I was lost in the twisty lanes and bylanes of Anantnag while searching for the residence of Manzoor Ahmad Anzwali, a Kashmiri Sufi singer, poet and instrumentalist. A stranger, it seemed destined, led me to the doorstep of Manzoor's grand, double-storey house, and even knocked on the door for me.

We were welcomed into the living room by his son. After a while, Manzoor arrived. This was our first meeting, yet I felt a profound connection with him.

Manzoor is part of a musical lineage that extends for generations — like a bloodline. But lineage doesn't offer a livelihood. When Manzoor decided to do what his ancestors had spent their lives doing, true to his lineage, he was discouraged by his parents and father-in-law. Manzoor was adamant, so were they. He was disowned by them. His survival as an artist has been nothing short of a street fight.

"They didn't even give me an empty plate when they asked me to leave the house. My father-in-law was categorical: either you stop singing or leave my daughter. I left neither and walked away," he narrated his story.

Manzoor never got a formal education, yet, in sync with music, he writes, composes and sings in many languages — Kashmiri, Urdu, Persian, and Arabic. For many years, he recited self-composed verses into the ear of another famous singer, Ghulam Ahmad Bhat, who couldn't read, and he, in turn, would sing those verses in mehfils, or spiritual gatherings.

One evening in 1996, the crowd was patiently waiting, the air thick with expectation, and Ghulam didn't show up to perform. The master of ceremony, Peer Saleem Sahab (Manzoor's spiritual mentor), directed Manzoor to play and sing.

He did well, and since then has been performing for more than 30 years. He has also performed at the dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya in Delhi. To perform is a spiritual experience for him — he gets immersed in the verses he has set to tune.

After looking intently at me for a while, he recited an Arabic verse to explain his relationship with music. It translates to: Despite the vastness and complexity of the universe, everything is in precise, harmonious balance, with no structural defects or contradictions. Then he paused to add, "My instrument is a part of that balance."

I was treated to a feast of tea, biscuits, cookies, and namkeen — despite my insistence that it wasn't necessary. His spiritual guide had mandated hospitality: "No one leaves my house without being fed, even if it's just a glass of water."

Manzoor is a self-made musician. Without family support, and as a traditional artist bearing the torch of Kashmiri literary and musical tradition, he — like others with a profound connection to the language — is struggling. Society, at best, is indifferent to their talent and craft. They face haunting uncertainty, an existential crisis at every step.

Technology, finally, came to Manzoor's rescue. Thanks to social media, his reels went viral, popular among the youth; his YouTube videos routinely get more than a million views. He has made traditional music chic with the next generation of Kashmiris. An online celebrity — that's what Manzoor has become.

He had to perform in a few hours; it was time for me to leave. Just then, Manzoor fetched a nout — a local traditional percussion instrument made of clay — and played a capriccio to show me how it's done. It was a lovely way to say goodbye.

Manzoor may not have had a plate to eat from, but for decades, he has been quenching the musical thirst of thousands of Kashmiris.