The first stanza of Ulloor S. Parameswara Iyer’s masterpiece Premasangeetham was part of our school curriculum many decades ago. For countless Malayalis of my generation, and even for many who came after, those lines remain etched in memory like a moral compass we unconsciously carry.
The poem begins with the immortal words, “Orotta Matham…” which loosely translate to: “Love is the only true faith that binds us all—not confined to any one belief. It spreads gently like the soothing nectar that pours from the full moon.” Few poems in Malayalam have captured the universality of human affection and brotherhood as powerfully as Premasangeetham.
It is no surprise that this poem is regarded as one of the greatest creations in Malayalam literature. But its author, Ulloor, was much more than a poet. At the time he wrote Premasangeetham, he served as the Diwan Peshkar—equivalent to the Chief Secretary—in the princely state of Travancore. It was Ulloor who drafted the historic Temple Entry Proclamation of 1936, which opened the doors of temples to all castes in an era when untouchability was both a social reality and a legal norm.
This proclamation followed the thunderous Kozhencherry speech of C. Kesavan in 1935, where he warned that Ezhavas, Muslims and Christians would unite in the struggle for democracy if reform was not initiated from within. Kesavan’s speech shook the foundations of the rigid caste order; Ulloor’s draft gave administrative shape to that tremor.
Predictably, Ulloor’s own community disowned him for this act of social justice. He was excommunicated—the severest punishment a Brahmin could face. His response, however, turned him into a moral giant: “I was a Brahmin till yesterday. From today, I am a human being.” That single sentence still resonates, cutting through centuries of prejudice with the sharpness of truth and humility.
A few years ago, I had the privilege of attending a programme at a school in Kayamkulam where the renowned Carnatic musician Dr Manakkala Gopalakrishnan rendered Premasangeetham in a full-fledged Carnatic format. His first major public rendering of the poem was before the members of the Kerala Legislative Assembly when Oommen Chandy was Chief Minister. Since then, he has presented it on no fewer than 160 stages across India, the United States and Britain.
Last week, he carried this treasure to the north, presenting Premasangeetham at a school and Dharma Jyoti Vidyapeeth, a seminary of the Mar Thoma Church in Haryana and at two schools in Delhi. The inaugural programme was held at Deepalaya School in Gusbethi, located in the Muslim-majority Nuh district—a region whose very name is derived from Noah, a figure revered by both Muslims and Christians.
Before each stanza, I briefly explained its meaning in Hindi, weaving little stories and anecdotes to help young students appreciate its depth. Their response—visible in their glowing faces, swaying bodies and spontaneous claps—proved that poetry still has the power to traverse language, geography and background.
Since I had a young, curious audience before me, I took the opportunity to introduce them to a towering yet somewhat forgotten figure whose work shaped the very idea of Indian music: Amir Khusrau (1253–1325).
Long before Indian music split into the two broad streams we today call Hindustani and Carnatic, he was experimenting with forms, languages and rhythms that would eventually give birth to a new musical identity. Khusrau was an Indo-Persian Sufi musician, poet and scholar associated closely with the Delhi Sultanate—serving as a court singer and literary luminary under several rulers, including Alauddin Khilji.
To say that he enriched Indian culture would be an understatement. He introduced Sufi Qawwali as an organised musical form, providing a devotional vehicle that blended Persian mysticism with local expression. He was a master of Hindavi, a language that later evolved into both Hindi and Urdu. His command of Persian, Turkish and Punjabi was legendary, and he even knew Sanskrit.
He is also credited with inventing two instruments without which Hindustani classical music is inconceivable today—the Sitar and the Tabla. With these, he ushered in a new era of melody and rhythm. His literary contributions include ghazals, riddles, khayals and masnavis of immense historical value. And it was he who gifted us the immortal line describing Kashmir: “If there is heaven on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.”
For these reasons, Amir Khusrau is hailed as the father of Urdu literature, the Parrot of India, and the Voice of India.
Behind this genius stood another spiritual giant—Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, his Sufi master. Nizamuddin, revered across the subcontinent for his compassion, simplicity and spiritual depth, was a saint who shaped not just Khusrau’s art but also his worldview. Khusrau’s devotion to his guru was legendary. So deep was their bond that when he died, he was buried next to Nizamuddin Auliya at what we today know as Nizamuddin Dargah in Delhi.
The second-largest railway station in the capital bears the saint’s name—yet, ironically, many travellers who pass through it do not know the extraordinary cultural legacy preserved in the dargah nearby.
This year marks the 700th death anniversary of Amir Khusrau, who died on October 17, 1325. Yet, the day passed without public remembrance, official acknowledgement, or cultural celebration. A civilisation that owes its musical identity so heavily to him let the date slip by like an ordinary day. What a tragedy.
I also reminded the students that while Carnatic music traces its roots to Vedic chant traditions, it took its distinct form through the work of Purandara Dasa, regarded as the father of Carnatic music for systematising teaching methods and compositions. The later Trinity—Tyagaraja, Muthuswami Dikshitar and Shyama Shastri—refined its melodic and lyrical beauty.
But Purandara Dasa lived two centuries after Amir Khusrau. This chronology itself shows Khusrau’s foundational importance to the evolution of Indian music as a whole. He stands at the fountainhead from which multiple traditions later branched and blossomed.
It saddened me to recall how, a few years ago, the Nizamuddin area was unjustly vilified when international delegates who had come to attend a Tabligh conference were accused of spreading COVID-19. This happened even before COVID had been declared a pandemic, and long before scientific clarity emerged. A place that had given India centuries of music, poetry and spirituality was dragged into the vortex of misinformation.
Indian music owes an immeasurable debt to Amir Khusrau. Perhaps, remembrance does not always need grand ceremonies. It lives through the instruments he invented, the compositions he gifted, the qawwalis that echo in shrines and concert halls, and the rich linguistic heritage he left behind.
Just as Premasangeetham reminds us that “love is the only true faith that binds us all,” Khusrau’s life and work remind us that music, too, is a universal language of love—one that transcends borders, castes, religions and centuries.