Shaam-ah-Awadh

Music—once so freely accessible and embraced across social classes, professions, and identities—has slowly begun to narrow its reach. Today, it increasingly lives behind the gates of expensive concerts and curated experiences made for a selective socio-economic class. For the fourth edition of Shaam-Ah-Awadh, I wanted to change that. I decided to organize a musical evening in a scrap shop—yes, a kabadi shop—where 15 workers live and work from day to night. In urban centers like Kathmandu, these workers are often treated with disregard. Many of them feel ashamed of their roots, the cultures they belong to, and the languages they speak. Our humble initiative aimed to offer them a short, joyful break from their exhausting routines—and to help our wider audience understand, connect with, and celebrate the lives and stories behind those working hands. There’s this scrap collection store near UN Park that I came across during one of my evening walks to Patan. I paused for a few minutes outside, unsure whether to go in. The owner noticed me and invited me to enter. I explained the concept of the show and showed him photos and videos from past editions. He told me that he had previously lent the space to a film crew, so he assumed we were doing something similar. He agreed without hesitation. I took his number and returned home. Months later, I reached out to him again and visited the shop to share more details and formally ask for permission. There’s a difference between using a space for a shoot and creating a community event: participation. The workers at the shop were excited and immediately offered to help clean and decorate the space. I returned a couple of times with friends to plan the setup. Two days before the event, the cleaning began. We chose the platform where goods were weighed as our stage and began to plan accordingly. There was a large, four-stepped rack that we transformed by decorating it with old electronic items—radios, telephones, computer sets, and cassettes. Tires became stage seating, and crates served as chairs. Supriya, our creative producer, came up with the idea of making flags out of newspaper and stringing them around with fairy lights. The setup was almost ready. I asked the workers if they could help make a rangoli on the day of the event—and they did so beautifully. The floor was rough, so we poured water to settle the dust. The workers were so dedicated they wouldn’t even let us sweep the place—they insisted on doing it themselves. Event Day Our biggest challenge was to get the workers to take time off. Every day, I had seen them working from 5 a.m. to 9 p.m. But after much convincing, they finally agreed to take half a day. The rented carpets and sound system started arriving gradually. The owner was slightly frustrated because the workday had been interrupted. “You said you’d use just a side, but you’ve taken over the whole space,” he said. I didn’t have a good answer, but when people began arriving and the music started playing, I could see the stress lift from his face. His wife and two children were smiling too, enjoying the flow of people and the spirit of the event unfolding in their home. We served masala chai in traditional clay cups, which guests sipped while listening to music. This time, we dedicated the event to Saint Kabir, known for his profound dohas, and Kavi Vidyapati, who helped shape languages like Maithili and composed over 6000 songs. The set opened with a sitar recital by Prakash ji, followed by Subash’s performance on Kabir’s verses. I performed some Kabir dohas I had composed specifically for the event, along with a few Awadhi folk songs. Just before my set began, Rupesh ji arrived—though I hadn’t confirmed the event with him beforehand. He lit up the night with a soulful flow of Vidyapati’s bhajans, transitioning into ghazals, qawwalis, and finally a full kirtan session to close the evening. Around 60 people attended. Everyone was clapping, dancing, and singing along. We gifted each performer, volunteer, and host a copy of Heran Bachpan, a book by Bairagi Kavi filled with Awadhi poetry. The most touching part? Seeing the workers and their families take part in the event with full hearts—singing, requesting bhajans, and dancing. Their children were adored by the guests. And in the end, that’s what truly matters: joy, dignity, and shared moments of peace—for all.

During a casual bike ride with Shuvam—a friend and constant support for Shaam-Ah-Awadh—we were brainstorming possible venues for our next event. In the middle of that ride, he mentioned students who had once done an art program in an old age home. The moment he said it, I knew that was it. I locked the location in my mind instantly. The idea of singing alongside grandpas and grandmas felt exciting, something pure and soulful. Soon after, I visited an old age home near Tinkune Bridge in Kathmandu called Nisahaya Sewa Sadan. It has been around for nearly 50 years. I spoke with the chairperson, who walked me through the specifics—how many members lived there, their sleep schedules, and where we might be able to hold the program. We eventually decided on the yoga hall located on the terrace. This was our first time attempting something on such a scale—possibly with more than 100 people. It was also the first time we decided to use a sound system; our past two editions had been entirely acoustic. Old age homes are often treated as charity stops. People visit, donate, take photos, and leave. The residents have grown used to this kind of interaction. But our intention was different—we didn’t come with money or materials to donate, but with music, time, and conversation. I started visiting Nisahaya Sewa Sadan regularly, just to sit with the residents. I wanted to understand them—where they came from, what they loved, and what their stories were. One week turned into many memorable conversations. I’ll never forget the practice session we had there. There was Devi Aama, a soulful bhajan singer, who was eager to perform. A few others also showed interest. One of them was an old man with a warm smile who lived on the ground floor. (I’m terrible with names, unfortunately.) He chose to sing Narayan Gopal’s songs. I printed out the lyrics and we practiced together. After rehearsals, we would take walks and share paan (nuts). I felt so at ease around them—talking about life felt effortless. Three days before the event, I learned that the chairperson hadn’t formally approved the event on paper yet. I was stressed and disappointed—we had already released the posters. I even began scouting alternate venues. But after multiple calls to the manager, we finally received permission. For this edition, we invited Appeal Poudel, frontman of Sonagi Blues Band, who plays sarod, guitar, and