I still remember the first time a Gujarati pop song made my feet itch to dance. It was the late 1990s, during India’s Hindi pop boom, when Falguni Pathak dropped her remake of Indhana Vinava Gayee Ti. I’d play it on my cassette player, rewinding it over and over, captivated by how it felt so close to the original folk song yet so fresh. But what truly stuck with me was a Navratri night in Gandhinagar, back when party plots were a shiny new novelty. I was a gangly teenager, trying to master garba steps without tripping over my own feet, when Chogada—you know, the one that later became a Bollywood hit in 2018 with Loveyatri—blared through the speakers. The dhol beats were infectious, the lyrics a playful ode to love and celebration, and the crowd’s energy was electric. We twirled under the stars, our hands clapping in rhythm, the air thick with the scent of jasmine garlands and the joy of community. That was Gujarati pop at its finest—rooted in tradition, yet vibrant enough to make even the shyest kid (me) join the circle.
Fast forward to 2025, and I’m scrolling through YouTube, looking for a nostalgic garba track to lift my spirits. Instead, I stumble upon a playlist titled “Best Gujarati Pop 2025.” I click, expecting to hear those familiar dhol beats. But what I get is a jarring mix of auto-tuned vocals, synthetic beats, and lyrics that feel like they were written by someone who forgot what Gujarati poetry sounds like. “Baby, let’s party, tu che sexy, I’m naughty,” blares one song. I blink. Since when did Gujarati pop start sounding like a rejected Bollywood item number? Worse, as I dig deeper, I find another trend that’s even more unsettling: Hindutva pop, or H-pop, a genre that’s taken YouTube by storm, blending catchy tunes with lyrics that spew hate and division. What’s happening to our music?
Let’s start with Gujarati pop, a genre that once celebrated the soul of Gujarat—its language, its traditions, its warmth. Historically, Gujarati music has been a tapestry of folk influences, from the rhythmic garba and dandiya beats to the soulful bhajans sung in praise of Krishna. But for me, the real magic came from North Gujarat, where folk singer Maniraj Barot helped bring a raw, earthy sound to the forefront in the 1990s. His iconic song Sanedo wasn’t just a track—it was a cultural moment, blending traditional melodies with lyrics that were bold, sometimes cheeky, but always authentic. Critics often looked down on Barot for his lyrical choices, calling them crude or too rustic, but no one can deny his impact. He gave North Gujarat folk a voice, making it a source of pride for rural communities who saw themselves in his music. I remember my friends playing Sanedo on loop at family weddings and late-night outings, our whole gang singing along, our laughter echoing through the night. Barot wasn’t just a singer; he was a storyteller who captured the spirit of the land.
But today, I can’t help but feel that Barot’s legacy is being twisted in the worst possible way. Modern Gujarati singers like Jignesh Kaviraj seem to be mimicking his boldness, but they’ve stripped away the soul, replacing it with crass pop that prioritizes mass appeal over depth. Jignesh Kaviraj, a prominent name in Gujarati music, started as a folk singer, gaining fame with songs like Hath Ma Chhe Whiskey in the early 2010s, which had a playful, rustic charm. But his recent tracks, like Gomade Painva Aayo (2023) and Jigo Adhuro Aeni Janu Re Vina (2022), lean heavily into commercial pop, with lyrics that feel more like clickbait than poetry. Take Gomade Painva Aayo—it’s a party anthem with synthetic beats and repetitive hooks, racking up views but lacking the depth of Barot’s storytelling. Another track I came across—let’s call it “Party Sharty” to spare the artist some embarrassment—has lyrics like “Baby, tu che hot, let’s do a shot,” followed by a chorus of “nacho nacho” that feels like a hypnotic plea to ignore the lack of creativity. With millions of views, Kaviraj’s music reflects a broader trend: chasing viral fame over cultural depth.
