Seated on the banks of the Ganga in Varanasi, the city where Kabir once lived, folk musician Mahesha Ram sings well beyond dusk. Against the illuminated backdrop of the Mahindra Kabira Festival, boats drift silently toward distant ghats as music and culture enthusiasts gather to listen. Fog folds into the river, lamps glow along the steps, and on Shivala Ghat his voice rises without urgency, as if drawn from an inner landscape older than the city itself.
Mahesha Ram sings as though absorbed inwardly, letting poems of Kabir, Mira and Narayan Das surface and dissolve. The songs clearly arise from deep immersion in the poets’ words and lived philosophies. Silence and sound are in harmonious co-existence in the music. The manner of its rendition spotlights the meaning packed into the verses—the khartal, khamaicha and matka, seamlessly blending in and keeping pace.
“There is nothing outside. Everything is inside,” he says later. From a community of hereditary singers and weavers, his musical training is informal, absorbed rather than taught. Gesturing toward his co-musician Teja Ram, he explains, “This is my community’s work. We have done this for generations. I chose to sing. He is an excellent weaver. The hands work the loom, but the mind sings bhajans in the same rhythm.”
The first song he remembers learning is an aarti by Baba Ramdev Pir, the Sufi saint revered by Hindus and Muslims. The melody travels through family lines—learnt from father to uncle to brother—heard first in childhood. “From the day we are born in the Meghwal samaj,” he says, “we are involved in satsang kaa kaam.”
Life in his community has changed with electricity, roads and water access, yet the folk tradition remains strong across Rajasthan. “We sing with veena, dholak and manjira,” he says, naming other instruments still played by neighbouring communities—the sarangi, khartal, morching, bhin and dafli. When the conversation turns to modern, market-driven performance cultures, he returns to his guru’s words: “Gaana aur rona, ek jaisa hona chaahiye.” Singing, like crying, must come from within. Closing his eyes, he offers a few lines to demonstrate. “Bring colour so the listener does not only hear the shabad, but experiences the ras. One who can do that is a sadhu.”
He speaks of his mentor with quiet grief. “If you want to learn anything, learn now—that’s what my guru told me.” Teaching students from around the world, Mahesha Ram keeps the lineage alive. “Kabir is not cerebral,” he says. “You must feel him. Those who can hear his words, will hear them.”