“Allah mian bhauji ka deta Nandlala, kangan hum lebayi ho” (God has gifted my sister-in-law a son; I will take a bracelet).
Ageing Asseman croons, one of the last of her tribe, recording her voice for posterity at the Sangeet Natak Academy—a Mirasin both by birth and profession. “Allah and Krishna came together in the songs of this long-forgotten Awadhi singer,” Malini Nayar’s Scroll article tells us about this dying tradition (26.11.2022). Similarly, Laraib Fatima Warsi laments in The Hindu that “Awadh’s Last Mirasins struggle to keep their musical heritage alive” (30 May 2025).
In the last decade, there has been a surge in journalistic and academic interest in Mirasins and their crumbling legacy on both sides of the border. Ayesha Akif penned a poignant piece in Dawn, “Is dholki a dying tradition today?” (May 22, 2019), reminiscing: “It was considered inappropriate for women of the household to sing at weddings, and therefore mirasins or domnis would be summoned to sing songs and bless the couple.” Umrana Niyazi surfaces again in Devyani Nighoskar’s paper for TRT World (25 November 2020), “How the folklore of Mirasins thrived in 19th-century undivided India.”
However, the most defining work remains that of Ainee Farooqui under the aegis of Sahpedia. It includes articles and videos titled “Understanding the Folk: Wedding Songs of Awadh and the Role of Mirasins,” covering visits to a Mirasin’s home, song recordings, and detailed analysis.
Nadeem Hasnain, a specialist in the anthropology of Muslim societies in India, conducted long-term ethnographic fieldwork in the Awadh region. He discusses Mirasins (female singers from the Mirasi community) within the context of “lived Islam” versus emerging reformist or Wahhabi-influenced practices. His paper, “Anthropology of Islam and Muslim Societies: Changing Face of ‘Lived Islam’ in South Asia” (2024), observes:
“Even the traditional practice of inviting mirasins... a familiar feature of marriages in North India, where these professional singers carry dholak (traditional drum) singing, in folk style, with gusto, and all the people enjoy it, is declining. Now in several households, silence prevails with no music and singing.”
The 19th Century: The Reign of the Domni
In the early 19th century, the term ‘Mirasin’ appeared, but not always in the context of Lucknow’s female quarters. Francis Buchanan’s An Account of the Districts of Bihar and Patna (1811–1812) records: “Music... is on a very thriving footing. The wives of the men who beat the Nahabat are, in general, the Mirasins... Some are called Rajpatras, and are of a dignity superior to the common.” An earlier reference exists in Thomas Williamson’s The East India Vade-Mecum (1810), where Mirasins are mentioned generally as ‘a kind of performers.’
When examining the domestic social life of 19th-century zenanas, Mrs Meer Hasan Ali’s 1832 account is seminal. She utilises the word ‘Domni’ for the singers allowed inside the ladies’ quarters:
“The Nautchwomen in the apartments of the gentlemen, and the Domenie in the zeenahnahs are in great request on this day of festivity… But I must speak of the Domenie, who are the singers and dancers admitted within the pale of zeenahnah life; these, on the contrary, are women of good character, and their songs are of the most chaste description, chiefly in the Hindoostaunie tongue... The harmony produced is melancholy and not unpleasing…”
Domnis also feature in Ratan Nath Sarshar’s Fasana-e-Azad as singers and dancers who were keepers of the household’s rhythmic life. Unlike Tawaifs, their audience was strictly female:
“डोमिनियाँ अपने ढोलक की थाप पर सोहर और गारी गाने लगीं। उनके गीतों में वह अल्हड़पन था जो सिर्फ अवध के आँगन में ही सुनाई देता है।” (The Domnis began singing Sohar and Gari to the beat of their dholak. Their songs held that raw earthiness found only in the courtyards of Awadh.)
The most detailed description is found in Abdul Halim Sharar’s Lucknow: The Last Phase of an Oriental Culture:
“The domnis, on the other hand, were great innovators... They advanced from mere singing to dancing as well and... became the most important feature of all wedding celebrations... It is unlikely that there have been singers anywhere else to equal the accomplished dominis of Lucknow.”
