Ceteris Scribus: Amir Khusrau

From Mystic Melodies to Market Monopolies: A 13th CE sufi’s journey  from discovering sacred verses on streaming services

By Amir Khusrau (brought to life by Priyanka Priaydarshini) 

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Somewhere in Delhi, 2025

In this strange new world, I was greeted not by the serene courtyards of Sufi shrines or the gentle strumming of my beloved sitar, but by the cacophony of honking cars, the distant hum of a city that never sleeps and not to mention gentle breeze of ‘breathable air’.  I, Amir Khusrau, the poet who once sang of divine love and unity, found myself standing in the heart of a metropolis that seemed to pulse with a rhythm both alien and intoxicating. 

My first thought was of disbelief. Where were the qawwals? Where were the dervishes spinning in ecstasy? Instead, I saw towering structures, and people walking with tiny devices in their hands, oblivious to the world around them. A young man noticed my confusion and handed me his device upon seeing my bewildered expression. “Here, try this,” he said, pressing a button. Suddenly, my own voice filled the air—a qawwali I had composed centuries ago, now streaming through an app called Spotify (although he took it away after a few moments after suspecting me of possible theft to my dismay). ‘What a bewitching device !’ I thought to myself.

I was awestruck. In my time, music was a sacred act, a bridge between the mortal and the divine. Now, it seemed, it had become a commodity, bought and sold with the swipe of a finger. 

As I plunged deeper into the darker waters I found the young man who had introduced me to Spotify was himself a struggling musician. “I upload my songs on platforms like Spotify and YouTube,” he said, “but I earn barely enough to survive.” He explained how artists like him were often exploited by middlemen and labels, who took the lion’s share of the profits. 

I met a group of folk musicians in Rajasthan who had been performing for generations. “Our art is dying,” one of them lamented. “The big companies only care about Bollywood reel-worthy pop music. They don’t value our traditions.Nobody pays to see us” It broke my heart to see these talented artists, who once thrived in the courts of kings, now reduced to begging for recognition in an unorganized and unforgiving industry. 

One day, I attended a concert by a band of boys old enough to enroll in a school. The crowd was ecstatic, singing along to every word. But I was left stunned when I heard backstage the manager discussing a new song with a ghostwriter—a young woman who would never receive credit for her work. 

“This is how it works,” the manager explained to me. “We create the image, the brand. The music is just a product.” I was appalled. In my time, art was a reflection of the soul, a gift to the world. Here, it had become a facade, a manufactured illusion designed to sell tickets and merchandise. 

I soon learned that the music industry was dominated by a few powerful players who controlled what people listened to. “They decide what’s popular,” a young musician told me. “If you’re not on their playlist, you don’t exist.” 

I found it ironic that something as soulful as music could be monopolized and commodified. In my time, music was a shared experience, a way to connect with the divine and with each other. Now, it seemed, it had become a tool for profit, stripped of its spiritual essence. 

One evening, I decided to explore this “Spotify” further. As I listened to a qawwali, the music suddenly stopped, and an ad for something called “couture” began to play. I was baffled. “Why must I endure this interruption?” I asked the young man who had introduced me to the app. 

“You have to pay for the premium version to avoid ads,” he explained. I couldn’t help but laugh but it soon turned into annoyance. In my time, even the poorest beggar could enjoy music without being harassed by advertisements, that too after 3 songs?

The pinnacle of my culture shock came when I attended a concert by a band called Coldplay. The event was a spectacle unlike anything I had ever seen. Thousands of people had gathered, many of whom had paid exorbitant prices for tickets. I learned that some had even resorted to “black selling,” purchasing tickets at inflated rates from scalpers. 

The frenzy reminded me of the gladiatorial games in ancient Rome I've heard of, where people would pay to witness a spectacle. But here, the spectacle was not violence but music—a soulful experience that had been turned into a psychological battlefield. 

“It’s called FOMO,” a young woman explained to me. “Fear of Missing Out. Everyone wants to be part of the experience, even if it means spending money they don’t have.” I shook my head in disbelief. Perhaps the most shocking revelation came when I discovered that my qawwali, Sakal Ban, had been used in a series called Heeramandi on a platform called Netflix. I was initially thrilled to hear my music being celebrated centuries later. But my joy turned to outrage when I learned that neither I nor my descendants had been consulted or compensated for its use. 

“How is this possible?” I asked a lawyer who specialized in copyright law. “Your work is in the public domain,” she explained. “Anyone can use it without permission or payment.” I was stunned. Now, it seemed, my legacy had been reduced to a mere commodity, exploited by corporations for profit. 

Every time Sakal Ban is played on Netflix or Spotify, these platforms earn money. But not a single rupee reaches the descendants of the man who composed it. Hah ! My Nizamuddin must not turn in grave when he hears of this. Bitter irony, isn't it ? In a world so obsessed with intellectual property, the rights of those who created the foundation of this art are ignored. The concept of capitalism, where everything—even the most sacred of arts—is reduced to a transaction, is alien to me. 

I see how this system has created immense wealth and opportunity, but at what cost? Artists are exploited, traditions are commodified, and the soul of art is often lost in the pursuit of profit. The very essence of creativity, which once brought people together, is now used to divide, to create hierarchies, and to fuel a relentless cycle of consumption. 

I cannot help but wonder as I stood by the gate of an event that made me think, has the benevolent art of indo-persian poetry still survived in this century? Preserved by so called monetized “ Jashns” where people cram not for the “experience”, but the pictures donning shawls and kurtis. Well, they removed me saying I had to buy the tickets! Of an event in my remembrance!? That's literally me on your poster. I don't remember asking for money the last time I recited poetry. Khiljis definitely threw titles and ashrafis my way too without begging for it every 3 verses.

As I prepare to return to my own time, I leave you with this thought: The economy though creative & powerful force, capable of driving growth, creating jobs, and preserving culture. But let us not forget the true purpose of art—to uplift the soul, to connect us to something greater than ourselves. 

In your pursuit of progress, do not lose sight of the divine spark that makes us human. Let your art be a bridge, not just between markets, but between hearts. 

And so, I bid you farewell, this world of wonders and contradictions. May you find the balance between the material and the spiritual, the old and the new, the sacred and the profane. 

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Amir Khusrow, the 13th-century Sufi poet and musician, is said to have written this piece during a brief visit to the 21st century munching on purani Dilli’s rabdi-jalebi. His words remind us that while the world may change, the essence of art and humanity remains eternal.

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Note: This piece is published as part of Ceteris Scribus - a one-of-a-kind intellectual and creative article writing competition hosted on Unstop by The Contrarian. Participants could choose between imagining how historical figures would react to today’s world or analyzing the economics of their favoriten fictional world. This piece by Priyanka Priyadarshini secured 4th place in the competition.

Writer's Bio:

Priyanka Priyadarshini is a final-year Master’s student in History at the University of Delhi, where she nerds over forgotten tales of Magadha and ancient whispers of Indraprastha. By day, she deciphers the past; by night, she transforms into a cosmetics aficionado, blending history with statement lippies and kohl eyes. A self-proclaimed aroma candle hoarder, for her, life is a delicate balance between dusty archives, shimmering palettes, and fragrant embrace of candlelight.