Storytelling and the Diaspora: through the magical lens of Coke Studio
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
My Abu has always had a natural flair for storytelling.
As a child, I remember listening with rapt attention while he would share some of his earliest memories with us: days spent in the arid cold of Quetta followed by the intense humidity of Karachi; the stoic resolve of his father, an avid reader of Shakespeare’s plays, whom I only know from a handful of yellowing photographs; and the quiet tenderness of his mother, whose gentle counsel I’d like to think taught him everything he needed to know about how to live and survive in a foreign land.
Collectively, my brothers and I must have spent an entire lifetime simply listening to him tell and retell tales old and new. The backdrop is nearly always the same, situated in his favourite chair with the best view of my Ammi’s meticulously cared-for climbing roses in the back garden and an expertly brewed mug of tea beside him, as though the best stories can only be told with a fresh cup of steaming chai in hand. It’s been a while since we left both chair and garden behind to begin a new chapter elsewhere, but the stories remain, unhampered by time, space, or place. Hearing him has made me realise how interlinked personal history is to the art of storytelling, and how an otherwise inconsequential moment can reemerge as a narrative that we share with each other during times of joy, sadness, anger, or grief.
South Asians, in particular, will be familiar with the storytelling traditions of our forebears: from the fantastical folklore and legendary Qisse born from the native soil to the great symposiums of classical poetry and literature where tales of mythological creatures, forgotten guardians, and warring custodians were fervently shared. This ability to spin magical stories as hand weavers spin threads to manifest a rich and intricate tapestry of colourful heroes and tyrannical emperors survives because it is ever-evolving. The threads might stay the same, but those weaving them have adapted to the changing seasons, creating nuanced art forms where folklore begets art, and poetry and song inspire music and dance: myth and musicality intuitively mixed with heritage and innovation to create a perfect blend. Arguably, music is the primary reason such stories and art forms have endured through the ages, passed down from one generation to the next and given new meaning.
Even with the noticeable generation gap, Abu’s stories of days past have become so entwined with my own recollections that they feel just as palpable. In truth, these stories are the key to my heritage—precious snapshots of a time before I existed, and their influence has had an indelible effect on who I am and who I am yet to become. Growing up between two distinct cultures opens you to myriad experiences of places, spaces, people, and seasons. As a British Pakistani, with sporadic trips to Lahore, Karachi, and Islamabad, my bond with my parents’ homeland has ebbed and flowed with the tide, but the music of my heritage remains a steady current that refuses to waver with the passing years. One of my most cherished memories is running up the two flights of stairs to my brother’s room to listen to cassette tapes on a small Sony stereo – a heady concoction of Vital Signs, Junoon, Jal—the Band, sprinkled occasionally with the standout tracks of Hadiqa Kayani’s debut album. Downstairs, with my parents, the humdrum of slow-moving days was punctured by notes of ‘Chan Mere Makhna’, ‘Aap Jaisa Koi’, and the complete discographies of Mohammed Rafi and Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
The effects of music on memory are truly remarkable. Today, I cannot recall either ‘Sayonee’ or ‘Aadat’ without my mind wandering back to monsoon season in Lahore, racing toy cars on the veranda with my cousin, a family cricket match in the middle of the street, or navigating up circular stone steps to the rooftop of my grandmother’s house to gaze out at a city forever buzzing with activity. The feelings of happy nostalgia that surface are enough of an indication of how, through memory, music can serve to preserve our personal histories, as though the soundtrack to our lives is just as important as the moments themselves.
The origins of a global phenomenon
If you were to travel back in time and take a nostalgic step into that specific sphere of Birmingham’s Desi community, you would be inundated with the popularised beats of ‘80s Bhangra mixed with the harmonies of ‘90s and 2000s Bollywood, from dedicated radio stations and record shops overflowing with VHS tapes, CDs, and cassettes to inside local grocery shops, wedding halls, and melas or festivals in the park. An integral part of our cultural makeup, it was easy to assume that ‘Desiness’ existed only within these few parameters and that the backlog of sounds and records from my parents’ cities that we enjoyed at home was a rare exception.
