Adrenalin flowing at a warehouse party in Bombay.
|
There’s nothing remarkable
about it. All one has to do is to hit the right keys at the right time and the instrument
plays itself.
Johann
Sebastian Bach, German composer (1685-1750)
|
Created by the hardy
Punjabi peasant to celebrate harvests, marriages and other joyous occasions, bhangra
was exported by his expatriate grandson to the West. |
A lighthearted look at
how elite youth “dig” their roots through expatriate relations
 The
hi-fi is playing Bruce Springsteen, who is belting out his “Born in the USA” number.
Someone has turned the bass way up, so that the room seems like a giant pulsing heart.
Couples are dancing, swaying. “It’s paaaartieeee time!” screeches a slightly inebriated
young woman to no one in particular. And no one in particular pays any attention.
I am in the midst of students who are celebrating. Maybe the end of term. Or is it
someone’s birthday? Who cares–it’s paaaartieeee time.
The scene is a fairly well-to-do neighbourhood in south Delhi, the time approaching
midnight, and the party is picking up. So far only English numbers have been played–Madonna,
Michael Jackson, even Pink Floyd, and a host of other stuff I neither recognise nor
am keen to. Then, someone decides it’s time to party in earnest. The music stops.
A fresh cassette is inserted and when the first strains of the new number are heard,
the room explodes in a collective roar. It’s Daler Mehndi, the dancing Sikh, the
undisputed king of bhangra pop. Finally, the adrenalin is flowing and there’s not
a soul who’s not on the dance floor. For a few hours, it’s a long list of Indipop
singers, mostly bhangra.
This is new. Through the 1980s, and even in the early 90s, it was infra-dig [beneath
your dignity] to admit in public that one listened to even Hindi stuff, let alone
Punjabi. Gurdas Mann, the original bhangra star of the 80s, who is currently enjoying
a minor revival, was only heard by Punjabi kids at the working-class Khalsa College,
bored shopkeepers and truck drivers. If you went to the elite St. Stephens College,
you played the likes of Michael Jackson.
No more. The 13-to-23 generation, which the music companies spend millions on wooing,
has turned patriotic. “I am proud of this music,” declares an avid bhangra fan, “it
makes me feel so Indian.” This world-weary, been-there-done-that 23-year-old of today
was 13 when the Indian state embarked upon the drive to liberalise the economy. In
the decade since, five governments, basically accounting for the full range of Indian
political opinion, have ruled. With the exception of the relatively weak left component,
they have all displayed an amazing level of unanimity on globalisation. Big business,
backed by large sections of the liberal intelligentsia, has pushed the liberalisation
agenda relentlessly ahead. As a result, the landscape of urban India has been transformed
beyond belief. Large tracts of rural India also show signs of change, especially
in the agriculture-rich Punjab.
Ravaged by the partition of India in 1947, Punjab saw the greatest mass migration
in history. Millions of Hindus and Sikhs crossed over to the Indian side, and millions
of Muslims to Pakistan. For a generation or more, the Punjabis have worked industriously,
and many have moved up the economic ladder, thanks to the green revolution. In addition
to a massive migration notably to the UK after partition, a huge number of young
Punjabis are continuing to migrate to the Commonwealth and other distant lands. Some
of the money being earned abroad is repatriated back to India. Cities are full of
fast cars, hi-fi home entertainment systems, McDonald’s and ubiquitous satellite
antennae in rich as well as poor neighbourhoods. Even villages now have ATMs (cash
distributers), and everyone seems to be wearing Nike shoes, Ray-Ban sunglasses or
Benetton shirts–there are more fakes going around than the genuine stuff, but who
cares? All of this has also been accompanied by heightened polarisation between the
rich and the poor within the country, but, again, who cares? Its paaaartieeee time.
