We humans are made of a rather strange substance. Some of our contradictions are quite astonishing. We enjoy the sweetness of sugar, yet we also relish the sharpness of chili. Wounds cause us pain, yet scratching them brings a strange sense of relief. Most people feel pain when they bleed, yet in moments of passion and fervor, some experience joy even while shedding their own blood. Similarly, people feel comfort and happiness when their beliefs are proven right, yet sometimes they also feel pleased when events contradict their own thinking. I experienced this latter feeling a few days ago when my long-held belief was proven wrong—that classical music is not only in danger but is in its final stage of decline. This belief of mine appeared false and baseless when I entered the packed hall of Alhamra the other day.

The occasion was the death anniversary of Ustad Mian Dad Khan, father of Khwaja Fareed’s qawwal Sher Mian Dad. The traditional way of observing the anniversary was followed: renowned singers and qawwals from across the country were performing. The presence of Ghulam Ali, Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, Hamid Ali Khan, Shahida Mini, and Sher Mian Dad highlighted the significance of the event. On my way to Alhamra Hall, I had imagined that very few people now listen to or understand classical music; perhaps the hall would be empty, with only a few elderly attendees. But when I entered, Ustad Tari was demonstrating his art on the dholak. Sher Mian Dad offered me his seat next to Ghulam Ali and Shahida Mini.

As soon as I entered, I realized this was a different, rather unconventional musical gathering. Walking through the crowd and settling into my seat, I began to regain my composure. Looking around, I saw that the entire hall was filled with young people. There were a few elders, but the majority were youth. Tari’s dholak rhythms were testing melodies and instruments. It was natural to sway to Tari’s mastery—he is a master of masters—but what astonished me was that every young person present was so immersed in the rhythm and melody that even the walls of Alhamra seemed to be singing ragas and playing the dholak.

I began to reflect on why this gathering felt so different. This was not a public gathering of the masses but a refined assembly of connoisseurs. Every young person present was not just fond of music but deeply understood classical music. Almost everyone’s hands moved in sync with the dholak beats, lips echoed the melody, and their attentiveness was such that it seemed the entire hall was not merely listening but accompanying Tari as if they belonged on stage with him, though they sat among the audience. And this was not limited to Tari alone. Whoever appeared on stage—musician, singer, or qawwal—the entire audience became their companion.

I observed closely and realized that this was not just about the young audience. Ghulam Ali himself was accompanying every beat and note with hand gestures and eye movements. Shahida Mini and Sher Mian Dad were so engrossed, raising their arms and immersing themselves from the beginning to the end of every raga and rhythm, as if the performer on stage was not alone but joined by these distinguished individuals and the entire audience. The reason was that both the guests and the audience belonged to musical families or were closely connected to music. No one could appreciate or understand the art better than them.

Seeing hundreds of such lovers and practitioners of classical music immersed in the art, I became convinced that no matter how many dangers loom over the future of classical music, there are hundreds of its guardians in Lahore who will never let it die.

My connection with classical music goes back to childhood. My father, Chaudhry Faiz Sarwar Sultan, was a teacher and a farmer by profession, but he had a deep passion for music, especially classical music. In the summer afternoons, he would turn the fan to its slowest speed, keep the room completely dark, lie down on the floor, and listen to the ragas of Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan or Ustad Barkat Ali Khan on a tape recorder. This would continue for three to four hours, and in the evening, he would host gatherings of friends where, alongside politics, music was always an important topic of discussion.

While listening to classical music at Alhamra Hall, it occurred to me that the survival of this music lies in “tradition” and its oral transmission. The famous Islamic scholar René Guénon believed that traditions passed from generation to generation ensure the purity of knowledge and art. In the subcontinent, classical music has been preserved by gharanas (musical lineages). Qawwal Bachha Gharana, Patiala Gharana, Gwalior Gharana, Lucknow Gharana, Punjab Gharana, Rampur Gharana, Sham Chaurasi Gharana, Delhi Gharana, and countless other families have upheld classical music despite poverty and hardship, never abandoning their ancestral profession.

In Alhamra Hall, the centuries-old efforts of these gharanas were visible in every swaying youth and every appreciative elder. If we turn the pages of history, we find similar traditions in Japan, where families of sword-makers and potters preserved their crafts for centuries. Recently, I visited a nearby place called Phulru near Chhota Sahiwal (District Sargodha, Tehsil Shahpur) in search of handwoven khes (blankets) made in designs from a hundred years ago. Even today, the same quality and patterns are produced there. Comparing the old and new pieces, I found no difference despite a century’s gap. The reason is the families of weavers who have preserved their craft through generations.

I see the same tradition in the “salara” made in Hadali (District Khushab), a craft maintained by a few families for centuries. Recently, when World Bank President Ajay Banga visited his ancestral hometown Khushab, he was presented with this very “salara” as a gift. Once, the tradition of silk lungis in Jhang and Khushab was also very strong. I still possess two hundred-year-old silk lungis from Khushab, handmade and still radiant in their uniqueness. Sadly, silk lungis are no longer made there.

At one time, the hakims (traditional physicians) of Bhera were renowned across Punjab, and their knowledge too was passed down through families. In every district of Punjab, there are families skilled in woodwork, metalwork, textiles, and toys, preserving their crafts for centuries. Knowledge itself is a heritage that has reached us through generations. Both art and knowledge have been passed down through centuries of dedication by individuals, especially families and lineages.

Now is the time for society not only to recognize the greatness of these families but also to grant them the respect and status they truly deserve.