Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan: A Circular Rhythm

Passing the musical baton to Rahat Fateh Ali Khan.

extreme left: little Rahat, centre Nusrat, on harmonium Farrukh.

‘I think the noise is coming from here,’ Nusrat placed a swollen palm on his heart, reaching out to his band of musicians who had filed into his hospital room, anxious of his critical condition.

The men were weeping and pleading for Allah’s mercy.

His words silenced them. Like dutiful apostles, they circled his bed to pay attention. It was both a time of grief and challenge. Nusrat was dying, and yet, on his deathbed, he had the most difficult task to execute.

From amongst the men gathered in the room — Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Mujahid Mubarak Ali Khan & Party, he had to choose his successor. Mujahid, his first cousin, Farrukh, his brother, Rehmat Ali and Maqsood Hussain were the front-runners for the post. Nusrat’s pupil, chorus boys, mandolin player, percussion, and harmonium ustaads were also present in the room.

‘Twenty three years ago,’ Nusrat rewound. No one sighed.

‘When I was sixteen; a sixteen year old who had no passions, my waalid’s (father) death gave me a purpose in life. I had trained with him, on the tabla, and learnt the classical khayal form. At his gravesite during his chehlum (fortieth day memorial) ceremony I gave my first performance. I looked up at the skies and sang as I watched a faint star blinking and approving. I knew he was blessing me. I had found my calling, I had found my voice. ’

Nusrat paused to observe the eyes of his singing men glazed with tears. ‘I was twenty-three when I took over as lead singer of my father’s qawwal party. It’s twenty-three years since then and the decision is not easy. All of you are very dear to me, and I will pray that you achieve more success without me.’

‘My brother here,’ he continued, ‘Farrukh, who I believe is more talented than me, is not going to succeed me.’

No one shifted. Not one deceived Nusrat’s opinion.

‘And I have reason to say so, Farrukh will agree.’

Farrukh moved forward to hold his hand.

‘With me, a little of Farrukh will have died too. He cannot take over. I know that. Our music, our devotion, has to be renewed with new blood, a young heart pure in its quest for the Sufi way. Farrukh, and me, we have grown old in the tradition, our hearts are weary and these modern times require even the old art forms to be reignited with a new, brighter flame.’

‘In you,’ he addressed the rest of them, ‘there is one amongst us now, who is paak, as pure as mousiqi (music). It’s him, who is not enlightened, this path, will show him, this discipline to Sufi tradition. If we do not elect him now, we will distance him further from his destiny.’

Rahat with father Farrukh on harmonium.

Nusrat cleared his throat to announce his candidate.

‘Brothers, do not be slighted by my decision. It is a sacrifice I am making, and you will have to see it as that. Some of you have reached a stage where you are mature to lead, but I cannot see myself putting your head to sacrifice. I should offer my god son’s head, as Ibrahim did. I can only wish for Allah to show mercy on his test of my faith. I offer him my little lamb.

With that, a smile appeared on his puffy face. He raised a hand in the direction of Farrukh’s son, gesturing him with a head nod to come seek his godfather.

Farrukh’s tears began to roll down his pallid cheeks uncontrollably. Nusrat had raised the bar by picking out his unpolished son for the mighty post.

A shy, young man, startled by this knighthood, the gravitas of which hadn’t sunk in, lowered his head before his uncle to kiss and bless him.

At Nusrat’s chehlum, Rahat Fateh Ali Khan sang, Gin Gin Taare Lang Diyan Raataan. He had sung it first on stage at a concert in England; a solo Nusrat had coaxed him into performing for an audience that was not entirely convinced of his fledgling falsetto. He was eleven then, and his uncle’s pat on his shoulders was reassuring.

Today, at twenty three, when Rahat improvised his sargam, going sotto voce at times, he would look up at the dusk sky arranging its stars; they played out, sparkling and dimming, responding to his dip and scale like musical accoutrements.

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