Every time I hear about fresh tensions between India and Pakistan — be they a diplomatic tit-for-tat, a border flare-up, or inflammatory speeches — I cannot help but wonder whether we will ever move beyond this loop of hostility. Territorial disputes, ideological clashes, historical baggage, among other issues, contribute to this perpetual cycle of antipathy. Where political dialogue has failed repeatedly, can, I wonder at times, music build a bridge?
Borders matter in diplomacy. They matter in trade, defence, and politics too. But can there be borders in music? Despite the long history of strained relations between India and Pakistan, the music of one nation continues to resonate deeply with the people of the other. Comment sections on YouTube turn from vitriolic to vulnerable, with Indian and Pakistani listeners appreciating the same voices, the same melodies, the same emotions. Does diplomacy not miss this point? That the politics notwithstanding, the people of the two nations still recognise each other not as adversaries but as people with shared cultural traits.
The musical traditions of India and Pakistan are not just similar — they’re entangled. We share ragas, instruments, poets, and devotional forms. Qawwali, for instance, has roots that are spread across religious and national boundaries, drawing as much from Hindu temple melodies as those from Sufi shrines.
Strikingly, this shared musical heritage has been deliberately ignored — sometimes even erased — in our efforts to define ourselves as fundamentally different from each other. In Pakistan, successive regimes have pushed Arabic maqamat into traditional music to distance the latter from its Indian origins. In India, reverence to the qawwali is increasingly being frowned upon. In this context, the image of Lata Mangeshkar and Noor Jehan embracing at the Wagah border in 1951 deserves special mention (picture). Two icons of music, born on the same land but divided by a line drawn in haste that has hardened over the decades, bonded over something that borders could not touch.
Music often works as a form of silent resistance to State narratives. For example, despite official bans, Indian listeners have not stopped listening to music from Pakistan. In fact, Coke Studio Pakistan, which is more popular in India than the Indian version, has become emblematic of a shared culture’s ability to ignore artificial divisions created by politics.
How can music — something ephemeral and emotional — compete with the brutal reality of terrorism, military stand-offs, and hardened ideologies? Music doesn’t compete with these bitter realities; it works around them; beneath them; beyond them. Think about the Cold War. The United States of America had sent jazz musicians like Louis Armstrong abroad as unofficial ambassadors. Their music didn’t change Soviet policy overnight but it created a different kind of dialogue. It planted seeds of curiosity, respect, and even admiration. So why can’t India and Pakistan use music the same way? Not just as a tool of national branding but as a genuine medium to foster human connection?
Music, of course, will not solve the Kashmir issue; or reverse decades of mistrust; or end cross-border terrorism. But if people start seeing each other differently, if they begin to feel something other than fear or hatred, then there may be a shift in the
political winds.