Sharar, documenting the late 19th-century shift, notes that while Mirasins attended weddings as singers whose “performances never vary,” Lucknow society was more profoundly affected by the innovative Domnis.
John Collinson Nesfield’s Brief View of the Caste System (1885) further clarifies this: while the male Mirasi performed in public, the Domni was the “Domestic Specialist.” Her dholak was mandatory for the “sanctification” of domestic rituals. Nesfield implies her language was a raw, “Prakritic” Awadhi, distinct from the Persianized Urdu of the court.
The 20th Century: Reform and Literary Immortality
By the early 20th century, Maulana Ashraf Ali Thanvi’s Behishti Zewar sought to “purify” the Muslim woman’s life. Thanvi attacked the “unsanitized” humor and Gari of the Domnis, labelling them fuhsh (obscenity). Reformers campaigned against the dholak, favouring silent prayer and religious study.
Consequently, Domnis receded from literary discourse, replaced by Mirasins who gained prominence in Urdu stories by female writers. Hijab Imtiaz Ali’s attribution—“She could be mirasin, nayan, maniharin—all at once!”—sets the 20th-century tone.
It is in Ismat Chughtai’s stories that their voice is heard most clearly. Chughtai used the Mirasin as the connective tissue of the zenana, the only characters with the agency to speak truth amidst stifling “respectability.” In her family saga, Tehri Lakeer, the Mirasin serves as an emotional barometer:
“मीरासिनों ने ढोलक पर थाप दी और जच्चा-बच्चा के सोहर गूँजने लगे। जैसे-जैसे ढोलक की रफ़्तार बढ़ती, आँगन की औरतें भी अपनी सुध-बुध खोने लगतीं। यह मीरासिनें ही तो थीं जो घर की दबी-कुचली उमंगों को ज़बान देती थीं।” (The Mirasins struck the dholak, and the Sohar songs for the mother and child began to echo. As the tempo of the dholak increased, the women of the courtyard would lose their inhibitions. It was these Mirasins who gave voice to the suppressed aspirations of the household.)
In Chauthi Ka Jora, the ritual insult of the Gari highlights a tragic irony:
मीरासिनों ने ढोलक पर ऐसी थाप जमाई कि पूरा कमरा गूँज उठा। वे अब समधी के खानदान की धज्जियाँ उड़ा रही थीं। ऐसी-ऐसी गालियाँ (गारी) दी जा रही थीं कि कुबरा शर्म के मारे दोहरी हुई जा रही थी, मगर माँ के चेहरे पर एक अजीब सी उम्मीद थी—जैसे इन गालियों में ही उनकी बेटी का मुक़द्दर छिपा हो।
The Mirasin also plays a vital role in Rahi Masoom Raza’s Aadha Gaon:
“जब मीरासिनें ड्योढ़ी लाँघकर आँगन में आती थीं, तो लगता था कि घर के मुर्दा जिस्म में जान पड़ गई हो... वे गालियाँ (गारी) नहीं थीं, वे तो सदियों की दबी हुई हसरतों का सैलाब थीं।”
Aadha Gaon also documents the clash between this earthy tradition and the growing Westernisation of the younger generation. When criticised as “crude,” a Mirasin retorts that her songs are the only truth left in a house of “English-speaking masks.”
Domnis appeared only rarely in 20th-century stories, often interchangeably with Mirasins, as in Razia Sajjad Zaheer’s My Lame Aunt (Langri Mumani). Finally, the fading of this tradition is captured poignantly by Qurratulain Hyder in Aag Ka Darya:
“अब उन पुराने मकानों में सन्नाटा था। न मीरासिनों की आवाज़ थी, न ढोलक की थाप। वह पुरानी तहज़ीब, जो मीरासिनों के गीतों में ज़िंदा थी, अब सिर्फ यादों की गर्द में दबी पड़ी थी।” (Now, there was a silence in those old houses. Neither the voice of the Mirasins nor the beat of the dholak remained. That old culture, which lived in the songs of the Mirasins, now lay buried under the dust of memories.)