It’s not just Kaviraj. Other artists like Kajal Maheriya, who often collaborates with him on tracks like Duniya Amari Koi, have followed suit, blending folk with pop but often prioritizing catchy beats over lyrical substance. Maheriya’s voice is powerful, and her early work had a raw energy that echoed the spirit of Gujarati folk, but her recent songs lean into the same auto-tuned, party-centric formula. And then there’s Saurashtra, a region once a hub for a richer tradition—the Dayra. Dayras were more than music; they were storytelling sessions where folk singers, often from the Charan and Gadhavi communities, wove tales of life lessons, love, and devotion, passed down through generations. I can still picture myself as a kid, glued to Doordarshan on lazy Sunday afternoons, watching singers like Diwaliben Bhil with her “Koyal Kanthi”—a voice as sweet as a cuckoo—narrating moral tales that left me wide-eyed. Bhil, a tribal singer from the Bhil community, brought a raw, earthy magic to Dayra, her songs a bridge between Saurashtra’s traditions and the marginalized voices of Gujarat’s adivasi communities. Her performances on Doordarshan in the 1980s were a cultural touchstone, proving that Dayra’s spirit transcended caste and community, uniting listeners in reverence.
But Bhil wasn’t alone in shaping Saurashtra’s Dayra legacy. Singers like Ismailbhai Gadhavi, a Charan bard whose deep, resonant voice could silence a crowd, were just as iconic. I still remember my early encounters with Dayra events in the 2000s, hearing singers like Ismailbhai Gadhavi or Bhikhudan Gadhvi perform tales of a farmer’s resilience, their words weaving a spell over the audience—old men nodding sagely, women wiping tears, and kids like me sitting cross-legged, hanging on every note. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the weight of shared history. That was Dayra at its peak: a communal act of storytelling that felt sacred, a space where Saurashtra’s soul came alive through song.
Today, though, that reverence is fading. Dayra events have turned into rowdy showcases, with singers one-upping each other like teens on Instagram, their performances judged by likes rather than legacy. Audiences have changed too—showering currency notes, sometimes up to Rs 8 lakh in a single night, as seen at a 2020 Navsari bhajan sandhya, where devotees tossed notes of Rs 10 to Rs 2,000, even dollars from NRIs. A 2015 critique by folk artist Haji Ramakdu called this a degradation, arguing it turns Dayra into a mimicry of Mujra, disrespecting the art. Even the good artists who try to preserve the old ways—like the few Charan singers still performing in Saurashtra’s villages—can’t escape the tide. Instagram’s algorithm favors the loud and crass, drowning out their voices, while the sacred storytelling of Dayra is reduced to a spectacle for viral fame.
A music critic I spoke to sighed, “We’ve traded the depth of our mother tongue for the shallow appeal of global pop—whether it’s North Gujarat’s folk or Saurashtra’s Dayra. It’s like serving instant noodles at a Gujarati thali feast—sure, it’s quick, but where’s the flavor?” This shift isn’t just about lyrics; it’s about storytelling. Traditional Gujarati songs, from Sanedo to Dayras, wove narratives—tales of love, separation, or community—that lingered in your heart. Today, many tracks feel churned out in a factory, designed for Instagram Reels rather than resonance. I mean, what in the world is “Baby ne Bournvita pivadavo, baby mood ma nathi” (Offer baby Bournvita, baby is not in the mood) or “Le kachuko ke”? I don’t even know what these songs are trying to say, but they’re racking up views anyway. With 59% of rural India owning smartphones by 2024 (per TRAI data), artists are catering to a younger audience that craves instant gratification over cultural richness. The poetic metaphors that once defined our songs—like comparing a lover to the moon in Mare Todle Betho Mor—have been replaced with generic anthems that could belong anywhere.
But while Gujarati pop loses its cultural moorings, another genre is gaining ground on YouTube, and it’s far more troubling: Hindutva pop. I first learned about this phenomenon through a detailed piece in The Caravan magazine from 2022, which exposed how singers like Kanhiya Mittal and Laxmi Dubey are using music to promote Islamophobia and champion Hindu nationalist ideologies. These songs, often called H-pop, have exploded in popularity, racking up millions of views and becoming the soundtrack to a rising wave of communal tension.
