In the classical traditions of South Asia, the baithak—also known as a mehfil or bazm—is a gathering older than any concert hall, rooted in the belief that music is not a performance to be consumed but a conversation to be shared. Before the music begins, there is food, tea and conversation about poetry, life or whatever weighs on the heart that evening. Musicians and guests sit as equals, unseparated by the invisible barrier of a stage. Only after these human connections are formed does the music begin. It is far more than a jam session; a jam session creates sound, while a baithak creates belonging.
A Monthly Gathering in London and Oxford
This ancient tradition remains quietly alive in the living rooms of London and Oxford, thanks to a small group of friends determined to preserve it. Once a month, Hassan Nouman, Isher, Ahsan, Adeel, Shams and Saad gather in a London flat or an Oxford common room to recreate something both timeless and deeply relevant. Isher and Adeel take their places behind the tabla, their fingers poised over drums whose dialogue with melody stretches back to the Mughal courts. Shams and Hassan settle behind harmoniums, the bellows-driven instruments central to Hindustani classical and devotional music, while the rubab—the ancient plucked lute often called the lion of instruments—adds its distinctive voice.
The Vocalist as the Center
Yet it is Hassan’s singing that guides the evening. In the baithak tradition, the vocalist is the centre around which everything revolves. The tabla keeps time, the harmonium provides harmonic support and the rubab adds colour and counterpoint, but all serve to deepen the singer’s expression. The instruments do not merely accompany him; they listen, respond and breathe with him.
No Set List, Only Vibes
What makes these gatherings remarkable is what they intentionally exclude: a set list or fixed programme. “We go with the vibes,” Hassan says. The evening unfolds according to mood—whichever ghazal calls to them, whichever raga suits the moment, whichever verse of poetry refuses to leave someone’s mind. They discuss poetry between pieces, allowing one song to dissolve naturally into the next. In a true baithak, the music is alive and finds its own path.
A Quiet Resistance to Modern Music Culture
This is something the modern music industry cannot replicate. Streaming platforms and stadium concerts have made music ubiquitous, yet intimacy has become increasingly rare. We have playlists for every mood but fewer moments when music exists as something unrecorded, unpolished and unrepeatable. The baithak has always been the antidote to spectacle—music on a human scale. Its decline is hardly surprising. It demands time, proximity, shared cultural memory and a willingness to embrace the uncertainty of an unplanned evening—qualities modern life rarely encourages.
Preservation Through Connection
That is why what these friends do each month—gathering over tea, lifting their instruments and following the music wherever it leads—is more than a hobby. It is an act of preservation, perhaps even of quiet resistance: an insistence that some things remain worth keeping—the warm room, the shared silence before the first note, and the timeless conversation between a singer and the instruments that accompany him.
