor’s delicate style of classical vocalization. She was equally good at alap (step-by-step progression from one note to another) while delineating ragas, and also in taking breezy taans (flights) again in the strand of her ustad. She was very conscious of her dignity and status and never allowed herself to be emotionally swayed. But when the recording of her ustad’s music was played her eyes filled with tears.

An outstanding personality in the world of music, Roshan Ara Begum has aptly been called a phenomenon as her voice and its timbre, her creative musical intelligence and sensitivity had combined to produce perfect harmony. She had profound knowledge of the theory of classical music and practised this art for over 40 years. Roshan Ara Begum changed the course of Pakistani classical music by her masterly renditions and at the same time raised its status by endowing it with dignity, grace and glory.

Migrating to Pakistan in 1948, Roshan Ara Begum settled in Lalamusa, a small town almost mid-way between Lahore and Rawalpindi, a place to which her husband originally belonged. Although far away from Lahore, the cultural centre of the country, she would shuttle back and forth to participate in music and radio programmes.

Thanks to audio and visual recording devices, the late Malika-i-Mauseeqi will always be remembered for the richness of her music, which often overflowed with tonal modulations, for its sweetness and delicacy of gammaks (trills), and for her slow progression of ragas. It is difficult to adequately describe in words the quality of her music. One can only say that it went straight to the hearts of both knowledgeable listeners and cultivated connoisseurs, in live concerts as well as through radio and television.

The electronic media can play an important role in keeping her music alive. However, PTV seems to have forgotten all about Roshan Ara Begum — a fact which is substantiated by its failure in not telecasting her music even on her death anniversaries. Classical music has long been relegated by PTV to the lowest rung in its priorities. The Pakistan Broadcasting Corporation, however, is doing slightly better as once in a while it airs recorded music of Roshan Ara Begum from its second channel.

Sharing his views on ghazal, its nuances and the contemporary scene, Ghulam Ali started at the age of seven under the tutelage of his father. Soon he was at the feet of the trio, famed brothers, namely Ustad Barray Ghulam Ali Khan, Barkat Ali Khan and Mubarak Ali Khan. He remained with Ustad Mubarak for 12 years, honing skills that formed the base of classical singing.

“Music is a vast ocean, you go in again and again and come out with as much as you can get. It’s never enough. It depends on the seeker, how much he or she wants to learn,” he explains matter-of-factly.

Ali sang for Radio Pakistan in 1958, his first ghazal came two years later, but the one that catapulted him into the limelight was Shaam ko subeh chaman yaad aaie, written by Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi. This was followed by the much-acclaimed Meray shauq da nai tenu aitebar in 1968. The singer has performed all over the world since then, first setting foot in the United Kingdom in 1974. He derives immense satisfaction from having been “blessed with the opportunity to represent my country” in the US, Canada, Europe, Far East, Middle East, China and Australia.

Ali makes compositions for his own ghazals and rarely sings ghazals composed by other people. His approach is methodical.

“I first consider lyrics before setting out on a composition. The feel of the words is very important. They are not words alone — emotion should spring from them, the more you understand the feelings, the better will be your understanding of the composition. In turn, it will give true voice to your vocals,” he says, laying threadbare the art and adds with a smile, “I have spent years ‘serving’ words and words have ‘served’ me in return.”

The maestro of ghazal is unequivocal about the state of the genre in a world where, apparently, serious singing has few takers — lost to the fare on satellite channels.

“Ghazal has its own place. It has been around for ages. Those who understand its essence will not tolerate anything else. This explains why ghazal is an alive and kicking art. I have no doubt whatsoever about its endurance. It’s here to stay. This hip, hop, jump that passes for music cannot harm the time-tested significance and value of ghazal singing. Ghazal soothes your mind. That’s what music is all about. You need to relax, it’s important for the soul. For happiness, contentment. And since we are all in need of it at all times, it (ghazal-singing) cannot wither.

“This hullabaloo, on the other hand, has no lasting effect. It’s like the storm which comes with great tidings but eventually passes by. After every storm, there’s a period of calmness. Ghazal is like that calmness, nay, sanity,” he says decidedly.

Ghulam Ali has no qualms about people

plagiarising his creations. He smiles and counter-questions when asked about it: “How can you stop them. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter.” I persist with the query, to which he then adds his view!

“Music is a forever learning process. Even we copy our Ustads, but we do so not by imitation. We do it by painstakingly learning, rehearsing and trying to perfect the art we set out to ‘copy.’ And when we do that we duly give them credit. For example, I’m inspired by Ustad Barkat Ali Khan and when I take cue from him, I religiously go through the credit lines. Sadly, that is not true of today’s generation of singers. You see, you have to accord the right sort of respect to people who you want to follow.”