Cue 2008 and the advent of an innovative Pakistani music show that would become not only a staple of the country’s pop culture but a rite of passage for all Desi communities, transforming how we think about music – and each other – forever. It is strange to think that today’s Pakistani youth will have never known a world where Coke Studio did not exist, where a blurring of borders, cultures, voices, and musical styles was not a complete novelty, and where you would find music that could simultaneously pull at your heartstrings and sucker punch you in the gut. It is impossible to overstate Coke Studio’s impact on those of us in the diaspora.
Take Arif Lohar’s ‘Alif Allah (Jugni)’ from season three of Coke Studio as an example. Back when iPhones were only just beginning to overtake iPods as the must-have music essential, a Brit-Desi track was making rounds in the UK. The song was ‘Jugni Ji’ from music producer Dr. Zeus, featuring Kanika Kapoor on vocals (the Bollywood heavyweight also did a 2.0 version years later). Zeus, a veteran of British Asian sound who later won a Brit Asia TV Music Award for his efforts, successfully reimagined Lohar’s original, which was based on a contemporary interpretation of a 17th-century poem by Sufi mystic Sultan Bahu. Beloved Pakistani folk singer Lohar was already a staple of Punjabi Sufi music, but with the addition of Meesha Shafi on vocals, his track became a viral hit amongst the youth. A perfect illustration of old made contemporary, then made contemporary again, on the one hand, the Coke Studio track inspired an unofficial anthem of British Asian youth with the likes of Zeus manipulating it to create a smooth urban sound, and on the other, it opened the doorway to Bollywood for a similarly trendy film, Cocktail, at a time when collaborations between India and Pakistan were not just a novelty.
The significance of Lohar’s live performance and Zeus’ subsequent reinvention was momentous for two reasons. First, it became a lifeline for those of us with limited access to the stories, memories, and pop culture that our native counterparts enjoyed. Why? Because living in the diaspora is akin to living in a time vacuum. Before the advent of social media, many Pakistanis born in the West only understood our country as our parents left it. We had no concept of what modern-day Pakistan was – its values, cultural traits, or emerging trends – and neither did our parents. The occasional visits back home to see family only filled some gaps in our understanding, but there remained a lamentable bias and overbearing gaze adopted from our Western upbringing. Coke Studio swiftly cut through all the preconceived notions and gave us a direct pathway to what it meant to us to be of Pakistani heritage, to be of this particular land and linked to these specific people.
Second, it broke through the generational divide that separates us and our parents. The platform also taught us there is a depth to Pakistani music that appeals not just to older generations but also to the youth. Similar to the song’s symbolic meaning, ‘Jugni’ encapsulates the ‘spirit’ or ‘essence’ of Pakistani musical styles, both old and new, and it is these sentiments that have dazzled and inspired entire generations. It is no wonder then that the platform’s popularity propelled so quickly beyond the nation’s borders and cemented the collective obsession those of us overseas would continue to have with Coke Studio over the coming years. And not just for Pakistanis, but Indians, Sri Lankans, Bengalis, and anyone else with even the tiniest inclination towards Desi music.
Indeed, watching a Coke Studio performance is like stepping out of a black-and-white movie and into one with technicolour – bright hues surround you from all sides and engulf each of your senses.
In all respects, it is truly mesmerising. Even from the outset, Coke Studio revelled in its effortless ability to fuse the soul of the East with the technical prowess of the West, celebrate the old while welcoming the new, engage with the youth while paying homage to our elders, and offer salutations of peace to the rest of us who could only gaze at this magical world from a far-off corner of a foreign land.
Much of the credit behind the concept is deservingly given to producer and Vital Signs alumni Rohail Hyatt, championed by Nadeem Hyatt of The Coca-Cola Company. In a BBC interview, Hyatt shared his vision to “share our traditional music with the world but in a palatable sound scale”. The result was music that was both familiar and innovative, playful, creative, and at times utterly rebellious. It was not afraid to be Desi and Western and everything else in between. Here, the familiar rock and pop songs of our childhood and the Sufi folk music of our parents’ childhoods were plucked from their rural setting and reimagined for modern audiences, and eventually, with the advent of YouTube, digitally savvy viewers around the globe. This was a sound that the diaspora, alongside a contemporary Pakistan, could very much relate to.
