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There is something magnetic about Khumariyaan (featuring Farhan Bogra, Sparlay Rawail, Aamer Shafiq, Shiraz Khan and Obaid Khan). Their music, carried through the strings of the rabab, guitars and anchored by percussive beats and Pashto stories, exists in that rare space where tradition and contemporary ideas do not collide but converse. It is music that feels rooted in ancestral soil yet refuses to be confined by it — travelling beyond borders, unravelling stereotypes, and reminding us of what we so often forget: that rhythm belongs to everyone.

For the band, music has never been about just entertainment; it is a reminder of shared humanity.

Blending traditional sounds with contemporary sensibilities, Khumariyaan has quietly and sometimes loudly, captured the hearts of audiences at home and abroad. To watch them play is to feel your pulse breathe, but also to sense the urgency of now.

In an interview with Instep, Sparlay Rawail from Khumariyaan traces the arc of a journey that has been as much about cultural preservation as it has been about reinvention.

“Come on, come on/Put your hands into the fire…”For the band, 2025 carries the promise of something big. “We have a huge release coming up; a collaboration with a big pop star. One of our most well-known tracks is finally going to be out,” Sparlay reveals, his excitement unmistakable. The music, he says, is complete, but the visuals — equally important in an era of digital consumption — are still being fine-tuned.

Yet for Khumariyaan, milestones are not measured by chart placements or streaming numbers alone. They are measured in the conversations spar-ked, the audiences moved, and the sense of belonging they create for those who hear them. Their work is less about commercial triumph and more about connection, whether it is a listener in Seoul or Skardu.

“From the summer to the spring/From the mountain to the air…”Streaming, for many artists, is survival. For Khumariyaan, it has always been secondary. “We were independent and never relied on streaming revenue,” Sparlay notes, matter-of-factly. “Even if you are Atif Aslam or a big pop star, you can’t run a household solely on Spotify earnings unless you have exclusive releases and specific deals. For us, live shows have always been our bread and butter.”

He offers a reminder of the band’s early reach: a strong following in India, which has since been cut off due to political restrictions. “Even before that, streaming wasn’t about money. It was about accessibility, about people finding us.”

This pragmatism runs parallel to something deeper: Khumariyaan’s refusal to compromise on authenticity. In a world increasingly dictated by algorithms and trends, their insistence on live performance as the truest measure of an artist feels almost radical.

“Pull up, pull up/From one extreme to another…”Platforms like Coke Studio and Velo Sound Station have become cultural markers, but they haven’t always reflected the full spectrum of Pakistan’s musical landscape. “Across all seasons of Velo Sound Station, no Pashtun song has ever been featured,” Sparlay points out. “Coke Studio is evolving and their sound aligns with what the younger generation wants. But there’s still a massive audience in Pakistan craving full-length songs, not just clips for TikTok.”

Here lies Khumariyaan’ strength: their ability to exist outside the mould. By performing in regional languages and Pashto folklore, they don’t just preserve traditional forms; they expand the boundaries of inclusivity. For those who don’t understand the words, there is always the music itself — melody, rhythm, and performance carrying emotions that language cannot.

“From Samaritan to sin/And it’s waiting on the end” To those who proclaim that music is “dead” in Pakistan, Khumariyaan’ story offers a quiet rebuttal. Touring abroad has shown them that audiences everywhere respond to sincerity. “People will always seek entertainment,” Sparlay says. “Our songs represent large communities, and when we perform in different regional languages, people feel seen. Music will survive as long as people feel that connection.”

He admits, though, that audience education at home is still developing. Concert etiquette, listening culture — these are things that evolve over time. “Gradually, we bring back what we learn abroad and apply it here. It’s a cycle of growth.”

And beyond entertainment, music continues to serve as emotional lifeline. It calms, it heals, it unites. Listeners often leave Khumariyaan’s shows not just entertained but uplifted — a reminder that music, at its core, is community.

The band has reached a point where international tours feel like a natural extension of their work. Over the years, Khumariyaan has performed in countries such as United States, the United Kingdom, South Korea, New Zealand, and Hong Kong among others. The culture of each country is different but when the group is on stage, their sound finds resonance. “Our act works anywhere globally, as long as audiences are open-minded and accepting,” Sparlay reflects. Performing, he insists, is itself an act of defiance in politically sensitive spaces.

Candour follows quickly after: “We only get booked where there are open-minded people. And from the stage, we make sure not to say anything that could hurt anyone’s sentiments.” It is a delicate balance of being true to oneself while respecting the multiplicity of audiences they encounter.

“Explain, explain/As I turn and meet the power” Khumariyaan’s participation in international programmes such as Center Stage cemented their role as cultural ambassadors. They carried Pakistani sounds to audiences across the United States — from New Mexico to New York — introducing traditions that many had never heard before. The official programme may have ended, but the demand has not.

“At the Montana Festival, the audience response was incredible. As long as people want to hear us, we will keep performing,” Sparlay insists.

In these moments, music becomes diplomacy — not the cold, scripted kind, but a living exchange that dismantles barriers in ways speeches never could. But Khumariyaan is not blind to the complexities of the world they move through. “Government policy and people’s sentiments often differ,” Sparlay reflects.

“Most people share the same global perspective on issues like Gaza and Israel. Any sensible person who understands hardship knows this. If you want to live a balanced life, you must recognise that government posturing doesn’t always reflect what people truly feel.”

It is an observation that cuts across borders. “And who knows this better than us Pakistanis” he adds. “What our government says and what we feel are often worlds apart.”

In the end, Khumariyaan’s story is not simply about a band but about resilience, representation, and the pursuit of something larger than oneself. Their brand of hybrid folk proves — in every note, in every tour, in every song — that artistry grounded in authenticity will always find a way and never get lost in the age of increasing dependence of artificial intelligence. AI can create many things but their sound and the emotion with which it is performed is not something it can do.

They remind us that music transcends politics, language, and geography. It becomes a vehicle for empathy and the sound of a world that is dissimilar yet fragile. In that fragility — traditional yet urgent, familiar yet new — lies the possibility of connection, of healing, of hope. Khumariyaan reaffirms what we already know but often forget: that sometimes the deepest conversations happen without words, carried instead by the universal language of song.

Any sensible person who understands hardship knows this. If you want to live a balanced life, you must recognise that government posturing doesn’t always reflect what people truly feel. A– Khumariyaan