On TV he sang regularly for the morning shows, especially during Ramadan, and would take part in the silly games too, if the presenters asked him. He would sing in Sufi shrines, cross-legged on a mat with a skull-capped chorus, or perform like a rock star, standing at a mic under bright lights in a flamingo-pink cotta. “Bhar do Jholi” was his most famous song, “Fill my Bag”, or “Fulfil my Wish”:įill my bag, O Lord, Fill all our bags, O Lord, Fill the bag, O Guide, Fill my bag, O Lord of Medina, I won’t return empty-handed! Bhar do jholi, bhar do jholi… Indeed, his whole performance radiated calm, confidence and joy: a big, burly man with luxuriant long black hair, brown karakul hat, one small gold earring and many chunky rings, effortlessly smiling and gesticulating through his glorious baritone singing. In adulthood Amjad, always careful to preserve his father’s modulations, did this too, enjoying the effect it had on his listeners. His father would cry “Allah! Allah!” in the midst of his singing, an invocation so powerful that even non-Muslims would start to shout it after him. What should I tell you, O Prince of Arabia, You already know what is in my heart, In our separation, O Untaught One, Our sleepless nights are so hard to bear In your love I’ve lost all consciousness Tajdar-e-haram, tajdar-e-haramĪs he or his relations sang, the audience would start to sway, clap, sing along, dance and lose themselves in the ecstasy of God. Qawwali was a plea to be noticed at the court of heaven, admitted to the presence, absorbed into the heartbeat and the breath, as in his father’s most famous song, “Tajdar-e-haram”, “King of the Holy Sanctuary”: It was a love song to the prophet Muhammad, to Ali, his son-in-law and closest disciple, to the Sufi saints and above all to God directly, music being the only sure way to evoke and approach Him. The long preparation was worth it, to feel one with the sunrise.
So it was no wonder that from early childhood Amjad Sabri joined the chorus, hauled out of bed by his father at 4am to wash, say his prayers, fetch his instrument and sing the first raga of the dawn.
The Sabri house in Karachi was full of the wheeze of portable harmoniums, the patter of drums and the joyous, repetitive mantras of qawwali, the songs of the millions of South Asian followers of the mystical Sufi strain of Islam. His ancestors had done so too, right back to the time of Mian Tansen, a favourite musician at the Mughal court, who received 100,000 gold coins for his first performance. His uncle, Maqbool Ahmed Sabri, sang that way. HIS father, Ghulam Farid Sabri, sang that way.