In Memory of Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan

Late 1947. The map of the divided subcontinent was still as fresh as an unhealed wound. It was around this time that the legendary vocalist Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan became a citizen of Pakistan by circumstance of birth—not by faith, but by the pull of history.

At the invitation of Radio Pakistan, he sang. Even after the recording sessions ended, he did not stop—breaking the silence of night with performances across music gatherings, sometimes in Peshawar, sometimes in Karachi. Music seemed to be his breath, and singing his only identity.

Upon returning, he received a telegram from the Programme Director of Radio Pakistan. Ustad ji went. The hospitality included fragrant tea and betel leaf stuffed with zarda—but soon came the main point.

The request was small in words, but immense in meaning:

“If you could remove the words ‘Haye Ram’ from the opening phrase…”

Khan Sahib was first stunned. Then he was made to hear his own famous thumri:

“Yaad Piya Ki Aaye, Haye Ram…”

It was not merely words—it was emotion, love, and the essence of a tradition.

How could he remove it?

The reply came like thunder:

“You remove Ram, and I will remove you.”

In that very moment, it felt as though a new chapter of history had been written.

The very next day, he wrote a letter to Dr. Rajendra Prasad, the first President of independent India—a heartfelt appeal from an artist’s deepest core:

“The music that is built upon the rasa of love, longing, and pain—I wish to preserve it by becoming a citizen of secular India.”

Within just fifteen days, the decision was made.

He bid farewell forever to his birthplace Pakistan and returned to Kolkata.

Yes, Kolkata—where entry of dissonance into the realm of music was considered forbidden, where music was free, unbound, and as pure as the soul itself.

We still listen in awe to:

Ustad Faiyaz Khan’s “Khelat Nandkumar”
Bade Ghulam Ali Khan’s “Hari Om”
And Bhimsen Joshi’s incomparable Bhairavi

Those who cannot feel the dawn of Bilaskhani Todi, the afternoon of Bilawal, the first night of Behag, or the depth of Darbari Kanada—
Those who repeatedly suppress the spirit of Kabir, Lalon, and Surdas—
For them, the propagation of music is merely an ill-fitting farce.

Because they do not know what it means to regret not being able to hear Girija Devi at Dover Lane after saving small amounts of money in youth.

They have not felt the joy of drifting through sound under the open sky outside Rabindra Sadan through the night.

Today there is fear—
That Kolkata is changing.

Its own people are becoming strangers.

Instead of the simple sweetness of rasgulla, tastes are running toward artificial extravagance.

Artificiality is entering the space of culture.

Yet there is hope—

May that city awaken again, the city that once stayed up all night listening to Bade Ghulam Ali Khan and Bhimsen Joshi.

May it return—

The heritage of Rabindranath–Nazrul–Sukanta evenings,
Neighbourhood harmony, human bonds.

Our culture is one and indivisible—

From Shitala temple of Karnaphuli, the mazars of Ichhamati,
To the chessboards of Gariahat, ticket queues of Nandan,
The lanes of North Kolkata, the blood donation camps of Beleghata—

Its presence is everywhere.

Let this culture be our resistance against cultural decay.

Born: 2 April 1902
Died: 23 April 1968

In remembrance and respect—
Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan