The boreendo is not an instrument that seeks attention. Crafted from clay, the humble flute is held gently instead of fitted with metal keys. Its voice is intimate—like a memory whispered rather than announced. For centuries, it drifted through the desert winds of Kutch and Sindh, woven into pastoral songs, courtship melodies and ceremonial tunes. It belonged to the soil, and to communities that learnt music by listening rather than writing.
In December, the world finally paused to hear it, when the flute was included by UNESCO in its ‘List of Intangible Cultural Heritage in Need of Urgent Safeguarding’—an honour that recognises its cultural richness while warning of the threat to its survival. Supported by India, the listing is not merely a tribute to a single folk instrument, but to a vast and vulnerable musical ecology of the subcontinent.
“What makes the boreendo extraordinary is not just its clay body, but its entire philosophy of sound,” says Kumud Patel, an Ahmedabad-based cultural historian who has studied Kutch’s musical traditions. “Its oval mouthpiece and side-blown technique produce that whisper-soft tone you simply don’t hear in most Indian wind instruments. Every boreendo is shaped by hand from local river clay, so no two ever sound alike; each one carries the fingerprint of its maker.”
For centuries, its music was woven into pastoral life, adds Patel, from soothing camels to accompanying folk tales. Its beauty lies in its imperfection: the pitch shifts with the seasons, the tone bends with the player’s breath. With UNESCO recognition, we finally have a chance to bring this fragile desert instrument into classrooms, studios, and contemporary sound experiments, ensuring its survival.
An endangered heritage
For bansuri virtuoso Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia, 87, the recognition feels celebratory, but also sobering. “When an art form enters a protection list, we should feel proud, yet also responsible,” he says, “UNESCO’s honour means the world values the boreendo. That its music has been heard, the lineage acknowledged, but the journey, as always, continues.”
There is gratitude, certainly. But more than that, there is a renewed sense of responsibility. “To remind the next generation that the flute is not just an instrument, but a teacher,” he says. “That it demands patience, humility and surrender. And that its true power lies not in volume or virtuosity, but in silence, space and sincerity.”
The boreendo stands precariously because it was never formalised, he adds. No conservatories teach it, few craftsmen make it, and most of its repertoire lives only in memory—passed from elder to child in mud houses, fields and festivals. UNESCO listing acknowledges that fragility; it urges documentation, training and transmission before silence takes over.
Chaurasia sees in the boreendo a metaphor for India’s eroding musical inheritance. “Tradition survives only if it is fed—like a child," he says. Honouring an instrument is not enough. “Like the clay flute, traditions breathe only through continuity,” he adds. “UNESCO recognition feels less like an honour bestowed and more like a gentle acknowledgement of a living heritage that has quietly endured.”
A generation at the crossroads
Music, like language, survives only through inheritance, says the feted artist. “The youth are not just audiences—they are custodians. If they do not listen, the sound ends with us,” he says. Instruments like the morchang, algoza, rudra veena and boreendo demand time, patience, and steady attention—qualities increasingly rare in our hurried lives. Sensitising the young, he insists, is not nostalgia; it is survival.
Equally important is changing the perception of classical practice itself. “Riyaz is often viewed as rigid or intimidating, yet in reality it offers something deeply relevant to modern life: focus in an age of distraction, stillness in a world of noise. When framed this way, practice becomes aspirational rather than overwhelming,” elaborates the musician.
Finally, preservation thrives in intimate spaces. Small baithaks, listening circles, workshops and youth-led gatherings allow classical instruments to exist as part of everyday cultural life, not just on formal stages. “When young people choose to engage—out of curiosity, pride and connection—tradition stops feeling fragile. It becomes alive, relevant and ready for the generations to come,” he says.
Where music is not taught, but absorbed
This conviction shapes the maestro’s Vrindaban Gurukul centres in Mumbai and Bhubaneswar. Reviving the guru-shishya parampara, students live with music rather than study it by syllabus. They rise with riyaz, practise dawn ragas under birdsong, meditate between sessions to deepen breath, and learn patience and listening as rigorously as technique.
At places like the Vrindaban Gurukul, music is not treated as a subject to be taught, but as a lifelong relationship. Learning unfolds slowly and personally. Students are guided not just in technique, but in attitude—how to approach sound with humility, how to respect silence, and how to surrender to the music rather than control it.
According to Chaurasia, riyaz sits at the centre of everything. In a world obsessed with speed and results, his schools insist on patience. “Daily practice, breath control, tonal purity and internal discipline are non-negotiable,” he says.
Students are encouraged to understand where a raga comes from, what emotion it carries, and how it should be approached, not just performed. Music here is rooted in history, philosophy, and lived experience—not reduced to notes on a scale.
Training under a guru, even briefly, builds an understanding that no tutorial or shortcut can replicate, feels Chaurasia. “It introduces young musicians to discipline, patience, and the deeper philosophy behind sound,” he says. “Technology may support learning, but lineage gives it direction.” It is lineage, too, that has kept the boreendo alive. Now it is our responsibility to ensure that its music does not stop.