One video I watched featured a singer named Prem Krishnavanshi, an engineer-turned-H-pop star, belting out a track with the line, “Hinduo kaa hae Hindustan, Mullo jaao Pakistan” (India is a land of Hindus, Muslims should go to Pakistan). The visuals were garish—saffron flags, images of Hindu gods, and poorly synced dance moves—but the message was chilling. The song had over 5 million views, with comments like “Jai Shri Ram!” and “Time to teach them a lesson.” Lesser-known YouTubers are jumping on this bandwagon too. Take Varun Bahar, whose song with lyrics like “Those who don’t hail Lord Ram, send them to the graveyard” was removed in 2019 for promoting racial hatred, only for YouTube to reupload an auto-generated version. These creators, often with smaller but fiercely loyal followings, amplify H-pop’s reach, their videos popping up in recommended feeds alongside mainstream Gujarati hits. It’s not just rhetoric; these songs have been linked to real-world violence. In April 2022, a Rama Navami procession in Khargone, Madhya Pradesh, played H-pop tracks outside a mosque before a mob torched Muslim homes. A man named Abrar Khan told TIME magazine, “I had a narrow escape, but I couldn’t save my home.”
The Caravan piece highlighted how singers like Kanhiya Mittal, who once focused on devotional Krishna bhajans, have pivoted to H-pop, with songs like “UP Mein Bhagwa Lehraenge” (We’ll hoist the saffron flag in UP) garnering 22 million views in a year. These tracks often praise BJP leaders like Narendra Modi and Yogi Adityanath, or push divisive narratives about Muslims as “traitors.” What’s more alarming is how YouTube amplifies this content. A 2023 investigation by the Columbia Journalism Review found that YouTube auto-generates videos for H-pop songs, even when they violate the platform’s hate speech policies, ensuring they reach wider audiences.
Meanwhile, Gujarati pop and H-pop are converging in troubling ways. Some Gujarati artists, perhaps sensing the commercial success of H-pop, have started incorporating nationalist themes into their music. A recent Gujarati track I found on YouTube—let’s call it “Saffron Garba”—mixed traditional dandiya beats with lyrics about “protecting our Hindu pride” and “driving out invaders.” The comments section was a cesspool of hate, with users posting sword emojis and slogans like “Bharat Mata Ki Jai.” It’s a far cry from the garba nights of my childhood, where the only thing we fought over was who got the last piece of jalebi.
So, what’s driving these trends? For Gujarati pop, it’s the pressure to stay relevant in a globalized, digital world. The rise of platforms like YouTube, Instagram, and Reels, coupled with low data costs, has fueled the demand for quick, catchy tracks. A 2023 report on pop culture trends in India noted that internet penetration in Tier II and III cities has shifted audience tastes toward instant hits, with Instagram Reels amplifying performances that prioritize spectacle over substance—think singers flexing like rowdy teens, competing for attention. For H-pop, the rise is tied to the political ascent of Hindutva ideology since the BJP came to power in 2014. As The Caravan noted, H-pop has become a tool to normalize hate, with its catchy beats making Islamophobia palatable to the masses. A 2023 report by India Hate Lab found that 42 YouTube channels host 79 H-pop music videos with Islamophobic undertones, down from 97 earlier, but still a significant presence.
The degradation of language in Gujarati pop and the hateful lyrics of H-pop might seem like separate issues, but they’re two sides of the same coin: a loss of cultural integrity. Gujarati pop is sacrificing its linguistic richness for commercial appeal, while H-pop is weaponizing music to divide rather than unite. Saurashtra’s Dayra, once a treasure trove of wisdom, now struggles under the weight of currency showers and Instagram bravado, and even the good artists can’t escape the tide. Both trends reflect a broader shift in how we consume culture—through algorithms that prioritize virality over values, and a societal climate that’s increasingly polarized. Even Barot’s bold folk, which once united villages in song, now feels like a distant memory, overshadowed by a generation of artists who’ve mistaken crassness for creativity and division for devotion.
I can’t help but think back to those Navratri nights in Gandhinagar—and the Doordarshan days of my childhood, watching Diwaliben Bhil sing with her cuckoo-like voice. Music was a bridge then, bringing us together in a shared celebration of Gujarat’s heritage. Today, it feels more like a wall, dividing us with hate or diluting what made it special in the first place. Maybe it’s time we asked ourselves: What kind of soundtrack do we want for our future? One that makes us dance together under the stars, or one that leaves us shouting at each other across a divide? I know which one I’d choose. How about you?
Krunal Sagan
April 4, 2025