When kirtan becomes noise: A practitioner reflects with concern

By Dr. B. S. Bains | Opinion |

Gurmat Kirtan has always been more than sound; it is a spiritual discipline meant to awaken ātam ras — a deep inner resonance that calms the mind, softens the ego, and allows the Shabad to speak clearly to the soul. Traditionally, its strength has lain in clarity of Gurbani, thoughtful musical composition, and restraint that invites contemplation rather than emotional excess.

I share these thoughts not as an observer alone, but as a kirtani myself. Over the years, I have had the opportunity to present kirtan in a calm, well-composed, and reflective manner—focusing on the meaning of Gurbani and allowing the music to serve the Shabad, not overpower it. By Guru’s grace, this traditional approach brought solace and peace to thousands of listeners, many of whom expressed how kirtan helped them reconnect with themselves after the burdens of daily life.

In recent times, however, I have personally felt discouraged by a growing trend in which kirtan is presented through loud, emotionally driven chanting, heavy drumming, and repetitive vocalization, often described as “Atam Ras Kirtan.”

During one such program, as this form of chanting unfolded, I felt compelled to step away from the darbar—with deep sadness and inner conflict—fearing  like a disservice to Guru Granth Sahib Ji, whom I revere as the living embodiment of our Gurus. I, apologized, and therefore quietly walked toward the rear of the darbar to make my exit. What I witnessed along the way deeply unsettled me: a large portion of the sangat (ladies & men) were seated browsing their mobile phones. Even individuals seated on the stage behind the lead singers appeared disengaged, scrolling through their screens rather than absorbed in the Shabad.

After a long and demanding day at work, instead of finding peace, my mind felt more fatigued—overwhelmed by volume, noise, and rhythmic force that seemed disconnected from reflection or understanding. As I stepped down toward the langgar hall, I encountered many others who felt similarly disturbed and disappointed. Several shared with me, with genuine sadness, that their family members had gradually stopped attending gurdwara programs altogether, finding these loud kirtan sessions unsettling rather than spiritually nourishing.

This saddened me deeply.

In conversations with friends across the globe—in different countries and gurdwaras—I discovered that these concerns are not isolated. The same sentiments are being echoed quietly within the sangat: Where has the solace of kirtan gone? Why has reflection been replaced with noise?

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It is also worth reflecting on why sections of the younger generation appear increasingly drawn to high-volume, drum-driven formats. While youthful energy and expression are natural, Sikh spirituality has never equated spiritual depth with sensory intensity. When rhythm replaces reflection and volume replaces meaning, the Shabad risks becoming background noise rather than a guiding light.

Equally concerning is the growing tendency toward performative authority—whether through aggressive presentation, visual mimicry of historical militancy, or the projection of dominance within spiritual spaces. Sikh history honours the sant-sipahi, but Sikh faith does not mandate imitation of form, dress, or posture to validate devotion. Such expressions, when perceived as imposing rather than inviting, can alienate the very people gurdwaras are meant to embrace.

This reflection is not a call for prohibition, nor a rejection of sincere intent. Rather, it is a call for discernment, balance, and responsibility. Gurdwara councils and Sikh institutions are entrusted with safeguarding spaces where all—young and old, contemplative and expressive—can find peace.

Kirtan should soothe the tired mind, not exhaust it.
It should draw people inward, not drive them away.
It should connect us to the Shabad, not distract us from it.

If members of the sangat are leaving the darbar for the langgar hall in search of quiet, or ceasing to attend altogether, then it is time we pause and ask ourselves—with humility and courage—are we still listening to what the Gurus intended kirtan to be?

The future of Sikh worship depends not on how loudly we sing, but on how deeply the Shabad is allowed to touch the soul.

The writer, Dr. Balwant Singh Bains, is a physiotherapist, community leader and President of the Private Physiotherapy Clinic Owners’ Association of Malaysia. He writes on culture, interfaith harmony, and the evolution of tradition in the modern Malaysian context.

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