t is not surprising that cultural events centred around milli naghmas are being held across the country, whether as competitions or simply as platforms to express the sentiments the moment demands.

In an atmosphere where violence, in one form or another, dominates the public discourse, pressure mounts on artists and performers to conform and go with the tide. The race to display patriotism accelerates to a deafening pace, with each participant striving to outdo the other in a grand prix of national fervour.

In the age of social media, this pressure intensifies within seconds. The number of views or likes quickly becomes a measure of the stance the artist is seen to be taking on a particular issue. Judgment follows just as swiftly, the compilation of opinions immediate, and the charge sheet drawn up with equal haste.

The dilemma between the concerns of art and those that may be political, religious or social has long been a prickly one. In times of extreme uncertainty, the issue gains prominence, and those voicing such concerns are often seen as poets or painters cloaked in the colours of vitriol.

The craft of creating an artwork is frequently pushed into the background, as those not swimming with the current are dismissed as irrelevant. Whatever they might be expressing seems so out of step with prevailing sentiment that it often falls on deaf ears or blind eyes.

It is often said that one must be a poet first and a believer later. The right balance between the two remains elusive, defying formulas and fixed rules. Many have attempted it, but few have endured the shifting sands of aesthetic taste. Often, it is only much later, while reading, viewing or listening to that work, that one realises its pedestrian nature, and begins to question what all the furore was really about.

In the case of music, one must first be a vocalist or instrumentalist, and then a believer. It may sound like a blast from the past, but it once took vocalists and musicians years to mature, to find true expression, taan main sur bhar gaya, whether in the voice or in the instrument being played.

In an age that holds democratisation dear, and with technology propelling everything forward at speed through a few simple commands, it can feel as though everything is within everyone’s reach. This may instil confidence, even arrogance, but in the end, these two qualities alone are rarely enough to carry one through.

In Pakistan, the most powerful songs, whether patriotic or religious in nature, have been rendered by seasoned vocalists. It is not by chance that inspiration seems to guide the performance. In truth, it is craftsmanship that lays the foundation, the grid, upon which the elusive quality of inspiration builds its fluid, dynamic structure.

Over the last three or four decades, non-governmental organisations, often driven by specific funding agendas, created a wave of awareness campaigns in the name of art. But much of this output, though timely, failed to outlive the moment in which it was produced.

Patriotism, too, cannot be imposed. It must be felt with the tenderness and apprehensive questioning of a lover, for with valour comes the very fear that gripped Rustom as he unknowingly killed his own son, Sohrab.

It is not a fixed attribute, but a fluid force that captures a moment in its full emotional and intellectual potential. Through trial and error, some genuine artists or performers may still be discovered amid the many shows currently being staged.

The writer is a culture critic based in Lahore.