In the Northeast, it’s not unusual to find youngsters with a guitar in their hands. Music is in their DNA. Not surprising then that the guitar is being used to reflect the angst of the young, and to sing about peace, talk about politics, and to register protest. These musicians may not have fame or fan-following, but in a small, albeit impressive manner they have been making music that represents the times they live in. Songs are the musical postcards they send out to let the world know of life in a region where bloodshed is common.

Their songs smell the “gunpowder in the air”, highlight ethnic clashes fuelled by militant groups, talk about the widows of those who fell to the bullets of masked men, hold up to scrutiny state excesses in the guise of Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, and underline the heavy presence of men in uniform in the region. They also talk of a generation lost to drugs, and of “No state no rest”, the frustratingly long-drawn protests and bandhs for statehood.

Listen to Akhu Ronid Chingangbam of Imphal Talkies. Strumming his guitar, playing the mouth organ, he croons in subdued anger:

“…Don’t you have brothers?

Don’t you have commanders?

Don’t you have captors?

…the air smells of gunpowder

From my window I can only see widows

My mama doesn’t want me to sing sad songs

A.F.S.P.A

Why don’t you f*** yourself…”

Imphal-based Chingangbam says he can’t help but draw from reality when writing a song. As a child, he saw “protests on the streets every time a person went missing, supposedly picked up by the Indian Army.” As a young man living in Manipur now, he says nothing has changed. “Just the other day, I had to zip home because a curfew had been clamped. What else can I think of then?” he asks.

Hope, however, has not vanished, not as yet. Chingangbam is working on “A native tongue called peace,” a set of songs for harmony. The project, funded by an Assam-based NGO, will have Chingangbam creating music with residents of a children’s home in Imphal. The children belong to the warring ethnic groups of Manipur. In the coming months, the children will also collaborate with big bands like Soulmate and Indian Ocean.

Digital Suicide, a four-member band from Haflong, a town in turmoil along the Assam-Nagaland border, is getting noticed for its political lyrics. The members insist their music is beyond genres, and that they are only looking for “a platform to air opinions” on events happening around them. Daniel Langthasa, vocalist, says, “We are like most young people in the world today, angry and sad to see things happening around us, which are wrong.” Though they sing about life as they see it, families and friends do not approve. And it upsets Langthasa. “They want us to keep quiet and not ‘offend’ authority; and that bothers us more,” he says.

Growing up in Haflong, says Langthasa, was fun. “Everyone knew everyone. Then, instigated by militant groups, ethnic clashes started. It has left people afraid of each other. Illegal immigration, a corrupt government and the district council have deepened unemployment. Deforestation and unplanned constructions are changing the landscape of Haflong,” he says. These thoughts led to ‘Haflong’, an ode to their hometown. At the ongoing Ziro Festival of Music in Arunachal Pradesh, Digital Suicide will sing ‘Haflong’ along with their popular number ‘Mur town.’ So too ‘No state no rest,’ which has lines like “…my hero is dead, his killers are rulers…”

Recently, Maniac, an all-woman band from Manipur, sang about the gender bias in Manipuri society. Its latest number, ‘Rock and Roll,’ “prods girls to show their worth to the society without fear.” Acki, the band’s manager says, “As they say, a written work of art always mirrors the time in which it was written. After all, music can influence people, can create opinions and add new colour to society.”

People in the Northeast are more ready to accept such songs now, believes Lokesh Heishnam of Eastern Dead. In 1997, when the group sang ‘Monkey Lies’, protesters in Manipur burnt copies of the song. “The song in Meiteilon language was based on a Manipuri folk tale. It prodded people to follow their musical roots, which angered those with vested interests,” he recalls. Eastern Dead had to lie low for some years, two members quit, and it had to return with a new name — Eastern Dark. “But we stuck to such songs because we believed in them,” he says. Now Heishnam is credited for bringing Meiteilon to Manipur’s rock music scene. Of similar vintage is Tapta. The balladeer’s wide oeuvre has a song for almost every issue and these are also discussed in Manipur’s educational institutions. Clearly, the young people of the Northeast have found that art is political.

Sangeeta Barooah Pisharotyis a freelance writer based in Delhi

Published on September 25, 2015