After one long summer in Lahore, the same cousin I raced toy cars with burned the Coke Studio track list onto a CD to take back with me to the UK. Atif Aslam’s ‘Jal Pari’ remained on repeat for months afterwards. All of us will have unique personal stories of how Coke Studio played out in our lives. For my part, a keen passion eventually crossed over into my profession, from curating playlists of recommended songs, paying homage to the show’s evolution, celebrating other live music platforms of Pakistan and partaking in a post-screening discussion of the show’s continuing popularity with filmmaker Mian Adnan Ahmad.
Diehard fans of Coke Studio may already be familiar with Ahmad’s documentary, The Journey Within. Released in 2015, the film offers a glimpse into the history and origins of Coke Studio, including interviews with key artists and rare behind-the-scenes footage and capturing all the infectious magical energy in the making. It also showcased another standout song from Season 2, ‘Aik Alif’ by iconic folk artist Saieen Zahoor and rock band Noori. The film has been shown at various film festivals over the years to much acclaim, even winning Best Film at the DESIblitz Film Festival in 2022 – signifying its ever-growing impact on global audiences. In interviews, Ahmad has spoken about the privilege he felt getting to experience the song-making process in such detail, commending the extensive research that Rohail and his team underwent to fuse Eastern and Western music and introduce new technologies in music production that were not the norm.
It also offers an insight into the artists’ musical ambitions, that is, to encourage audiences to connect with music in a way they have never done so before. For Saieen Zahoor, in particular, preservation of the craft is paramount for ensuring age-old musical traditions, styles, and instruments do not slip away into the abyss of antiquity. It is fascinating how the seed of an idea can snowball into a whole series of inspired ideas. And, it is not music that does this, but the sentiment behind it, which latches itself onto our hearts and stimulates our minds. It makes us believe that we are part of something bigger, that goes beyond our very selves.
Coke Studio – a case study for success
For reasons I still don’t entirely understand, Abu’s storytelling is reminiscent of those early days of Coke Studio. Perhaps it’s something to do with the feelings they inspired in us as children – an initial awe and wonder at a world that was entirely different from our current reality, but that still existed even if in another time and place. It is as if these songs pay homage to a bygone time – the musicality and poetic wonder of the storytellers who preceded us, symbolising a gilded age of art and culture that continues to influence us even today. Revisiting them years later brings about the same security-blanket type of sentiments and the kind of pride-inducing emotion that makes your eyes well up and a lump form in the back of your throat. They perfectly capture the sensibilities of audiences through well-crafted and familiar folk music but are elevated to a professional, world-class standard. Put simply, they offer a glimpse into a period of greatness, where storytellers were experts in their craft, but inaccessible to novice storytellers like me who can only gaze in wonder at both the musicality and the poetry of the storytelling.
Now, with the advent of social media and a collective yearning to discover otherwise unfamiliar cultures, Coke Studio has entered a new era of live performance that grapples with more than just the traditional sonic format we have grown up with. As such, the incredible power and influence of this singular platform cannot be sneered at. Two and a bit years after the release of the highly successful, revamped fourteenth season under musician and producer Zulfiqar ‘Xulfi’ Khan, a 30-second teaser for Season 15 was discreetly uploaded to the Coke Studio YouTube channel just a few days after Eid-al-Fitr 2024. The video featured no music and no musicians. Viewers simply watched two women carefully stitching delicate embroidery onto a Coke Studio tapestry. Within 24 hours, it had amassed nigh on 1 million views. Suffice it to say that Coke Studio has woven itself into the fabric of our culture, our heritage, and our storytelling. What’s more, this fresh form of storytelling is here to stay.
Coke Studio Pakistan mastermind Xulfi is creative in every sense of the word.
