On especially slow afternoons it can be hard to imagine a sense of urgency in our often laidback city. But the rush to beat the oncoming rain, and the rush to get the best seats at a concert, will do it.
And so it was that on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I hurried past the always-bustling temple on 16th Cross to Chowdiah Memorial Hall, which had already filled with devotees of a different kind: we were all there for a qawwali performance by Ayaz Nizami and his troupe, as part of the ongoing Bengaluru International Arts Festival. Through the sound-check we could already hear the rousing sounds of qawwali powering past the closed doors. When inside, we were told that the much-loved Ayaz Nizami group from Pakistan was in the city for the first time. They began with an instrumental nagma , after which we were treated to the full power of ten voices in a series of compositions, variously loosely reminiscent of ragas such as Yaman, Multani, Hamsadhwani, and Bahar.
Ayaz Nizami's voice is a force of nature. I learn later that he has been singing since he was four, and is only 26 now. The years of experience show: he takes vocal risks, hitting impossibly high notes, and executes ambitious phrases effortlessly.
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Four voices perfectly in sync dominated most of the time, with Ayaz Nizami’s voice soaring above here, or tossing a little riff there.
They clapped with a force that rang clear as rain; a very young, very talented lad on the dholak provided thundering percussion. The qawwali is a form better suited than most for the mood of joyous surrender it allows. And surrender we did. A tender love song, telling of a love-struck woman’s preparations to visit her beloved, was especially memorable.
Requests were made, and the troupe obliged:
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