Delhi's Lost Sounds: How Dargah Qawwali and Mehfil Music Traditions are Vanishing

In the labyrinthine streets of Delhi, where history breathes through ancient stones and modern aspirations, a profound musical heritage is quietly vanishing. The city's dargah qawwali and mehfils are vanishing. Once pulsating centres of spiritual and cultural expression, they are now witnessing an unprecedented erosion of their traditional soundscapes. Qawwali, Islam's sacred Sufi music offered in the shrines of the Indian subcontinent, is facing a moment of unease, reflecting broader challenges confronting India's musical traditions.

The transformation is particularly stark in Delhi's most revered spiritual spaces. With qawwali like Kun Faya Kun, Aaj Rang Hain, Chhaap Tilak echoing through centuries-old chambers, these sacred performances represent more than mere entertainment—they embody a living connection to mystical traditions that have shaped the subcontinent's cultural identity. Yet beneath the melodic surface lies a troubling reality: the gradual displacement of hereditary artists, the commercialisation of sacred music, and the inexorable march of urbanisation that threatens to silence these ancient voices forever.

The Sacred Echoes of Nizamuddin: Where Tradition Meets Transition

The Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah stands as Delhi's most celebrated repository of qawwali tradition, yet even here, the winds of change blow relentlessly. Within the Nizami school, sub-gharanas have preserved distinct musical lineages for generations, but the sustainability of these traditions faces unprecedented challenges.

Rashid Ahmed, a frequent visitor to the Thursday night qawwali sessions, reflects on the transformation he has witnessed over two decades. "When I first came here in the early 2000s, the courtyard would be packed with listeners who understood the nuances of Persian poetry and the spiritual significance of each raag," he explains, adjusting his white kurta as the evening call to prayer begins. "Now, I see mostly tourists with cameras, capturing videos for social media rather than absorbing the divine essence of the music. The artists still perform with devotion, but the audience has fundamentally changed."

At 84, Meraj Ahmed Nizami, the patriarch of the Nizami Khusro Bandhu family, is one of the few classical qawwals left in India. His performances represent a direct link to centuries-old traditions, yet the question of succession looms large. The younger generation of qawwals increasingly finds themselves adapting to commercial pressures, performing at weddings and corporate events rather than dedicating themselves exclusively to the spiritual practice that defined their ancestors.

The dargah's evening sessions, traditionally held from 6:00 PM to 7:30 PM and 9:00 PM to 10:30 PM on Thursdays, continue to draw crowds, but the nature of engagement has shifted dramatically. Where once sat devoted mureeds (disciples) who would respond to the qawwal's spiritual cues with appropriate interjections and gestures, now sit passive observers, many struggling to comprehend the Urdu and Persian verses that form the heart of the performance.

Cultural Institutions and the Preservation Paradox

Delhi's cultural institutions, particularly venues like the India International Centre, have attempted to preserve and present traditional music forms to contemporary audiences. However, this institutionalisation brings its own set of challenges and contradictions. The mehfil, traditionally an intimate gathering in private homes or courtyards, loses something essential when transplanted to formal auditoriums.

Priya Sharma, a regular attendee at IIC's qawwali performances, articulates this tension eloquently. "I appreciate that IIC provides a platform for these artists, and the acoustics in the C.D. Deshmukh Auditorium are excellent," she shares, her voice tinged with both gratitude and melancholy. "But watching qawwali in a theatre setting, with assigned seats and programmes handed out at the door, feels like observing a museum exhibit rather than participating in a living tradition. The spontaneity, the call-and-response between artist and audience, the possibility of being transported into a spiritual trance—all of this gets sanitised in institutional settings."

A different approach is being attempted at the Kathika Cultural Centre in Old Delhi, where curator Atul Khanna has restored two palatial havelis to create a space that "promotes and revitalises lost cultural practices through performing arts, baithaks, book debates, other interactive activities, and culinary experiences". The centre, named after the traditional storytelling forms of kathwachan and dastaan, attempts to recreate the intimate atmosphere of traditional gatherings within an authentic historical setting.

Meera Patel, who attended a product launch session at Kathika, offers a contrasting perspective: "There's something magical about sitting in those restored courtyards, surrounded by the original architecture where such gatherings would have naturally occurred centuries ago," she reflects. "When the artist performed her curated playlist of Raga Malhar and Kajari, it felt less like a performance and more like being invited into someone's ancestral home. The space itself seemed to remember the music."

Yet even Kathika faces the fundamental challenge of authenticity versus accessibility. While visitors describe being "transported into the era of Old Delhi rulers of the bygone era where music and dance echoed into the cultural mystique of India", the very act of restoration and curation inevitably alters the organic nature of these traditions.

