Feeding from and into the popular misconceptions about the place of music in Islam and Muslim society, Assam Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma recently has claimed that Islam prohibits music and song. This claim is false. It relies on narrow views. It ignores the full history of Islam. It overlooks diverse traditions in the faith. Music has deep roots in Islamic culture. It serves spiritual and social roles. It connects the soul to the Divine for those who pursue spirituality.
The Quran has no verse that bans music. It mentions instruments like the lute and flute in positive ways. For example, in Surah An-Najm, it speaks of a “melodious voice” from heaven. The Prophet Muhammad did not forbid music outright. He allowed it in joyful settings. At weddings, he let girls sing songs of praise. They used the daff, a simple frame drum. He listened and smiled. He said such songs bring happiness. This shows music can uplift the heart, according to Islam. It goes with faith when it avoids excess or lewdness. He even joined in clapping to rhythms during battles to boost morale. His example set a tone of balance. Music was not a threat but a gift.
Some hadith texts suggest bans on music. These are weak or disputed. Many trace back to one companion, Umar ibn al-Khattab. Umar was the second caliph. He valued strict discipline. He saw music as a distraction from prayer. During Hajj, he whipped singers in the streets. He feared it led to idleness. As ruler, he banned string instruments in Medina. He removed lutes from markets. He ordered patrols to enforce quiet. But these were his decisions. They came from his time of war and hardship. The Prophet never issued such a broad ban. Other scholars later relaxed these rules. They saw Umar’s views as personal, not binding. Ijma, or consensus, allows music for good purposes. Later jurists like Al-Ghazali weighed in. They permitted it if it stirs piety.
Many of the Prophet’s companions embraced music. They saw it as part of life. Aisha, his beloved wife, loved songs. She invited girls to sing and dance in her home. The Prophet watched with joy. He called it a mercy. She later defended music against critics. Abu Bakr, the first caliph, recited poetry with a tune. He used melody to teach Quran verses. His voice carried emotion in lessons. Ali ibn Abi Talib, the fourth caliph, wrote verses himself. He praised “nasheeds” with rhythm. These are devotional songs. He said they soften the heart for truth. Ibn Abbas, a great scholar, defended music that stirs love for God. He said songs like those of Bilal, the first muezzin, touch the soul. Bilal’s call to prayer was a melody itself. Even Umar softened at times. He permitted the daff during Eid festivals. He allowed women to sing at home. He joined in cheers at victories. This variety proves no single ban exists. Companions balanced joy and piety. Their lives show music as a bridge to God.
Sufi music began in early Islamic times. It started in the 8th and 9th centuries. Places like Basra in Iraq and Nishapur in Persia were key. Sufism grew as a mystical path. It sought direct union with God. Early Sufis faced criticism from rulers. They turned to music for inner peace. Rabia al-Basri, a woman saint from the 8th century, used chants in her prayers. She sang of divine love. Her poems became songs. She cried out in verse, “I carry You in my heart.” These words echoed in gatherings. Later, Al-Hallaj in the 9th century faced death for his ecstatic verses. These were set to tunes. He shouted “Ana al-Haqq” in rapture. His story inspired singers. The term sama means “listening.” It refers to spiritual concerts. Sufis used voice and simple tools. The ney flute symbolized the soul’s longing. It wails like a reed separated from its root. The daff drum marked rhythms of the heart. This music blended with local arts. It drew from Arab poetry and Persian modes. It evolved from desert chants to courtly airs.
Ibn Arabi added profound depth to this tradition. Born in 1165 in Murcia, Spain, he was a towering Sufi mystic. He traveled widely, from Andalusia to Mecca. His writings shaped Sufi thought on love and unity. In Tarjuman al-Ashwaq, his 13th-century poetry collection, he expressed divine romance. These ghazals pulse with passion. They describe God as the Beloved. Lines like “My heart holds every faith” became anthems. Sufis set them to melody in sama sessions. His verses fueled ecstatic dances. In Fusus al-Hikam, he linked music to cosmology. He saw tones as mirrors of divine names. Each note reveals wahdat al-wujud, the unity of being. Ibn Arabi attended sama in Damascus. He defended it against foes. He said music unveils the heart’s secrets. Like a veil lifted, it shows truth. His influence spread through disciples. Orders like the Shadhili adopted his poems. Singers in Fez and Cairo chant them today. Ibn Arabi’s work made music a path to gnosis. It turned songs into ladders to heaven.
