In the maze-like alleys of Kaserian Bazar, where tradition clings to every corner and the scent of metal and memory lingers in the air, a rhythmic clang rises above the bustle. This is not the chaos of commerce—it is the heartbeat of a centuries-old craft, carried forward by a family whose hands have shaped history in brass.
Vijay Kumar and his family are the last of a rare breed: hereditary craftsmen of the Narasingha, a ceremonial horn known for its distinctive crescent shape and deep, resonant sound. For eight generations, they have fashioned this instrument from simple brass sheets into something sacred, something sung through in religious processions and spiritual ceremonies across India.
“Our Narasinghas aren’t just played in Punjab,” said Kumar, pausing briefly from his work. “They’re used in Himachal, Jammu, Uttarakhand, even Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh.” Their instruments are staples in Udasi Deras, played by Gawantaris during processions, and are as much a spiritual conduit as they are musical instruments.
In the family’s modest workshop—lined with hammers, metal shears, and photographs faded with time—the sound of hammering is almost meditative. Hanging on the wall is a portrait of their great-great-grandfather, watching silently as each generation bends brass with devotion and care.
Besides the Narasingha, the Kumars also make Nagfani and Turhi—both used at Sufi shrines and Hindu temples. Sometimes, the deep echoes of Buddhism enter the frame, when monks from Himalayan monasteries arrive to commission the Knaal, a long, curved horn played in Buddhist rituals.
According to Vijay Kumar, the roots of their craft run as deep as Amritsar itself. “Our ancestors were called here by Guru Ramdas Ji,” he explained. “Names like Koju Mal, Amir Chand, Pindi Das, and Amolk Ram—they were all master artisans.” His grandfather, Dewan Chand, who died in 1999, and his father, Baldev Kumar, were revered figures in this lineage.
Learning the craft was never a choice—it was a birthright. “As per our family tradition, I started working as a child,” said Kumar. “My father’s skill was legendary. His joints never leaked. His instruments never failed.”
Each Narasingha begins life as a humble sheet of brass. With no machine in sight, the metal is hand-cut, shaped into segments, curved meticulously, and joined—each section sealed with precision that only decades of practice can ensure. “Our fingers are trained by time,” he said. “There’s no shortcut, only skill and repetition.”
Though the family’s work earns just enough to cover basic needs—food, clothing, shelter—they wear their contentment like a badge of honor. In an era of mass production and digital noise, theirs is a quiet resistance: a commitment to craftsmanship, continuity, and culture.
“I’m not a musician,” Vijay Kumar admitted with a smile, “but I know the sound of something made right. When the Narasingha plays in a dera, it’s not just music—it’s memory, it’s devotion.”
And so, in the narrow heart of old Amritsar, the brass still sings.