sings folk songs. We also had the talented Shasank Sapkota, who performed bhajans and ghazals. Event Day On the day of the event, everyone at the old age home was dressed and ready at the venue—half an hour early. It was a beautiful sight. This edition posed a new challenge for us: a daytime event. Since “Shaam-Ah” literally reflects an evening experience, hosting it during the day made it tough to attract an outside audience. Still, 30+ people showed up. We offered special discounts to parents attending with their children—to encourage quality time between generations. One of our regular attendees brought their mother along, which became one of the most touching moments of the day. Because the event was large and many of our friends were caught up in their own commitments, managing everything—from logistics to timekeeping—fell heavily on my shoulders. We had to wrap up by 6 p.m. The sound system took time to set up. The show felt experimental—we had three new performers from the old age home, three poets, two singers, along with Rupesh Jha ji and myself. A part of me feared the show might turn dull. But thankfully, a few familiar faces sat right up front, clapping, chanting, and cheering us on. That energy kept the show alive. The event was executed successfully. Our post-event ritual, as always, was to return the venue to its original state. This time was no different. After cleaning, we all sat together and shared samosas. The manager, surprised by how the event unfolded, said to me, “You don’t have a poster here, you’re not backed by any brand, and you didn’t even take many pictures—this is rare here.” I was simply relieved that people had a good time. That we had made it happen.

Less than two days before the event, there was no plan. After the magic of the first Shaam-Ah-Awadh, Ravi was certain he wanted to host it again. Our friends and I knew we’d be part of the next iteration—not just as the audience but as the team making it happen. But when? Where? How? Nothing had been figured out. As much as we loved immersing ourselves in the rhythms of Madhesh, recreating that atmosphere wasn’t easy. A café wouldn’t work—where would we put all the decorations? Event halls were too expensive. Ravi couldn’t always host at his home either; the thrill of something new would disappear. But all these questions only mattered if we had a date. Then, less than two days before the event, Ravi called me. “Can we do it on your terrace?” “Of course, that would be amazing.” “Great, so…” His voice faded in and out. “Ravi, I’m outside. I can’t hear you. Let’s talk when I’m free.” “Dai, no! Listen. We have to do it the day after tomorrow.” For a few seconds, I was speechless. There was no time to think—just an urge to agree. “Yeah, let’s do it!” The Rush Begins That night, Ravi, Aarjit, and I jumped on a video call. All three of us were exhausted, each with a busy day ahead, yet here we were, planning a sequel to a musical evening that had left everyone mesmerized—attendees and even those who had only seen it on Instagram stories. But this time, it had to be bigger. We decided to open it to a wider audience with ticketed entry. More performances, more poetry, more magic. By 1 AM, we had divided our tasks and finally went to sleep. The next day was a blur. Somehow, without much discussion, we functioned like a well-rehearsed orchestra—each playing our part, trusting the others to do theirs. Ravi worked on his musical pieces, invited guests, and planned the decorations to bring the essence of Madhesh alive. Aarjit printed and arranged decor items, including souvenirs for the guests. As the host, I prepared my house—particularly the terrace—and handled registrations and promotions. That evening, we had a quick call to update each other, and that was it. The stage was set—figuratively, at least. The Morning of Shaam-Ah-Awadh I braced myself for chaos, and chaos arrived at 9 AM—packed into a single cab. Ravi and Sujeet, another integral part of Shaam-Ah-Awadh, showed up at my house with a harmonium, guitars, ghungroo, mic stands, traditional mats and sacks, village-style baskets, mud pots for serving tea, and framed photographs for display. My mother, ever so kind, had prepared lunch for us. We filled up on home-cooked food before diving into what was going to be a long, exhausting, but thrilling day. First, we had to clean the terrace. Out came the pressure washer. Taking turns pretending to be James Bond, we blasted away the dust and grime. We repositioned the swing to ensure the “stage” had enough space. The mud cups for tea had to be washed and left to dry in the sun. Sujeet and I rushed to the vegetable market while Ravi started setting up the stage. Potatoes, eggplants, bitter gourd—we gathered everything for the pakodas. By the time we returned, it was clear: we were running out of time. The guests would arrive soon, and there was no way we could both finish setting up and cook the snacks in time. Thankfully, my mother stepped in. With the help of my sister, Selina, and Ravi’s college senior, Anjali, they took over the kitchen. And honestly? We could never have made them as delicious as they did. The Evening Unfolds Guests started arriving. Ravi, freshly showered and dressed in traditional attire, was warming up for his performance. Rupesh Bhaiji, the star of the first Shaam-Ah-Awadh, had arrived. By the time I returned from my own quick shower, everyone was smiling and ready to begin. Ravi and Rupesh Bhaiji opened the evening with a performance that could only be described as majestic. Shaam-Ah-Awadh 2.0 was happening. Aarjit arrived with beautifully crafted bookmarks featuring images of Madhesh—a simple yet thoughtful souvenir for the guests. But his arrival wasn’t just about souvenirs. He brought his flute, and as he played, the experience of Shaam-Ah-Awadh was elevated to something almost transcendental. The terrace, framed by softly glowing diyas, felt like a dream. Meanwhile, my mother, sister, and Anjali continued preparing and serving snacks. Sujeet, Aarjit, and I helped pass around steaming plates of spicy pakodas and sweet masala chai. Anjali then took the stage, reciting a beautifully crafted poem, setting the tone for others to share their words and thoughts. The Perfect Finale As more guests trickled in, Sujeet and I finally sat down to enjoy the show. Stepping onto the terrace, I took in the scene. The audience sat cross-legged, immersed in Ravi and Rupesh Bhaiji’s encore performance. the screening of Docomentry of “Kashi Ram Yadav” an Awadhi folk poet and singer added more vibe to the sitting . The glow of diyas flickered around them, the air rich with music and conversation. The sun had set. The night was perfect. Shaam-Ah-Awadh had returned, and it had never been more beautiful.

