Before the glow of phone screens and the chime of digital alarms, the beat of the Saharkhwan’s drum was the pulse of Ramazan’s pre-dawn hours in Kashmir. Though his voice now competes with loudspeakers and clockwork precision, some Saharkhwans are still calling the faithful to rise to a rhythm that ties generations to their past, even as the future threatens to silence it, writes Ibtisam Fayaz Khan
At 3:30 am, as most of Kashmir remains cocooned in sleep, Ghulam Nabi Sheikh steps into the biting cold of Lolab Valley, his dhol slung over his shoulder. The night is still, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant call of a night bird. He tightens the ropes of his drum, the worn leather rough under his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he lifts his hand and strikes a rhythm that has echoed through centuries.
“Aao khana khawo, waqt-e-sehar aa gaya!”
(Come, eat your meal, the time for Sehar has arrived!)
His voice slices through the quiet, reverberating against wooden walls still warm from the embers of kangris.
For six years, Sheikh has walked these streets, rousing the faithful for Sehri, Ramzan’s pre-dawn meal. “This is my legacy,” he says. “Yeh hamare baap ki virasat hai, woh bhi yahi aata tha aur hum bhi aate hain.” (This is my father’s legacy. He did the same, and so do I.) His elder son is already learning the rhythm of the drum, his fingers tracing the same patterns as generations before him.
While many Saharkhwans have migrated to Srinagar, where the tradition is fading in the glow of phone screens and digital alarms, Sheikh remains tethered to his hills and villages. Here, time still bends to the sound of his drum.
A Timeless Call
In Srinagar’s winding lanes and the mist-laden hills beyond, where the mountains cradle quiet hamlets, the beat of the Saharkhwan’s drum lingers—though it is no longer as ubiquitous. With phone alarms and digital reminders governing the morning, the Saharkhwan calls are an anomaly, a fading whisper of a bygone era. Yet in Kashmir’s quieter corners, where life unfolds at a gentler rhythm, the tradition endures, woven into the fabric of Ramazan nights.
Though times have changed, the practice has not disappeared—it has merely adapted. In some neighbourhoods, the call now emanates from mosque loudspeakers; in others, a lone drummer treads the silent streets, his beats punctuating the darkness. Once the sole guardians of the pre-dawn call, Saharkhwans now share their role with modern technology. Yet as long as some listen for the familiar sound, and callers who uphold their craft, the echoes of this tradition will persist.
An Enduring Tradition
Once upon a time, every mohallah, every narrow alley, had its own Saharkhwan. Their calls were not merely a signal to wake but a thread binding the community together.
“My father told me stories of how the Saharkhwan knew every family in the neighbourhood,” says Khalid, a Srinagar resident in his late fifties. “He would sometimes call out by name—‘Wake up, Haji Sahib!’—and people felt a sense of belonging. That feeling is gone now.”
Back then, people waited for the call. They recognised the voices in the dark and felt reassured. It was a connection that no alarm clock, no mosque loudspeaker, could replicate. Today, the tradition has not disappeared—but it has changed.
In some neighbourhoods, the Saharkhwan’s voice has been replaced by the echo of loudspeakers from mosques. In others, a lone drummer, like Ghulam Nabi Sheikh, still walks the quiet streets, carrying a legacy that fewer people pause to acknowledge.
Yet Sheikh remains steadfast.
“I do not feel any change here, even though technology has taken over everything,” he says. “My work is going well, and people are still welcoming.”
But beneath his words lies an unspoken truth. The role of the Saharkhwan has shifted. He is no longer just the one who wakes the faithful for Sehri; he has become a reminder—of an era when waking up for the pre-dawn meal was not a solitary act but a shared experience, when a single voice in the night carried not just a call to prayer, but a sense of home.
An Echo from Another Time
The role of the Saharkhwan is not merely a job—it is an echo of a past where time was kept not by the ticking hands of a clock but by voices in the night. Before alarms and notifications dictated the rhythm of life, people relied on those who walked the streets, calling them to wake.
The tradition of waking the faithful for Sehri extends beyond Kashmir, deep into the Islamic world. Historian Hakeem Sameer Hamdani notes that one of the earliest literary references to this practice appears in the writings of Al-Haj Maliki, a 14th-century Islamic scholar from the Maghreb. In his book Al-Madhakhal, Maliki describes Tasheer—the act of waking people for Suhoor—which was regarded as a bid’ah (innovation) within the Maliki school of thought.
In Egypt, it was the muezzin who stood atop minarets, calling on people to wake up. In Yemen and the Maghreb, it was individuals who moved from door to door. In Shaam (Greater Syria), drummers and poets recited qasidas—devotional verses—to rouse the sleeping. Some societies even marked the moment with cannon fire at Sehri and Iftar.
The practice evolved as it travelled across regions. In Delhi and Uttar Pradesh, the Saharkhwan was known as a Manadi, much like the town criers of medieval Europe who announced royal decrees. In Morocco, the Nafar played the trumpets through the streets, while in Arab countries, the Mesaharaty beat drums and sang Ramazan supplications.
By the time the practice reached the Indian subcontinent, the Persian term Seharkhwan —meaning one who recites at Sehri—had softened into Saharkhan, reflecting the linguistic patterns of the region. The shift was similar to that of Quran Khwan, meaning one who recites the Quran.