He has an uncanny ability, almost magpie-like, to source only the finest, rawest, and most talented artists to work with. He is a master storyteller in his own right, with the unique ability to empower his artists to be the best they can be, to express themselves in the best possible way, and to be uncompromisingly authentic in their craft. Having already proved his ability over the years to find unknown artists and give them a seat at the table, many in the industry have already commented on Xulfi’s little black book of the who’s who of Pakistani culture: musicians, artists, performers, singers, and all-round creatives. They form the backbone of Seasons 14 and 15.
We saw glimpses of this genius during Xulfi’s Nescafé Basement era. Arguably, the series became somewhat of a training ground for blending live music and cinematic visuals with crisp sound production. It was also where Xulfi crafted his production A-Team, which has organically crossed over into Coke Studio. We’ve become accustomed to seeing the familiar faces of Abdullah Siddiqui, Sherry Khatak, and Veeru Shan. What’s more, there’s a surprising lack of ego on the sets. Recognising Xulfi’s uncompromising vision, these singers and musicians, individually lauded artists with growing fanbases of their own, play multiple roles, so you’ll likely see them more behind the camera than in front of it. As Xulfi says in one backstage Magical Journey video, “Every individual here is very deeply involved. It’s not like we are just here for the shoot or that we are just singing it. It’s clearly visible that everybody has put their heart and soul into it. No one is able to just let it be… flawed from any angle. And this is a blessing. Actually, it’s more of a miracle than a blessing. I didn’t know that this would happen.”
Even with a new look, the essence and purity of the show remain; after all Coke Studio was and always will be iconic. But the newer seasons have seen the live show reinvent itself. Because what is storytelling, really, but an individual pursuit that gives way to a collective one? There is an unmistakable understanding between each of the performers on stage, with musicians and singers sitting together on a level playing field, sharing equal time and space. Thus, our appreciation extends beyond just the household names of Ali Azmat, Atif Aslam, Abida Parveen, and Rahat Fateh Ali Khan – each a titan of live performance – to include the rising stars and underground artists who are just starting their musical career journeys, while also celebrating the house band responsible for creating this contemporary, electronic sound.
Global reactions and interactions with each new video release are an accidental bonus to the releases themselves. For the most part, the spectators who are unfamiliar with the sonic landscape of South Asia have found it transformative. Notably, the popularity of the later seasons has encouraged more visitors to navigate through earlier episodes of the show, where the live performances are steeped more heavily in ancestral tradition, from pull-at-the-heartstring Qawaalis to ethereal Sufi Kalams. In this case, it is contemporary art that continues to be so deeply rooted in culture that it also becomes a window to the past. Even early on, Xulfi’s Coke Studio had the makings of becoming a unifying force. After all, who could have ever predicted that an edgy Balochi song featuring a dambora—a traditional musical string instrument – would be picked up by a Norwegian dance group and go on to become a viral phenomenon across the globe, one that has been rehashed by other dance enthusiasts hundreds if not thousands of times? It seems all that was needed was a special level of engagement before Xulfi’s team would achieve the global acclaim that, frankly, they so well deserve. Such ambitions have really come to fruition with the set list for Season 15, introducing Pakistani audiences to soundscapes from beyond the borders of Sindh, Punjab, and the land of the Pakhtuns to create something akin to a ‘reverse diaspora’ if you will.
From PAF.no to Piya Piya Calling – diaspora in reverse
There is always an elongated pause before a new memory reveals itself, as though the telling of it requires Abu to step out of his current self and into a former one, and we must sit and wait for him to become reacquainted with this other skin. Some recollections come to him instantly, living in eager anticipation on the tip of his tongue, and even the tiniest nudge will unleash a cascade of thoughts that defy time and space to make their way to the present.
Others, however, require more gentle persuasion; locked away in the deepest crevices of his mind, the only means of unravelling them is a special type of strength or himmat that cannot be summoned so easily. Such tales are also the hardest to escape, and an entire lifetime is too short for them to pass over into the realm of lost reflection. Stories about trysts with destiny, of waking up on the wrong side of half-hearted lines smeared in red ink, of perilous journeys across borders as a baby cradled in the arms of an elder brother. From Abu, I’ve learned that sharing often comes at a painful price when the passage of time takes away loved ones and leaves deteriorating thoughts behind. During these moments, the pauses become immeasurably longer, his eyes fill with tears, and his voice betrays a slight but noticeable quiver. Storytelling is a powerful thing, my Abu tells me:
“We see it commonly in the West: people will make a record of their family tree to trace their roots and origins back to their ancestors. It gives them a sense of confidence in themselves – about who they are and where they came from – and they feel better because of it.