I was dropping Ravi home on my bike when he mentioned that he’d soon be moving to a new home. Before shifting, he wanted to throw a house party bidding farewell to his current studio. To be honest, I had assumed it would be a simple get-together—a handful of friends, Ravi strumming Bollywood melodies on his guitar, and some fast food with cold drinks. For any Nepali youngster, that’s about as good as it gets.   I was wrong. Ravi is a rockstar. A rockstar who makes folk music.     Two days later, I received an invitation to an event called Shaam-ah-Awadh. The poster, the words in the invitation, Ravi’s meticulous dress-code instructions—everything sparked excitement. What is he planning? Is this a mini music concert? As someone who has always admired Ravi’s music, I knew this wouldn’t be an ordinary house party. Even the name itself—Shaam-ah-Awadh—hinted at the level of dedication behind it. I had never heard of anyone naming a house party, let alone making personalized invitations with posters! The name meant An Evening of Awadh—a tribute to the Awadhi language spoken in Nepal’s Terai and parts of India. Ravi, after all, shares the mother tongue of Lord Ram.   On Thursday, a day before the event, I was chatting with a friend who would be joining me. We both eagerly anticipated the Awadh-themed evening. On the day of the event, I prepared my kurta, just like many other guests. The event was set to begin at 4 PM, but I arrived at 4:45, worried I might have missed something special. Luckily, only three guests had arrived, seated in Ravi’s beautifully designed in-house studio.   The setup felt like an intimate ghazal gathering. Both the performers and the audience sat on Nepali traditional mats, creating a cozy, cultural atmosphere. The walls were adorned with photographs from Ravi’s adventures, and the decor was steeped in the essence of the Terai. An old fire lantern, hanging just above the performers’ spot, instantly took me back to my childhood in Madhesh. The room also featured Dhakiya —bamboo and rope utensils commonly found in Terai households. Meanwhile, Ravi, his brothers, and a few friends were busy preparing dinner—something we hadn’t even anticipated.   The musical evening began an hour and a half later than planned. The audience settled in, facing a makeshift stage encircled by warm string lights. Ravi took his seat alongside Rupesh Bhaiji, his co-performer. (Bhaiji—a Maithili term for elder brother.)   As the guitar was being tuned, Rupesh Bhaiji started singing on his harmonium: “Aaju, Mithila nagariya nihaal sakhiya.   Chaaru dulha mein badka kamaal sakhiya.”   He was describing the grand moment from the Ramayana when Janakpur was beautifully decorated for Princess Sita’s wedding, and Lord Ram arrived, looking majestic. The way he sang felt like a brother singing for his beloved sister. There couldn’t have been a more melodious start to the evening.   Then, Ravi took over. His song, “Arey sambhal chalo sajni, dhunhal na ho chunari,” painted a vivid picture of women’s lives in South Asian villages. The ambience—or as we like to say, the ‘Maahol’—was set.   As the night progressed, the event turned into a feast for the ears and a symphony for the heart. We refused to let them stop—so much so that Rupesh Bhaiji and Ravi had to perform five encore ghazals before we finally let them rest.   Still enchanted by the magic of Shaam-ah-Awadh, we moved to another room for dinner. The setup was reminiscent of a traditional Terai bhoj—guests sitting cross-legged on mats in a circle, gossiping as they ate. Our gracious host had arranged plates and bowls made from leaves, a traditional touch that made the experience even more authentic. Soon, food from the heart of Madhesh began filling our plates—Paratha, Bharua, Gattha(Singada) Sabji, Haluwa, Fara , and Pakoda—all lovingly prepared by Ravi’s cousins and friends. Between bites, we listened to fellow guests recite poetry and shayaris, adding another layer of artistry to the evening.   It was more than a house party. It was an experience. An immersion into culture, music, and heartfelt storytelling. And I was lucky to be a part of it.