Sufi orders helped spread this music far and wide. Each tariqa, or order, added its style. The Chishti order reached India in the 12th century. It flowered under Nizamuddin Auliya in Delhi. His disciple Amir Khusrau invented new forms. In the 13th century, he mixed Persian scales with Indian ragas. He created qawwali, a call-and-response style. Singers repeat Allah’s names in trance. Drums build to crescendos. Today, qawwali echoes at Ajmer and Nizamuddin’s shrines. Thousands gather yearly. They sway in unity. The Naqshbandi order took silent dhikr with melody to Central Asia. In Bukhara, they used soft chants. It spread to Turkey under Ottoman rule. There, it entered palace halls. Sultans hosted concerts with ney masters.
The Mevlevi order, founded by Rumi’s followers, made whirling dances famous. In 13th-century Konya, Anatolia, dervishes spun to ney and drum. This sema ritual seeks fana, or annihilation in God. Rumi’s Masnavi verses drive the spin. It influenced art and poetry across Europe. Bells on skirts chime like prayers. In North Africa, Sufi music fused with Berber traditions. The Gnawa brotherhood in Morocco started in the 16th century. Slaves from sub-Saharan lands brought it. They use the guembri, a three-string lute. Their lila ceremonies heal through possession and song. Castanets clap in frenzy. In East Africa, the Taarab style arose in Zanzibar. From the 19th century, it mixed Arabic ud lute with Swahili lyrics. Sultan Barghash patronized it. It spread to Kenya and Tanzania coasts. Ensembles play at weddings. Lyrics tell of longing and fate.
Ibn Khaldun offers deep insight. He was a 14th-century Tunisian scholar. In his Muqaddimah, he treats music as a science. He places it under math and physics. He explains tones through ratios. A string’s length halves for an octave. This echoes Greek ideas like Pythagoras. He studies modes, or maqams. Arab bayati mode brings sadness. It softens the spirit. Hijaz mode stirs passion. It awakens zeal. He links music to society. Bedouins sang simple chants for camels. These kept herds calm. Cities developed complex orchestras. Flutes and ouds filled bazaars. Courts in Baghdad used it for feasts. It boosted soldiers’ morale. Caliphs rewarded composers.
Khaldun sees music’s power on the soul. It moves humors in the body. It can lead to ecstasy, like Sufi trances. Or it brings calm reflection. A slow tune heals grief. He warns of excess. Drunken songs corrupt. They lead to sin. But pure music ennobles. It refines character. He says bans come from culture, not faith. Rural tribes shun it for hardship. They focus on survival. Urban folk embrace it. They seek beauty. His work influenced later thinkers. It shows Islam values knowledge of arts. From theory to practice, it honors creation.
Islamic music in Bengal and Assam came through Sufi paths. It blends faith with local rhythms. Fakiri songs echo in Bengal’s villages. Marfati verses praise the Prophet there. Zikir chants rise in Assam’s hills. These forms draw from early Sufis. They unite hearts across borders. They turn melody into prayer.
Bengal’s Islamic music roots in the 13th century. Sufi saints arrived with Delhi’s sultans. They settled in deltas and dooars. Places like Sylhet and Chittagong became hubs. Fakirs wandered as mendicants. They sang to spread the message of Islam, God’s oneness. Local boatmen and farmers joined. Drums and flutes mixed with calls to God. This created a gentle sound. It soothed souls amid floods and harvests.
Fakiri songs form the core. They live simply, like the Prophet. These songs started in the 15th century. Haji Bayazid Bistami’s followers inspired them. But Bengal’s own Lalon Shah, in the 18th century, shaped them deep. Sylhet’ Hason Raja made huge contribution to this tradition. Rabindranath Tagore was mesmerised by them. Though syncretic, their tunes carry Islamic fire. Fakiri lyrics speak of inner jihad. They urge leaving ego for divine love. Singers use ektara, a one-string lute. It plucks like a heartbeat. The dotara adds strings for depth. Voices rise in call and response. Groups sit in akharas and khanqas, open halls. They sway under banyan trees. A lead singer starts: “Fakir is he who finds the Friend.” Others echo back. This builds trance. Fakiri spread to markets and courts. Mughal nawabs in Murshidabad hosted them. Today, in Bangladesh’s Kushtia, annual fairs draw thousands. Artists like Purna Das Baul keep it alive. But pure Fakiri stays in mosques. It teaches humility through hum.
