Scholar, singer, storyteller: The many ragas of Elita Karim
Balancing academic life in the US with scattered performances at home, Elita Karim speaks about music, change and the cost of silence when stages go dark
On a winter morning in the city, Elita Karim took a stroll around Shahabuddin Park, one of her favourite corners of the city she calls home.
The calm of the park somewhat contrasts with the pace of her current life, split between academia in the United States and her constant companion, music.
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She also bought a few books to add to her companionship. A coffee, a bench and a soulful conversation was the breakfast menu to a quiet, slow morning of leisure that she absolutely cherishes.
"At this moment, I am pursuing a PhD at Arizona State University," she says, explaining that her doctoral work is in mass communications, a field she has recently begun exploring in depth. Having just completed her first semester, she returned home almost instinctively.
The visit, however, is far from a quiet break. Almost as soon as she landed on the 12th of December, Elita was back on stage. The very next day, she performed alongside Bappa Mazumder at the Gulshan Club.
In recent months, concerts featuring both local and international artistes have been cancelled, often at the last moment, citing security concerns. For Elita, the issue strikes at the heart of an artiste's purpose.
She stepped into the spotlight with ease. Earlier this year, she toured in Canada and Australia.
Performing in Bangladesh these days, however, comes with its own anxieties, ones that go beyond pitch, rhythm, or harmony.
On the cost of cancelled live performances
In recent months, concerts featuring both local and international artistes have been cancelled, often at the last moment, citing security concerns. For Elita, the issue strikes at the heart of an artiste's purpose.
"An artiste's job is to perform," she says plainly. "Whether they are local or international, and regardless of the level they work at, their job is to perform." When shows are cancelled, she believes the damage is immediate and far-reaching.
"Why is this happening? What is the reason? How can we solve this? I think it is very important to talk about this."
She is careful not to assign blame.
"I cannot say if it is truly a security issue or some other reason," she notes. But the pattern raises questions, especially when cancellations happen so close to showtime.
From her vantage point, artistes are the first to suffer when performances fall apart. But they are not alone. Fans, she points out, invest far more than just ticket money.
"I have always loved performing on stage," she says. "When you perform live, there is an interaction and an energy you get from the people who admire and encourage you."
"Seeing the expressions of the audience, hearing their cheers — it gives you the encouragement to perform," she says. And when that exchange is taken away, "it really takes a toll."
As Elita balances research papers in Arizona with microphones in Dhaka, her words echo a larger concern shared by artistes and audiences alike: live music is not just entertainment, it is connection. And in moments when that connection is disrupted, everyone feels the loss.
Out with the old, in with the new
When Elita looks back at the early 2000s, the memory carries a lightness that feels almost impossible today. Not because things were perfect, but because they were simpler. "I think it was easier back then because I didn't know as much," she says with a smile. "They say 'ignorance is bliss.'"
In those early years, the distance between the stage and the audience barely existed. The people who came to listen were friends, classmates, peers, young people living versions of the same life. Dhaka, Elita says, felt intimate then. There was expectation, yes, but also patience. The audience understood that the musicians were finding their feet.
In 2002, she began performing as a guest vocalist with the alternative rock band Black. "That was a new experience for me," she says. By 2005, she had her own band, Raaga, who had released just one album.
Back then, fear rarely entered the equation. "We weren't afraid to experiment or sing new songs." They would introduce unreleased tracks without hesitation and simply trust the audience to meet them halfway.
Two decades later, the landscape has changed almost entirely. Albums have faded into memory, replaced by singles and short EPs. Digital platforms have reshaped not only how music is released, but how it is promoted, consumed, and judged.
"Because the technology has changed, the way singers or marketing professionals market a song has also changed."
Yet Elita has chosen not to let the mechanics of the industry dictate her creative life. "If artistes start focusing heavily on marketing instead of writing songs… I think it affects the work."
Rather than chasing trends or tailoring music for specific demographics, she prefers to stay grounded in instinct. "Regarding the songs I am releasing now, I don't really think about whether the younger crowd will like them or not," she says.
"I just hope that people will listen and give some kind of feedback." She admits the approach might seem passive – "a lazy way to do things," in her words – but it feels honest.
Her recent collaboration with producer Joy Shahriar reflects that philosophy. The song, Barandate Bikel Bela (Afternoon on the Balcony) is deliberately unhurried.
"It's a very nice song, a 'weekend' song for a Friday afternoon while having tea," she explains. The imagery is homely: a balcony, a teacup steaming softly, a poem.
The song recently crossed 100,000 views, a milestone she does not take lightly. It may not be viral in the conventional sense, but to her the response feels deeply personal. "Those who like it, genuinely like it."
Almost instinctively, she begins to hum a line from the track – then stops to say, "It's sweet…has a wintry vibe."
'Resistance Publics'
Elita Karim's return to academia did not come from a sudden break with music or journalism. It emerged organically from years spent asking questions, observing systems, and wanting to understand how stories shape people. For nearly two decades, she worked at The Daily Star as a journalist.
At the core of her academic work lies an idea still evolving but deeply personal — "Resistance Publics". Drawing on thinkers like Jürgen Habermas and Nancy Fraser, she traces how people create spaces to speak, debate, and resist. "Habermas talked about the 'public sphere,'" she explains, "but Nancy Fraser pointed out that marginalised people often can't enter those spaces."
"What about people who create their own space when they want to resist something?" Elita asks. In Bangladesh's recent history, she sees this clearly: resistance unfolding through videos, graffiti, reels, songs, street art, and writing that goes far beyond journalism.
It is a theory rooted in lived experience, and one she hopes to carry onto an international academic platform. "If I look at South Asia, or Asia as a whole, there is so much history," she says. "Being able to share this is a big deal."
Balancing scholarship, music, and life abroad has brought its own challenges, but Elita Karim says the hardest battles are internal. Her approach is deceptively simple: "Take it one thing at a time."
As the conversation drifts back in time, she recalls writing her first song at the age of nine or ten, while living abroad, and showing it first to her father. Writing came easily then – diaries filled with poems and fragments shaped by books rather than screens. One early piece she remembers vividly was about sleep, resting so that upon waking, "you have to fix the world."
Songwriting today begins with structure. "I think about the technical aspects first," she explains, often letting the melody arrive before the words.
Though modest about her output, she is quietly working on her own album while studying abroad.
With new releases ahead, her message to listeners remains grounded: "Please do what your heart wants to do but don't skip studying and practicing."
Talent, she says, must always be polished through work.