“But I think it’s also important for our children to understand their heritage, and as they grow up, to understand where their parents came from – their background and family history. Hopefully, they can pass it on to their own children later on. And this goes on, it is a chapter of history being written by people themselves – for themselves and by themselves.”
Despite having now spent the majority of their lives in a land other than the one they were born in, my parent’s bond with their homeland seems to intensify with every passing moment. But as I imagine is the case with most parents, it’s not the present-day Pakistan they yearn for, but the one they left behind – of sun-soaked, open courtyards; sprawling neem trees; and black-and-white films picturised on tiny television screens. It’s the nostalgia of youth-filled days now unrecognisable amidst the heavy pollution and expanding urbanisation. These are the stories they keep closest to their hearts, and as the creaks of old age begin to seep in, they act as a point of reflection and deep contemplation.
Last year (May 2023), on a sunny bank holiday weekend to celebrate the coronation of a new yet ageing British monarch, several tour buses rolled into Bristol’s town centre to mark the UK leg of ‘Diaspora Dreams’ from the hugely successful Norwegian rap duo, Karpe. The show was more intimate than in other cities – Bristol proving to be somewhat off the beaten track for an otherwise hugely popular Scandinavian band. A smaller gig can present a handful of advantages, however, taking the pressure off artists and fans alike and allowing for more meaningful connections. These connections are even more palpable for those lucky to secure a spot at the front and can also lead to an impromptu meet and greet that may not have been possible unless your ticket came with special backstage access.
With a set list dominated by their 2022 EP ‘Omar Sheriff’, which includes the momentous ‘PAF.no’, rappers Chirag and Magdi have taken their rich, eclectic roots and mastered a new kind of storytelling, coined ‘diaspora pop’. This mixing of identities – Egyptian, Indian, Gujarati, and Norwegian – is best encapsulated in the emotionally charged ‘Baraf/Fairuz’, the sentiments of which will be all too familiar for those of us with ageing immigrant parents confronted by their own mortality in a foreign land. It uncovers the anxieties of generational dislocation many of us in the diaspora feel – sentiments of belonging and not belonging, creating ties and breaking ties, and placing down roots only to become uprooted once more.
Lauded by critics as the “most beautiful show in the world”, even for someone with no understanding of the Norwegian language, experiencing the show firsthand is nothing short of euphoric. Beautiful, yes, hauntingly so, but also much more than that. It is beauty tinged with sadness; celebration tinged with pain. It is generations’ worth of pent-up rage finally unleashed against the backdrop of a sandy dune. There is defiance too, mingled with courage and a complete refusal to be broken down by circumstances or to let others dictate our future. Hope is at the forefront – for us and those who came before us. Because what really are any of the diaspora stories that we create and share but love letters to the parents who raised us, however imperfectly, reflected in mirror images and retold back to us? It is the same migrant struggle on both sides, the same feelings of dislocation both in the ‘home’ we have created here and in the ‘home’ we left behind, and the same perpetual loneliness and yearning for belonging wherever we find ourselves next.
The parallels with Xulfi’s Coke Studio are not as surprising as you might think – after all, what do generational histories, tales of the diaspora, and culturally native retellings have in common? That storytelling comes from a place of truth, and truth, as we have learned, is universal. ‘Piya Piya Calling’ – signalling Karpe’s introduction to the magic of Coke Studio – is somewhat of a full circle moment then, where the child of the diaspora is finally welcomed back to a home they never even knew belonged to them. It gives the rest of us hope that a place for us does exist even when the parental ties eventually cease.