People, says the singer, are selfish today, but he pointedly refuses to name names. On being reminded of the possibility that the ones he doesn’t want named may have quite a following, he retorts: “It is the fault of the listeners. If people know about them, they wouldn’t pay heed to them. It’s like someone selling rotten stuff. Why should anyone have to buy rotten stuff? In the ultimate analysis, people should be able to observe what is good, qualitative and genuine and what is not.”

He is scathing in his comments on contemporary poetry.

“Today it has become overly commercial. Anything commercial is chaloo and a chaloo thing does not survive. Only something substantive holds its own. There are ghazals sung over two and three decades ago which people listen to this day. This explains their originality, substance and above all, enduring value.”

Ghulam Ali’s prized possession, predictably, are his loyal fans and not mantelpiece awards. “I have had my share of spoils, winning the Pride of Performance in 1979 and other famed titles including the sobriquet of ‘king of ghazal.’ I also feel honoured to have performed before recognized audiences including heads of states but if there’s something I cherish it is the love of my listeners. They have been very supportive and encouraging regardless of where and when I’ve performed.”

Meeting the demands of his listeners, however, is far from easy. “Yes, it does get demanding at times. I was performing at this show in Montreal sometime back. A few people there got excited, with requests flying thick and fast. At one stage it was nearly impossible to so much as croon a note. Just then someone asked me, tongue-in-cheek if I had ever faced any problem with audiences. I replied: ‘Yes, this is it.’”

The singer, who happens to be extremely popular in India, shies away from recalling a Shiv Sena incident on a tour to India where his concert fell to hoodlums. On my insistence he merely puts it down to an “organizational problem” and says the trouble began because Shiv Sena supporters wanted a hundred passes for the show. The inevitable question on Indo-Pak tensions follows. He is reminded that the likes of himself and Junoon have had to face the brunt. He is philosophical about the shebang. “Music, I believe, has no barriers. We listen to their (Indian) music and vice versa. They can lock us up but not music.”

So how does he compare today’s ghazal singers with those of yore? The query is answered with such clarity that it is almost self-explanatory.

“Ghazal singing today is before everyone. I don’t think you can become a star overnight. It is a labour of love. I reckon it would take a serious artist 20 to 25 years to get there. When you sing Ghalib, you should first be able to understand the poet, his poetry as well as the genesis of that poetry because that is what will bring forth the true feel and expression to your voice.”

Ghulam Ali remains aware of keeping the art alive. He is teaching music to his son and scores of aspiring ghazal singers. He says he has students spread far and wide in the UK, USA, India and Pakistan. But how does he teach them, while he himself is constantly jet-setting?

“I send them recorded lessons on tape, when I’m away,” he explains. Among the notable ones, he mentions the names of Fida Hussain, Sajjad, Kausar and Naeem. With a smile he adds: “There are others but unfortunately I do not remember everyone’s name.”

Where Ali sets himself apart from other noted singers is in his approach to music. This is evident when he’s asked his priorities — does he please the audience or is it more important for him to measure up to his own expectations? “It is true that I cannot overlook the commercial aspects and that I have to perform to the demands and expectations of my audiences. But in all humility, I do not stop at satisfying my audiences. I set out to achieve my own standards. It is important for me to be able to rise to that level. When I’m able to do that, it only follows that the quality of music — voice, composition and all — improves. And when that happens, the audience too is able to appreciate it for all its worth.” Ghulam Ali counts Lahore as the pinnacle for all audiences. He says listeners there are so educated and learned that if there’s even a minute flaw, they show no interest in “putting up with us.” He also mentions Britain and the US, where expatriates enjoy his music with gay abandon.

However, it is for Indian audiences that he reserves the most glowing appreciation. “They truly admire and love musicians, according us great respect. When I was in Calcutta, I saw this affection turn into reverence. It was obvious that quite a lot of people couldn’t decipher the language (Urdu), yet, they went with the flow and rhythm. This makes one come to the conclusion that no matter how cliched the reference, music really has no boundaries and its reach is all-encompassing.”

Ustad Salamat Hussain, who has entertained Pakistanis as well as people around the world for almost half a century, is a man as modest as the humble reed pipe he plays. On request, he demonstrated the different sounds produced by the various flutes he was carrying with him. He then played on a small one, which he conveniently carries in his pocket, whether he is walking on the beaches in the south, or traversing the mountains in the north. He played the pahari. Then, with a larger bansri, he played the bahar, evoking pastoral associations as well as deep feelings — sombre and sweet, despite the distractions around us.

The flute or bansri, is amongst the most ancient musical instruments of the subcontinent. It is mentioned in the Vedas as Lord Krishna’s chosen instrument, and the source of the knowledge of music. But despite its age, its status as a ‘concert instrument’ is a relatively recent phenomenon. The legendary maestro — late Pandit Pannalal Ghosh — is credited to having brought the bansri into the folds of Indian classical music. Pannalal used to play music for the silent films in Calcutta. One day, while working for music director Anil Biswas, he decided to experiment. He needed a pitch and sonority that would be suitable for both classical as well as light music. Pannalal experimented with various materials and sizes and finally settled for a thirty-two inch long bansri made from a bamboo!