The challenge facing cultural centres extends beyond mere presentation to fundamental questions of authenticity and accessibility. While institutions like IIC successfully introduce classical traditions to educated, urban audiences, they inadvertently contribute to the gentrification of forms that were once accessible to all social strata. The mehfil culture that once flourished in ordinary homes across Old Delhi's mohallas (neighbourhoods) has been largely supplanted by these formal presentations, creating a disconnect between the music and its traditional community base.

Furthermore, the institutional approach often emphasises the historical and academic aspects of the music rather than its spiritual dimensions. Performances are frequently preceded by lengthy introductions explaining the raag structure or historical context, transforming what should be an immersive experience into an educational lecture. This analytical approach, while valuable for preservation purposes, can diminish the transcendent quality that makes qawwali and other devotional forms so powerful.

The Artist's Lament: From Mehfil to Street Corner

Perhaps no story illustrates the crisis facing Delhi's traditional musicians more poignantly than that of Ustad Khalil Ahmad, a 67-year-old tabla player whose family has been associated with mehfil culture for four generations. Once a sought-after accompanist at private gatherings across Chandni Chowk and Ballimaran, Ahmad now sells kulfi from a small cart near Jama Masjid to support his family.

"The mehfils began disappearing in the 1980s," Ahmad explains, his weathered hands still capable of producing intricate rhythms despite years away from regular practice. "Joint families broke up, people moved to flats where there was no space for gatherings, and television became the primary entertainment. The families who once hosted monthly mehfils started preferring recorded music or hiring DJs for their celebrations. My son studied computer engineering—he said there was no future in tabla."

Ahmad's story reflects a broader pattern of displacement affecting hundreds of traditional musicians across Delhi. The intimate nature of mehfil culture, where artists would perform in private homes for small gatherings of connoisseurs, has been largely replaced by either large-scale commercial events or institutional presentations. The middle ground—the small, regular gatherings that sustained artists and preserved subtle aspects of the tradition—has virtually disappeared.

"I still remember the taste of those evenings," Ahmad continues, his eyes distant with memory. "The host would serve proper food, there would be discussions about poetry and philosophy between musical segments, and the artists were treated as honoured guests rather than hired entertainers. The kulfi business is honest work, and it feeds my family, but sometimes when I hear a tabla being played nearby, my fingers start moving involuntarily. The music never really leaves your blood."

The economic pressures facing traditional musicians have been exacerbated by technological changes and shifting cultural preferences. Recorded music, digital streaming, and the proliferation of sound systems have reduced demand for live accompanists, while the rising cost of living in Delhi has forced many artists to seek alternative livelihoods. Unlike Western classical musicians, who often have institutional support through orchestras and conservatories, Indian traditional musicians have historically depended on patronage systems that are rapidly disappearing.

Reclaiming the Lost Frequencies

The challenge of preserving Delhi's musical heritage extends beyond mere documentation to questions of living transmission and cultural continuity. While recording and archiving efforts are valuable, they cannot capture the improvisational spirit and communal energy that define these traditions. The real preservation work requires rebuilding the social and economic ecosystems that once sustained these art forms.

Recent initiatives by cultural organisations and individual enthusiasts offer glimmers of hope. Small groups of music lovers have begun hosting intimate mehfils in private homes, attempting to recreate the traditional atmosphere while adapting to contemporary constraints. Some cafes like Qavalli now regularly host gatherings where mobile phones are discouraged and the focus returns to deep listening and spiritual engagement.

Similarly, several musicians from traditional families have started teaching workshops and masterclasses, ensuring that technical knowledge passes to new generations, even if the traditional hereditary system has broken down. However, these efforts remain scattered and lack the institutional support necessary for large-scale impact.

The path forward requires recognising that cultural preservation is not about freezing traditions in time but about creating conditions where they can continue to evolve organically. This means supporting traditional artists economically, creating appropriate venues for intimate performances, and educating audiences about the deeper dimensions of these musical forms. It also means acknowledging that some changes are inevitable and focusing on preserving the essential spirit rather than demanding rigid adherence to historical forms.

Delhi's lost sounds need not remain lost forever, but their recovery requires more than nostalgia—it demands active commitment to creating new contexts where ancient wisdom can find a contemporary voice. The qawwals still sing at Nizamuddin, the tabla still echoes in a few remaining mehfils, and somewhere in the city, Ustad Khalil Ahmad's fingers still remember the rhythms of his ancestors. Whether these sounds will find new homes in the changing landscape of Delhi depends on choices being made today, in conference rooms and cultural centres, in family gatherings and government offices, wherever people decide what kinds of sounds will define tomorrow's city.