So there you have it, the paradox of bhangra: its emergence as an Indian form in
precisely the decade when its listeners have become more integrated into the world
market and its patterns of consumption. Talk to the 13-to-23 high-consuming set and
the refrain heard most is: “It’s our music.” The pride that accompanies stories of
Indian musical success in Whitemansland, UK–Apache Indian, Bally Sagoo, etc.–is real.
“We are no longer only consumers of other people’s cultures–now we produce the music
that the world wants to listen to.” But wasn’t the bhangra boom born in the West,
and hasn’t it too been imported to India? “Yes, but it’s Indian, don’t you understand?
It’s our guys there who are making the music.”
But why bhangra, I ask. “Bhangra’s got the beat. It’s very danceable,” I am informed.
Isn’t all folk music, I ask. “I guess.” Silence. “Remember dandiya?” asks an older
listener, referring to the form of folk music and dance from the western Indian state
of Gujarat which was all the rage in the 80s. “That was danceable.” So why has it
been deposed by bhangra, I ask him. “Simple,” he says. “Earlier, the Gujjus [Gujaratis]
were the single largest expat[riate] population. Now, the Punjus [Punjabis] have
taken over. And so has their music.” Yeah, that is simple. Too simple, maybe? But
why don’t we hear gidda? It’s from Punjab and as danceable as bhangra. “Simple,”
I am told again. “Gidda is women’s song. How can men sing or dance to it?” But isn’t
bhangra too masculine? It’s sung by men. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s the point. Bhangra
is men’s song. So everybody can dance to it.” Yeah, simple again, I guess.
A Punjabi friend passionate about his music provides a different explanation. “It’s
all a question of identification,” he says. “Bhangra has become associated in the
popular mind with the culture of Punjab. This has happened because of Hindi films,
which have used bhangra more than any other Punjabi folk form. People now think that
bhangra is all there is to Punjabi music. Much of what we hear today is nowhere near
bhangra, but it all gets called that because of the use of the dhol [a percussion
instrument slung on the shoulder and played on both sides with sticks]. Anything
on the dhol and with some balle balle [a generic cry expressing happiness] or kudiye
[Punjabi for girl] is just assumed to be bhangra.” So what is it? “Most of it is
kitsch. You know, just taken from here and there and mixed together. Whatever works,
works. Then we get to hear a million variations of that. Till something else clicks.”
In the meanwhile, of course, music companies have made millions.
Would you believe it, then–much of what we think is bhangra is not bhangra at all!
“Who cares?”, says an 18-year old. “It’s Indian, and we understand it. Not like the
English songs where you understand only one line.” Really? What about the king of
bhangra-pop, Daler Mehndi, I ask. How many people know what he sings in between his
one-line refrains? “That’s because people don’t listen carefully,” she says. “Some
of his songs are beautiful. They are really philosophical.” Philosophical? “Yeeees.
You know, there’s one where he talks about love being like spinning yarn on a wheel…”
She quotes the Punjabi lines. Yes, I admit, the lines are beautiful. But the language
is far from simple to understand. “Yeah. It’s traditional. My grandmother explained
it to me,” confides my young friend. Now that’s interesting. And what did grannie
think about it? “Oh, she is just amused. She could never have imagined that such
songs could be played in discos and parties.” Isn’t she offended? “Not really. She
says we live in times when the dollar rules. They will sell their mothers if they
can make some money.” But is she happy with the fact? “I dunno. I guess she’s not
too worked up about it, since I get to learn some Punjabi that way. I’ve never been
in Punjab. . .”
So bhangra has come full circle. Created by the hardy Punjabi peasant to celebrate
harvests, marriages and other joyous occasions, it was exported by his expatriate
grandson to the west. There it was remixed with techno, rap and reggae of black neighbourhoods,
and with Hindi film music as well. Reinvented thus, it gets exported back to India
by large music corporations who make enormous profits in the process. And here in
India, it helps rich kids of an increasingly anglicized elite rediscover their own
rural heritage. In completing this loop, of course, bhangra loses all links with
the material life of the peasants who created it. But who cares? It’s paaaartieeee
time.
|
