From humble beginnings to legendary status, the Pakistani singer has amassed a global following of millions.
It’s 2004. I’m living my best life in Riyadh, but the closest I’ve gotten to Pakistani music is a few cassette tapes of Junoon and Vital Signs. And then, one evening, while lazily flipping through TV channels, I stumbled across a song that sounded different. It’s raw and gripping in a way that feels personal, even though I don’t know what the lyrics mean yet. It was Aadat by a new band called Jal, fronted by Atif Aslam. Within seconds, I’m hooked and so is my best friend. We can’t stop talking about it. Our schoolbooks turn into pages of doodles and lyrics, passed between classes like secret letters.
The obsession was real. So real that after browsing fan pages and forums on dial-up internet, I managed to find Atif Aslam’s manager’s number. Called him from a landline at 2am in Riyadh and whispered into the receiver like I was smuggling state secrets. “Please, can I speak to Atif Aslam?” is what I asked his manager, and after some convincing, he handed over the phone to the icon himself, who was heading down from the stage fresh off a college or university performance.
I don’t remember what I spoke to Atif Aslam about, but I had told myself that if I ever got the chance to talk to him again, I’d ask him. It took me two decades, pursuing a career in journalism, and a last-minute schedule shuffle to finally make it happen.
When I got the call that my slot with Atif Aslam was confirmed, I knew that this was my shot. An anxious 30-minute drive later, I was face-to-face with the voice that shaped my teenage years, my friendships, my first heartbreak – my wedding entrance even.
I wore my grandfather’s shirt to the interview, a man who never quite understood my Atif Aslam obsession. He passed away earlier this year and would probably shake his head if he knew, but he’d also understand because this wasn’t just an interview. It was a full-circle moment. From a silly teenager making secret, international midnight calls from Riyadh, to a grown woman with a press pass and a voice recorder. And while the fangirl in me wanted to squeal, the journalist — and Capricorn — kept her cool. We exchanged pleasantries and got into the music, memories, and magic.
From humble beginnings to a household name, Atif Aslam has witnessed the full arc of transformation. And yet, there’s a steady humility in how he recalls it all — not as trophies, but as turning points. With over 20 years in the spotlight, he has remained both elusive and ever-present. In this chat, he reflects on the defining moments of his journey, the burden and blessing of fame, and the power of rediscovering joy in his craft.
Looking back, it isn’t the standing ovations or chart-topping records that Atif Aslam highlights first, but the quiet milestones such as his first paycheck and the moment his parents accepted his passion for music. Aadat turned his tide, launching him into the spotlight. But behind this rise was a young man watching his dreams unfold, armed with a voice that refused to be ignored.
For a career that began with a soft rock ballad recorded on a modest budget, the trajectory has been nothing short of remarkable. From underground stardom to Bollywood’s Tere Bin, and Sufi tunes like Tajdar-e-Haram, Atif Aslam has always resisted being boxed into a single genre.
“The sound has always evolved,” he reflects. But it’s the environment around him that inspires his music. “It’s the people around me, a sudden thought or an unexpected emotion,” he explained. “I’m lazy when it comes to capturing the moment, but when it hits, it’s often because of the energy in the room.”
Over the years, that energy has travelled with him through massive performances, from Dubai’s Coca-Cola Arena to the Royal Albert Hall in London. Among the many memorable shows, one that stands out took place at the O2 Arena. “We had to cover for another artist who didn’t show up, and we ended up performing for three and a half hours,” he laughs. “Someone from the crowd said, ‘We came for — I don’t want to name the artist — but we’re leaving as your fans.’ That was a beautiful twist of fate.”
It’s easy to think of Atif Aslam as a larger-than-life figure, but he remains surprisingly grounded. Had music not found him, he might have pursued a career in aviation or cricket. But giving up never felt like a real option — even during moments of doubt. Though the industry came with its share of pressures, including moral dilemmas about lyrics he didn’t align with, he always found a way to return to himself.
“There were songs I didn’t feel right singing,” he admitted. “I had to change lyrics, but I had a family to take care of, a career to keep.” However, those tensions also prompted him to shift toward more spiritually rooted pieces that resonated with his soul, such as Wohi Khuda Hai, which showcased both his musical prowess and passion.
There were also times when even fame felt like a burden. Being called the ‘number one singer’ everywhere, Atif Aslam began questioning it. “Do I want to be number one? Do I even believe it?” he shared. “But then I realised it’s not for me to decide. If God gives you that position, be grateful and stay humble. Because nothing lasts forever.” That’s also something he’d tell his younger self: “So enjoy it while it lasts.”
And fame, he’s learned, is a double-edged sword. It’s “having the power to misuse fame but choosing not to”. Atif Aslam believes, “Treating people like humans, regardless of what they’ve done to you, is the real measure of success.”
Becoming a father also shifted his worldview. “It didn’t hit me in the first two years, but then I saw my son growing up and realised I wanted to take a back seat,” he chimes. “He became my centre. But Atif Aslam still needs to sing to function, but there’s a deeper intent behind each note. “Music is spirituality,” he added. “It’s how I communicate with God. I found Him through it.”
Lately, fans have been seeing a candid side of Atif Aslam — one that embraces goofy moments and connects with fans in surprising ways. The man who once projected mystery now posts reels. But this isn’t a reinvention, it’s a revelation. “I’ve always been like this! I just never showed it publicly,” he laughs. “It helps me connect. I don’t want to be that untouchable ‘legend’. I’m still here. I see you. I hear you.” But he also draws a line wherein his home life, for example, remains off-screen. “Some things are sacred,” he adds.
For UAE fans, Atif Aslam is more than a touring artist, he’s practically a regular with Dubai being a “second home”. And when he’s not on stage, he’s often spotted attending concerts and events, slipping into the crowd. “When I’m in the audience myself, I see things differently,” he shared. “The real connection isn’t always in the views or streams, it’s in how people respond when you’re in front of them.”
After all that he’s achieved, Atif Aslam is still searching — but not for stardom. “I’m not seeking Atif, the star,” he says. “As Atif, the human being, I still need to look within, ask myself tough questions, fall, regroup, fall again, and rise again.” The search is inward now.
And if he had to describe his journey in one word, it would be “water”, translating to “jal” — ever-flowing, ever-changing, and always finding its way.
As for the call that I made to him over 20 years ago, he didn’t remember. Which, honestly, was a bit of a relief. But he laughed and said, “You should include that in the interview.” So here it is, as a gentle reminder that sometimes the moments we hold onto are often the ones that shape us the most, moving us forward — just like water.
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