Storytelling magic – old, new, and beyond
For all his talents, even Xulfi could perhaps not have anticipated the revelation that is ‘diaspora pop’. A jumble of cultures, instruments, languages, ethnicities, races, and religions to create something that is at once completely familiar but uniquely innovative. The emissary between Karpe and Coke Studio is, of course, the globally recognised dance crew, The Quick Style, although at this point, labelling them just as dancers seems like a disservice to their vast capabilities.
What makes Coke Studio stand out is its uncompromising authenticity, and that too without being tacky. More importantly, it remains pure without the taint of tokenism that has begun to plague modern Western society under the guise of diversity. After all, why should the repressed, generational trauma of the minority be splayed out for the momentary pleasure of a fickle-minded, pseudo-woke majority? We have earned the right to tell our own stories. To participate in our own world-building beyond the casual periphery of Western comprehension. Perhaps unknowingly, we have become a generation steeped in storytelling. We are forever sharing stories of ourselves in our everyday lives, so much so that it now runs deep within our veins. Even behind the façade of social media, storytelling has now become synonymous with truth-telling. It signifies liberation in the face of oppression and unity in the face of disunity; thus, truth-telling in a world shaped by mistruths requires a special kind of bravery. The question that arises then is, can we use our storytelling to change the world for the better?
It is regrettable to be writing this article at a time when disunity is at its apparent worst, where small pockets of the UK have become a breeding ground for violent hostility, and where the ‘us and them’ narrative has irreparably intensified beyond what we could have ever thought possible. These past months have seen an uprising of racist vitriol and rioting, sparking a renewed fear among the community that was last witnessed by our elders in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It has also brought to light how catastrophic misinformed rhetoric and narratives can be in the digital age, when wielded in untrustworthy hands. Read CFTP founder Anam Hussain’s article for Al Jazeera here: https://institute.aljazeera.net/en/ajr/article/2796
Days after the worst of the rioting, at an exhibition commemorating India’s independence from colonial rule and the birth of Pakistan, my father commented: “I’ve been here [the UK] for 54 years.” As though this latest trial we face will also become just another chapter in the history books of our lives: “In the older days, people used to talk about their history, or it was written in books, and that was the way they used to learn about each other and their families. But now things have moved on. My generation has seen everything that was once analogue changed into digital. This is the greatest revolution we have witnessed in our lifetime. We don’t know what’s going to happen in the next one, two, or even three decades. Time will tell how things go. I am just praying that whatever happens, should happen for the good of people,” he tells me.
Despite the divisions we face, it is heartening to see a widely recognised platform such as Coke Studio take pride in being as inclusive as possible. There is no space for fearmongering of the ‘exotic East’ here nor room for self-victimisation, only an unrelenting commitment to sincerity. What is also evident is the collective yearning to keep telling those stories that haven’t yet been told, before they become consumed by the passage of time. For those of us pseudo-creatives in other fields at various levels, this serves as both a necessary reminder and a means of inspiration to keep going, to keep imagining, and to keep creating. With authenticity as our blueprint, our storytelling can serve to reverse the contamination of impressionable minds, young and old.
The personal stories of our parents taught us about real-life heroes who overcame their internal and external struggles, how to step out of the comfort of the known and forge ahead into the unknown, and how to show courage and, through sheer perseverance, triumph in the face of failure. They are the narratives we tell ourselves when the tales of home are not in arm’s reach. They have real heart; they are about real people, real communities, real encounters, and real daemons. They teach us to not lose hope, to not sink into the depths of despondency, and to never give up trying to be good and do good. Such stories are a tonic for the soul and the key to our survival. They are also the irreparable ties we have with the parents who raised us and the legacy that has been passed on – for us, they signify ‘home’ in its purest form.
If art finds endurance in change and transformation, from one medium to the next, then so too does storytelling. With Coke Studio, Xulfi has cracked the storytelling enigma for modern audiences. He fittingly reminds us: “Once you break your ego, you realise that love, too, has many different paths. In the heart’s tender gaze, we are all one, always. You are us, and we are you. We are all one.” This is very much Xulfi’s tribe, carefully curated over decades of experience. What’s more, it’s not an exclusive, members-only club – we, all of us, are invited.
