In a culture obsessed with hyper-optimizing everything, from sleep hygiene and protein counts, to 2x speed podcasts, side hustles, and AI-generated summaries, we constantly salvage time only to fill it with more relentless productivity, and I believe classical music is the antithesis. Classical music is slow living.
Over the past few months, I have been attending a variety of classical music gigs in Karachi, ranging from instrumental performances by Ustad Noor Bakhsh, to the harmony of the Saami Brothers’ Qawwali, and the intricate khayal gayaki of Muslim Shaggan and Aizaz Sohail. Immersing myself in these spaces has become my favorite pastime, and I frequently drag along anyone willing to join me. However, because the typical crowd skews toward my parents’ generation or older, my pool of willing companions is limited. Still, those who do join trust me enough to guide them toward a memorable experience, even if it is a musical tradition they don’t fully comprehend.
However, a persistent hesitation remains when I invite people. First, as is typical of events in Pakistan, they rarely start on time. Second, classical music is the opposite of instant gratification. Unlike pop, hip-hop, or other contemporary genres, it cannot be packaged neatly into a three-to-five-minute track. Let alone condensed for short-form platforms like TikTok or Instagram. Classical music demands time; artists often spend an entire hour just building a mahol. A single piece can last anywhere from 10 to 40 minutes. Even if you were to skip to the climax of a performance, the peak loses its power without the context of the slow, deliberate buildup. For an outsider, dropping in mid-performance fails to capture why this music is so captivating. Consequently, these events span several hours and regularly run overtime.
Furthermore, these musicians frequently interject their performances with historical context about a raag or personal anecdotes regarding their relationship with a composition. While I find this charming, I sometimes overhear audience members murmuring that they wish the artist would just play instead of talk. But without these stories, we risk losing the vital context of the music entirely.
Most of these classical artists have trained since childhood, deeply embedded in a traditional gharana or an intense ustad-shagird relationship. Yet, when they take the stage, a common point of friction occurs: the musicians spend time tuning their instruments before the set and between songs to achieve the perfect pitch. This is a testament to their perfectionism, but can understandably be hard to watch. This happens in pop music as well, where the sight of guitarists using a tuner as the first thing they do on show is not unseen. Today, however, classical musicians taking analog instruments and working out their kinks on stage is almost an affront to the synthetic perfection of modern production, where everything is snapped to a digital grid and pitch-corrected instantly using on-stage correction hardware.
We see this meticulousness when technical hitches happen. During Ustad Noor Bakhsh’s first Karachi performance, a malfunctioning amplifier temporarily halted his electric benju. Ustad is accompanied on stage by Daniyal Ahmed, who is also the founder of the music label honiunhoni, of which Ustad is also part of. Mid-performance, Ahmed directs the sound engineer to make adjustments. Whether the modern audience appreciates this commitment to perfection is unclear. During these technical interludes, a restless agitation fills the room. People begin checking out, sometimes leaving early for other activities. In my case, the pressure is familial as it is for many females in Pakistan; my phone starts ringing with calls urging me to come home.
There is some irony here. The very people who lament that Pakistan lacks rigorously trained, high-caliber musicians are often the ones unwilling to invest their time in them. Classical music does not fit the hyper-optimized mold of short-form social media, nor does it align with the structure of streaming distributors like YouTube, where a jarring advertisement can instantly shatter the trance of a listening session. It fundamentally clashes with a modern impatience that demands the “best part” immediately, free of interruptions or adjustments, to fit neatly into our rigid, optimised schedules.
Perhaps classical music being the antithesis to the speed and optimization of modern life is exactly why it is interesting. And can be increasingly of more interest to young people. I understand that even if people empathize with this argument, they may find it hard to jump in. Here’s a short guide on how to make it easier to explore classical music, if you are so inclined.
1. Shed expectations
Realize there is no specific “type” of person who enjoys classical music. Be okay with not knowing anything. No one is going to quiz you on the ragas, lyrics, or the history. If others are surprised you attended, let them be. At most, people will ask if you enjoyed it out of pure curiosity. Answer confidently, and invite them to tag along next time.
2. Know where to look
For live recordings, events, and anecdotes, follow pages like The Dream Journey (classical qawwalis, thumris, and khayal), honiunhoni (instrumental mastery and classical vocal lineages), and Amrit Pyala (raw Sufi and Bhakti archival recordings).
Alternatively, track local happenings through third spaces like T2F, NAPA, Kitab Ghar, Arts Council, Alhamra, or The Colony. If you are outside Pakistan, I highly recommend the free online sessions by Musab Bin Noor, co-creator of The Dream Journey and Hamnawa contributor, for lesser-known recordings, history, and community. Just make some chai and stay as long as you like.
3. Record with intention
Social media and being constantly online have inherently changed the way we experience life by flattening it into a 2D view. When you pick up your phone, pause for a second and ask yourself who you are trying to impress. Everyone is trying to impress someone, consciously or subconsciously, whether it is a crush, a boss, a friend, an ex, family, random followers, or classmates you haven’t spoken to in a decade. Being mindful of this desire anchors you in the present, helping you feel the texture of the room, the play of light on instruments, the expressions of the audience and how the sound actually travels around you.
4. Create time instead of tracking it
The hardest part, in my opinion, is letting go of control and the pressure to be productive. I am an extremely punctual person with perfectionist tendencies, so I have a deep desire for things to start and end on time without a hitch. In such instances, I remind myself of the African concept of time as described by John Mbiti. Mbiti used two Swahili concepts: Sasa (present) and Zamani (past). As time moves, events in the Sasa phase gradually recede into the Zamani phase. Instead of rushing toward a future goal, humanity is constantly moving backward into the vast ocean of the past. In the West, time is linear and a commodity (“time is money”). It is mathematical, measured by clocks and calendars, and exists independently of human action. Mbiti states that time must be created or produced by events; therefore, when we experience an event, we are creating time.
So well written, this makes me want to get into classical music