Etched in History
According to historian Abdelmajid Abdul Aziz, the Mesaharaty tradition can be traced back to Egypt’s Fatimid dynasty, when Ramazan celebrations flourished. As reported by Arab News from Cairo, 15th-century Egyptian historian Mohammed bin Iyas recorded that the practice began during the reign of Caliph Bi’amr Allah. Concerned that people might miss their pre-dawn meal, the Caliph ordered his soldiers to patrol the streets in the early hours, knocking on doors and calling out before the dawn prayer.
What began as an official decree soon became a cherished tradition, one that continues to echo through the streets of Egypt and beyond, keeping alive the spirit of Ramazan’s pre-dawn rituals.
A Forgotten Voice
For years, Kashmiris relied on Radio Kashmir Srinagar’s evening broadcast to signal Iftaar. But for Sehri, there was no such convenience. The pre-dawn meal had to be managed locally, timing was entrusted to those who carried the tradition forward.
Sameer Hamdani recalls how, as a child, he recognised the arrival of Eid unexpectedly: “The announcements of Eid were subtly understood when the Saharkhwan did not come to awaken people, signalling the end of Ramazan.”
In Potshayi, Lolab, Muhammad Latief Sofi has carried this role for 15 years. It is more than a duty; it is an inheritance. His uncle did it before him, and before that, the responsibility belonged to his grandfather.
“This tradition runs in our blood,” he says with quiet pride. “It is part of our heritage—both deeply personal and profoundly spiritual.”
Unlike Sheikh, who walks the winding paths of Lolab with his drum, Sofi does not step into the cold night air. His voice reaches the village not through the rhythmic beat of a dhol, but from the towering loudspeakers of the mosque. Yet his intent remains the same—to ensure no fasting person sleeps through Sehri.
In the final stretch of the night, he steps up to the microphone inside the dimly lit mosque. The room is silent except for the faint crackle of the speaker. He clears his throat, inhales deeply, and calls out: “Waqt-e-Sehar!”
The words ripple through the village, cutting across rooftops and shuttered windows, stirring those still wrapped in sleep. It is a sound woven into the fabric of Ramadan, a call that reminds people not just to wake, but to remember.
Before the Age of Clocks
Before mechanical timepieces dictated daily life, sleep followed a segmented pattern, a practice recorded in medieval Europe and the Islamic Golden Age. Waking in the middle of the night was not uncommon—it was a time for prayer, reflection, and quiet activity before drifting back to sleep.
In the Arab world, the Mesaharaty was a figure who roamed the streets during Ramazan’s pre-dawn hours, waking Muslims for Suhoor. Equipped with a drum, he chanted verses and sang devotional songs, embodying the communal and spiritual essence of the month. This practice, still observed in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen, echoes a centuries-old tradition.
The first Mesaharaty in Islamic history was Bilal ibn Rabah. The Prophet Muhammad is reported to have said, “Bilal calls in the night. Eat and drink until the son of Umm Maktoum comes,” referring to the man who was authorised to call the Fajr (dawn) prayer. From that moment, the role of the Mesaharaty became a distinct profession during Ramazan.
One of the earliest recorded figures to take up the task formally was Anabsa (or Antaba) bin Ishaq, who in 228 AH (843 CE) would walk from Fustat to the Mosque of Amr ibn al-Aas, calling out: “O slaves of God, take Suhoor, for in Suhoor is a blessing.”
By the 13th century, before structured timekeeping had fully evolved, communities across the world relied on external cues to wake. Town criers in England, muezzins in Egypt, and Nafars in Morocco all served as human alarm clocks. The Ottoman Empire saw drummers pacing the streets, much like Kashmir’s Saharkhwans. Even in Mughal India, Munadis announced not just royal decrees, but also prayer times.
Waking the World Before Dawn
Rousing people from deep sleep has long been a challenge. Across civilisations, communities devised human alarms to wake early risers—often for work. In industrial Britain, before alarm clocks were widely affordable, knockers-up were a familiar sight, tasked with waking factory workers before dawn. Armed with long sticks, they tapped on windows; some, like Mary Smith, used pea shooters to reach the highest floors of tenements.
The Industrial Revolution gradually eroded these traditions, yet some refused to disappear.
A Tradition at a Crossroads
Ghulam Nabi Sheikh sits on a wooden bench, adjusting the ropes of his dhol. He knows the rhythm must be just right—loud enough to wake, soft enough to soothe.
“No alarm can replace this tradition,” he says. “It has a different feel, a sign of happiness.”
At the end of Ramazan, he will collect his earnings—not in fixed wages, but in gestures of gratitude. Some families offer rice, others fifty rupees, some only thirty. He accepts it all without question.
”The house I am staying in belongs to a poor man, but his heart is rich,” he said, his voice warm with reverence.
Despite the changing world, he does not fear for his work. “Even if it diminishes day by day, Allah is the provider. He will give us the rizq that is meant for us.” He pauses before adding, “But I do not think it will disappear anytime soon.”
His elder son has already begun learning the rhythm of the drum, his fingers tracing the same patterns as those before him. Sheikh, with quiet pride, is certain that his son will carry the legacy forward.
“He will do it too. He already plays the dhol,” he says, conviction firm in his voice.
For Sheikh, the task is not merely about waking people for Sehri—it is about preserving a piece of Kashmir’s soul. As long as the faithful rise to his call, as long as his drumbeat carries through the valleys of Lolab, the Saharkhwan will endure.
And in that silent moment before dawn, where past and present merge, time will continue to stir—not just for the day ahead, but for something far greater.
Even as technology reshapes Ramazan, the rhythmic beat of the Saharkhan’s dhol carries a legacy that refuses to fade. It is more than a call to wake—it is a sound that is not just heard but felt. And as long as some listen, the echoes before dawn will continue.
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