Satinder Sartaaj: The Sufi Poet Who Took Punjabi to the World

It is not every day that a singer from the heart of Punjab walks into the Royal Albert Hall in London and holds an audience—many of whom don’t understand a word of Punjabi—spellbound. Yet, Satinder Sartaaj has done just that, time and again. Dressed in an immaculate turban and flowing kurta, a voice that seems to rise from some ancient well within the earth, he is not simply performing songs—he is carrying an entire culture across oceans.

Born in Bajrawar, a small village in Hoshiarpur district, Satinder Pal Singh, known to the world as Satinder Sartaaj, grew up surrounded by the rhythms of Punjabi soil. The rustle of wheat fields, the call of the koel, the sacred shabads in the gurdwara—these were his first music lessons. His early education was in a government school, but his passion for words and melody soon drew him to the corridors of Punjab University, Chandigarh, where he would earn his PhD in Sufi music.

Sartaaj’s academic journey is as remarkable as his artistry. Alongside his doctorate, he earned a diploma in Persian, and a certificate course in Urdu—languages whose poetic traditions would later entwine seamlessly with his Punjabi verses. He became a lecturer in music at Panjab University, yet the classroom could not contain the reach of his voice.

His breakthrough came with the soul-stirring “Sai”, a song that quickly became a modern Punjabi classic. It was not a manufactured hit—it was poetry set to melody, and it carried the emotional depth of Sufi longing. From there, his albums like Cheerey Waaleyan Di Chhalli and Rangrez – The Poet of Colours established him as a rare breed: a singer who could fill stadiums without sacrificing lyrical purity.

But perhaps his most remarkable feat has been taking Punjabi to spaces where it is rarely heard. He has performed at Sydney Opera House, Royal Albert Hall, and United Nations headquarters in New York. He sang at the Cannes Film Festival for his acting debut in The Black Prince (2017), where he played Maharaja Duleep Singh, the last ruler of the Sikh Empire. That role was no mere career detour—it was a conscious choice to tell a chapter of Sikh history that the world had nearly forgotten.

In his concerts, there is no frantic pyrotechnics, no digital spectacle to distract from the words. His stage is often just a microphone, a harmonium, and an unbroken thread of connection with the audience. In those moments, Sartaaj becomes less a performer and more a custodian of a language, a heritage, and a philosophy. He sings of love that is both divine and earthly, of separation that wounds the soul, of a Punjab that exists in memory and hope.

In a time when much of mainstream Punjabi music has surrendered to the lure of dance beats and disposable lyrics, Satinder Sartaaj stands apart—unapologetically poetic, defiantly rooted. His work bridges the old and the new, making Ghalib’s subtlety and Bulleh Shah’s fire relevant to a generation raised on streaming apps.

To watch Sartaaj perform in London or Vancouver is to witness the diaspora leaning forward, eyes glistening—not just because they miss home, but because they see it alive before them, in the language of their childhood, sung with the dignity it deserves. For the non-Punjabi listener, it is a window into a tradition whose richness can be felt even when the words are not understood.

Satinder Sartaaj has proved that art can be both local and universal. His journey from Bajrawar’s dusty lanes to the world’s grandest stages is not just a personal triumph—it is a reassurance to every Punjabi, every Indian, that our languages, our literature, and our music can travel anywhere without losing their soul.

And when his voice rises in a couplet, half-sung, half-whispered, you understand why he calls himself Sartaaj—the crown. Not because he claims it, but because his audience, from Punjab to Paris, quietly places it upon his head.