Atif Aslam
by Ayesha binte Rashid
Atif Aslam was fifteen years old with a newly-broken heart. The object of his affection, a young girl he knew from his Model Town neighborhood, initiated the teenage infatuation. She would ring his doorbell and run away, an activity that caught Atif’s interest. Young, impressionable, and with his heart on his sleeve, Atif was smitten, entrusting his faith in this simple interaction. And, as is often characteristic of young, unspoken love, he got his heart broken.
This adolescent heartbreak, and the teenage disposition of feeling lonesome that typically accompanies it, led Atif to seek comfort in music and so began a relationship that would lay the path for what would become a lifelong commitment. A relationship that gave the world Aadat – a song that is firmly rooted in most Pakistani nineties kids as their solo companion in times of teenage heartache.
Atif’s first musical companion was Pathane Khan’s Meda Ishq Vi Tu.
Laughing, he remembers his brother’s astonishment at his attachment to the
song. “Tujhe kia hua hai? (What’s happened to you?),” he remembers
his brother asking him, “Do you even understand what he’s saying?” The
truth was that he didn’t entirely. But he loved it nonetheless. And Atif
knew that love was something that drew him to music. This was a natural
connection. Then came Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s album Night Song, an
album that taught Atif something fundamental: that through music one can
find a way to express what is inside, that one’s deepest voice can find an
expression. And this was groundbreaking for him.
Over time, Atif himself was becoming a creature of silence. A natural introvert, he found his place in school and college as the person that people wanted to talk to, a vessel for people to confide their thoughts to. And for Atif, this was a comfortable position as he was content with observing and absorbing what the world sent his way. Everyday became a moment to learn from, each new experience a unique teaching that he quietly relished. Silence became his ally, a compadre that always protected and preserved him. Silence was his response to criticism -- whether he was ridiculed or praised, his response was silence. If he had reason to celebrate, he did so in silence. When he fell in love, he kept silent. The ever-loyal companion to his every day, Atif and his Silence held onto each other, until one day, his Silence broke.
Atif’s family had shifted to Rawalpindi, and for a brief time, Atif was left alone in their Lahore home. In solitude, Atif found his voice in singing; the more he sang, the more his voice scared him. As his voice seemed to soar to unfamiliar heights, it gave him an energy he couldn’t understand. At that moment, for Atif, his voice seemed to take flight, transcending his own existence. This was a revelation. Intrigued by the mystery and the fear of this experience, Atif was moved to explore his voice more.
He rescued a guitar from his brother – a detuned guitar with three strings.
“I didn’t even know that a guitar has six strings. So I started playing those detuned strings and figuring out notes on them. I sang with them, made new melodies with them. I’d eat, sleep and go to the bathroom with that guitar. And tunes would just come to me. After a whole year, I realised that you have to tune your instrument to a standard tuning. Now I feel like that was a great journey. A year and a half with those three strings taught me a lot.”
College competitions followed. Atif became a part of a college band. A hit single was released, followed by a rapid rise to fame. Atif struck out on his own. Today, Atif Aslam is a brand unto himself. The man whose voice is loved by millions across the globe remains a creature of silence. Atif is elusive: he doesn’t socialize excessively and is known for rarely giving interviews with the media. For Atif, his singing does the talking for him, and this is his preference. Whether he is being criticized for singing Bollywood numbers or not being formally trained in his craft, Silence, the companion that never left, is always present to answer.
On YouTube, there is a video of Atif Aslam from his college days. He is being interviewed and is visibly nervous in front of the camera. The anchor asks him to sing and he sings Fusion’s Ankhon Ke Sagar. Even then, through the tinny hum of the video’s low quality, behind the demure aura, there is a depth -- his voice knows its path as it hits every note with ease. This is Atif Aslam’s voice, the velvet texture that so many love today.
“When I look back at my past, at that time ... I wasn’t Atif Aslam then. I think I’d want to become that [person] again. I’d want to go back to my roots because what was real life then was a lot of fun, it was carefree. Because there’s something different about it, it has its own charm. That college life, my childhood, I miss it.”