Salamat Hussain hails from Rampur, where he was born in 1937. He was just a child when he heard the melodious tunes of Pannalal’s flute for the first time. This was in a mountainous region called Haldwani Mandi, at the foothills of Nainital in India. Hussain was completely smitten by it. The darbars of the Rajas and Nawabs of Jaipur, Lucknow, Benaras, Gwalior and Rampur had continued the golden traditions of the Moghul court by providing patronage to music, dance etc. Today, just as those courts are desolate, the future of classical music appears rather bleak too.

There is an increasing trend for the arts and culture becoming commercial products. Symbols of truth and beauty that have cultural and social values devoid of pressures from market forces are fast diminishing. There is need for a continuing dialogue, abiding trust, and enduring good relations between the traditional arts and today’s mass-produced entertainment, to foster each other’s interests, and to develop mutual insight and respect.

The bansri, previously no more than fourteen inches long, was used for short classical pieces, or for accompaniment. Pannalal’s innovation and the creation of a larger instrument with the seventh finger hole enabled the bansri to render many classical ragas eloquently.

In response to repeated queries regarding the future of flute-playing in the classical mode in Pakistan, Salamat Hussain related an episode. He said a flutist in Turkey once asked him for the names of other classical flutists in Pakistan. When he was told there were none, the man started to cry.

“There are a few, like Abdul Qadir, my pupil in Karachi, Chabbi in Lahore, Sunny Zaidi in Islamabad, also Khalid Ahmed in Karachi. But one has to be seriously devoted to the bansri,” said the Ustad. Apparently, Abdul Qadir gets invited to play at various restaurants at the five and four star hotels in Karachi, but Hussain himself deplores the practice. “I send him so he can earn a few rupees, but I don’t approve of khana and gana bajana at the same time. The arts demand undivided attention.”

The son of an army jawan for the estate of Rampur, Salamat Hussain acquired his early training in music from Ustad Mushtaq Hussain and Ustad Guchan Khan. They were singers themselves, but Salamat Hussain put his vocal training to test by blowing into the flute. When he migrated to Pakistan in 1951, he could already play some tunes on it. He remembers buying a new flute for two paisas from Saddar, in Karachi, and trying his luck for film music.

“I immediately got rejected. The music-director, who was auditioning, roared out to his cronies: Call Lal Mohammad to play the bansri, this boy is wasting my time.”

Hussain laughed as he narrated how he got coaxed into playing outside a certain ‘barrack number 64’, close to the hut where he used to live in the Jacob Lines area.

“Some of the boys in the area used to prompt me to play ‘Awara hoon, and Jaaein to jaaein kahan on my flute. When I started to play outside that particular barrack, the girls who lived there sent me requests for various songs. A couple of days later, their mother told my mother that she would break my legs if I ever dared to play on my flute again.”

“I hope your mother lived to see you become a great artist, did she?” I chuckled.

“Yes, she did. But on that particular day, she beat me with a jharoo,” laughed the Ustad.

He then reminisced about the good old days in Hyderabad where he was working as a radio artist. “Hum taat pay baith ker programme kiya kartay thay.” Laughingly, he described how, during the summer months, they would be performing in that hot, hostile environment: “Baraf ki sill paas rakhi hoti, jis ko piyas lagti wo tablay walay ka hathoda leta, uss per maarta aur pani pi leta!”

After working for Radio Hyderabad for a year, Salamat Hussain returned to Karachi in 1955. His association with the various stations of Radio Pakistan continues to this day. In 1999 he was awarded the Super Star Award by Radio Pakistan. He has received several PTV awards as well.

Since 1960, Hussain started playing for films, and has worked with several famous music directors. Madam Noor Jehan’s popular ditty Lutt uljhi suljha jaray baalam, Suraiyya Multanikar’s Baday bemurrawwat hain ye husn walay and Zubaida Khanum’s Kya huwa dil pay situm are amongst the many songs that Hussain has been associated with.

Ustad Salamat Hussain has made waves playing his soulful music all over the world. He joined the PIA Arts Academy in 1966 and has associated himself with the Pakistan National Council of the Arts (PNCA) since 1978. He has toured Turkey, China, Germany and the US several times, and has also performed in Japan, Syria, France, Australia, Jordan, Korea etc.

“I have been to Turkey at least eight times. I never come back without paying my tributes at the mausoleum of Maulana Rumi in Konya,” Hussain said with reverence. Perhaps it is because the reed flute features in Rumi’s poetry as a prominent symbol for the soul, emptied of self and filled with the Divine spirit:

“Hearken to this reed forlorn, Breathing, even since ‘twas torn From its rushy bed, a strain Of impassioned love and pain”

In the hands of the maestro, the magic sound leaves the humble bamboo instrument, and is carried aloft to the heights of a tranquil musical experience. As long as the maestro lives, that is.