Marfati songs honor the Prophet Muhammad. They arose in the 17th century. Shah Jalal’s descendants in Sylhet penned early ones. Abdul Karim Shah, a 19th-century poet, mastered them. He wrote in simple Bengali. His lines flow like river currents. Singers use mandira cymbals. These ring like stars. The sarinda bow scrapes soulful notes. Groups perform at milads, birthday gatherings. Women veil and join softly. Men beat dobs, clay drums. A verse goes: “Light of lights, you guide the lost.” It stirs tears and joy. Marfati crossed to India after 1947. In West Bengal’s Murshidabad, they fill Eid nights. Radios once aired them. Now apps stream live. Scholars like Muhammad Enamul Haq studied them. He called them bridges to Sunnah. They keep the Prophet close. In daily life, they calm feuds. A Marfati shared heals rifts.
Assam’s Zikir ties to Bengal’s flow. But it grows wild in tea gardens and valleys. Zikir means remembrance. It chants Allah’s names. Sufis brought it in the 16th century. Sayyid Shah Milan, from Baghdad, settled in Goalpara. His order, the Milani, fused Zikir with Bodo beats. Early Zikirs were silent. Then melody entered. In the 18th century, under Ahom kings, it spread. Muslims in Kamrup hid in forests. They sang low to avoid raids. Zikir uses dotara too. But Assam adds bamboo flutes. These whistle like winds in Brahmaputra. Groups form majlis in madrasas. They sit cross-legged. A pir leads: “La ilaha illallah.” Drums pulse slow. Breath deepens. Hands clap in unison. This seeks fana, loss in God. Women have separate circles. They hum softly. Zikir nights last till dawn. In Barpeta’s sattras, it blends with Vaishnava chants. Pir of Baghbar’s tomb hosts yearly urs. Pilgrims from Manipur join. Thousands circle in ecstasy.
These traditions link Bengal and Assam. Rivers carry songs downstream. Traders swap tunes at haats, markets. Sufi pirs marry across lines. Fakiri influences Zikir rhythms. Marfati verses enter Assamese madrasas. In 20th century, partitions split them. Yet radio united. All India Radio aired Fakiri in 1950s. Assam’s AIR Guwahati broadcast Zikir. Now, YouTube revives. Young singers like Zahid Khan mix them with folk. Festivals like Beshakh in Sylhet draw crowds. Assam’s Ali Ai Ligiri fair echoes Marfati.
Figures like Haji Mohammad Fakir shaped Bengal’s sound. In 19th century Kushtia, he wandered with ektara. His songs warned of worldly traps. “Fakir begs not bread, but sight of Him.” Disciples spread them to Dhaka. In Assam, Gias Uddin Ahmed wrote Zikir poems. His 20th-century works use local words. They praise the Prophet in Kamrupi dialect. Scholars analyze them. Enamul Haq’s books trace roots. He links to Persian sama. But local soil makes them unique.
Sufi music reached the West too. In the 20th century, Inayat Khan took it to Europe. He founded Sufi centers in London. He taught universal harmony through ragas. Artists like Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan globalized qawwali. His 1980s tours filled stadiums in the US and UK. His voice soared over tablas. Abida Parveen sings in Urdu and Punjabi. Her voice carries Sufi fire. She wails of separation from God. Modern fusions blend it with jazz or rock. Peter Gabriel collaborated on tracks. Festivals like Fez in Morocco draw crowds. Pakistan’s Data Ganj Bakhsh urs features all-night sama. Voices rise in chorus. This shows music’s living role. It unites Muslims across borders. It counters isolation. It adapts yet stays pure.
Challenges face these arts. Urban youth chase Bollywood. Mosques ban instruments sometimes. Like Umar’s old rigor. But resilience holds. NGOs teach Fakiri in schools. Bangladesh’s folk academy revives Marfati. Assam’s cultural boards fund Zikir troupes. Global diaspora sings them in London. They keep roots alive.
Islamic music in Bengal and Assam whispers eternity. Fakiri humbles. Marfati exalts. Zikir remembers. They join heart and rhythm. From deltas to hills, they draw to the Divine. True faith sings what silences fear. It unites in melody.
Sarma’s claim misses this rich story. It paints Islam as rigid. Yet music builds community. It teaches tawhid, God’s oneness. From prophetic homes to global stages, it joins heart and rhythm. Islam celebrates what draws the believers to the Divine. Bans serve fear, not faith. They divide. Music unites. It echoes eternity.
