In the bustling city of Srinagar, nestled in the picturesque region of Kashmir, a tailor named Farooq Ahmad Shaksaaz sits by his sewing machine, the air filled with the vintage charm of a 1970 Sharp cassette player. With a familiar clack, the device comes to life, the crackling sound giving way to the ethereal voice of Ghulam Ahmad Sofi, whose songs weave tales of divine love and the soul’s yearning for unity with the Creator.
Shaksaaz owes his passion for Kashmiri Sufi music to his grandfather, who passed down an extensive collection of meticulously preserved cassette tapes from the 1970s. While sewing garments in his shop, Shaksaaz finds solace and inspiration in these tapes, deeply embedded in the cultural tapestry of Indian-administered Kashmir.
This community, though small, remains fervently dedicated to the belief that cassette tapes are superior for listening to and preserving the region’s Sufi music. This genre has been a profound expression of spirituality and emotion for generations, drawing listeners who seek spiritual refuge amidst the tumultuous backdrop of geopolitical unrest and chronic security clampdowns.
In Kashmir, cassette players have long reverberated with the soul-stirring poetry of Sufi saints and the enchanting melodies of traditional instruments like the sarangi and santoor. Families have cherished the ritualistic warmth of gathering around a tape player to imbibe these melodies. Today, even with music accessible in digital formats, numerous Kashmiris continue to assert that the authentic experience is found only on cassettes.
“There is a unique sanctity to the act of pressing play on a cassette player,” remarks Abdul Ahad, a carpet weaver, emphasizing the ritualistic nature of engaging with music that resonates with spiritual guidance.
Despite the rise of digital formats, devotees still show up with tape recorders at traditional Sufi music gatherings, reluctant to replace the distinctive depth of sound that cassettes offer. Many argue that digital recordings tend to homogenize the distinct sounds of varying instruments, failing to reproduce the richness of a tape’s output.
“Tapes offer a sensory experience where you can truly feel each instrument,” says Abdul Hamid Khan, another enthusiast. “The smoothness of tapes can’t be replicated by modern players.”
However, the era of cassettes is waning as tapes degrade over time, and the shift to digital platforms and smartphones grows. Families may part with their cassette players due to mechanical breakdowns or difficulties in maintaining their precious collections, some containing rare, irreplaceable recordings passed down for generations.
Srinagar hosts only a scant number of shops catering to cassette enthusiasts, offering tape recorders, blank tapes, and sparse supply of spare parts. The skilled mechanics capable of repairing these devices are dwindling, adding to the challenges faced.
A few dedicated mechanics in the Kashmir Valley continue to serve Sufi music aficionados, painstakingly restoring decades-old machines from revered Japanese brands like Sharp and Kenwood. Self-taught experts like Mohammad Ashraf Matoo salvage parts from defunct recorders and fabricate missing pieces to ensure these players continue to function. Restored tape recorders can sell for prices ranging from $150 to $850, contingent on make and condition.
For Shaksaaz, a lifelong devotee of Sufi music, safeguarding cassette tapes is more than a hobby—it’s his “personal mission.” He describes it as a “bridge to the past,” a medium through which to maintain ties to spiritual and cultural roots, even in an evolving digital landscape.
