Tarok Das had long, frizzy hair and a beaming smile. Under the golden canopy of Shantiniketan’s famous Banyan trees, he threw his shoulders back and began humming, joyously nodding his head in rhythm. A troupe of men clad in bright orange and red drapes formed a circle around him. Each held an instrument made of wood, gut strings and skin. Softly at first, then growing along with the sound of leaves rustled by the river-side breeze, they joined the melody.

Das stood out first; his raw and melancholic voice sang of higher spirits and the power of nature. His tone was robust, but his demeanour playful. The song intertwined with the beat of his men that accompanied his now moving feet. Seeing this, I couldn't help but grin and feel a sway in my hips.

Das was our first collaborator on an epic journey that I embarked on with my brother Soumik last November. We traveled to six Indian states in search of rural folk musicians, the last torch-bearers of fading crafts. We had heard about Das from a few contemporary performers inKolkata, who insisted we head into the countryside to discover India and music.  

When we first met, Das was perched on the broken bench of a local bus stop, sipping chai from a clay cup and singing to a spontaneous but entirely captivated audience that had surrounded him. In his mid-50s, Das is one of the foremost proponents of the Baul tradition, which is both a religious sect and a musical genre. His is a dying art, yet one that is still popular in Bengal's countryside, informing many more established genres over the years such as Rabindrasangeet and Kirtan. Baul performers sing and play indigenous instruments such as the the khamak, ektara and dotara.

“Have you seen God?” he asked me deep within the forest, still humming and strumming his dotara.

“To see God in a wooden instrument is no small matter. No one has seen God. You say Krishna plays the flute in the woods? But there is noKrishna, no flute, no woods. There is only a power, within these instruments and within ourselves, that drives us.”

My brother and I grew up in a house filled with Indian art and music. But over time—perhaps caught in the commercial rat race of London—our connection to these traditions and the values they embodied began to wane. With this journey, we set out to rediscoverIndian music, to trace it to its rural and folk sources, and experience first hand its most compelling and colorful renditions.

Throughout the nation, within villages and rural enclaves, indigenous musical cultures have thrived for centuries. From the tribal hunting songs of Nagaland to the celebratory Kunitha dances of Karnataka, each district of India has artistic traditions shaped by unique local histories, climates, geographies, religions and social structures. Yet, today, in an age of speeding urbanization and modernity, many of these ways of life are in danger of vanishing.

Soumik and I decided to put these artists back on the map, creating intimate portraits as well as documenting live musical collaborations. Beyond this, we aimed to give audiences a glimpse into everyday realities of rural India and raise the question of how local customs might survive and stay relevant in a changing world.

Our first stop was WestBengal, where our parents were born and raised, and where we met Tarok Das and Rabi. They shared with us the soulful Baul way of life, which embodies generosity and mysticism, and where music and song act as a conduit to the divine. We also met Kirtan singers, acrobatic Chhau dancers and the last practitioners of the ancient Jumur form based in religious Hindu texts. Within a few weeks, we realized just how much there was to learn and to share with a wider audience. We decided to continue the project across states spanning the length and breadth of India.

A few months later, we arrived in Nagaland, a rural state tucked within the mountainous area betweenBangladesh and Myanmar. Nagaland is home to 16 major tribes, each with their own customs, languages and traditional attire. Predominantly Christian, its musical and dance traditions are heavily influenced by Eastern and Xino themes, and stand in stark contrast to mainland India’s better-known, Hindu forms. Their dances are intercut with striking battle cries and zoomorphic poses, which celebrate the region’s hunting and farming history.

“We all neglect our own culture,” Venolu Puro, an 18year-old member of the Rengma tribe, told us. Plucking her ancient Tati instrument, she talked to us about Nagaland’s identity crisis and her commitment to maintain her culture. “We have to learn from our parents so that we can preserve our culture, our identity. We may learn everything. I may learn parts of your culture. But if I forget my own culture, no one can teach this tome."

Globalization had clearly made its mark there. Blaring red 4G signs lined the winding forest roads that connect Nagaland’s two major cities of Dimapur and Kohima. The increasingly educated and urban smartphone-wielding youth have a a declining interest in their families’ agrarian lifestyles, but also struggle to locate skilled jobs amidst the state’s climate of political insurgency, migration and declining tourism. Nagaland’s rich and unique subcultures stand at risk of being lost in the state’s rapid movements for change.

For six months we drove, flew, trained and rode our way across four more states: Rajasthan, Karnataka, Uttar Pradesh and Goa. We met more than 40 musical groups and 100 artists,
spanning nine languages and all age groups. We traversed jungles and mountains, islands and dense cities, and were finally left with a rare, compelling and intimate insight into India’s fading folk music traditions.
‍
Cut into six thirty-minute episodes that respectively explore each state, we launched the series in 2017, and it has since been broadcast in the UK, India and Asia multiple times.

One of the things that struck me the most during this project was that for the people we met, music was not just an occupation or a choice. Often harking from generations-long legacies of performers, these traditional genres had become inseparable from the people who practiced them, and the places they were born in.
‍
An ancient musician – Rampal Ji Bhopa - we met in Rajasthan personified exactly the haunting melodies that reverberated from his Ravanhatha; Tarok Das's voice rang with the same warmth of West Bengal’s tropical and watery climate. These musicians lived and breathed their art. They were innately connected to a precious time and a place that was quickly disappearing.

Are there any accessible festivals or performances available for people to experience this music firsthand?

There is certainly a small, growing platform for seeing many of the musicians we encountered up close. For tribal music and cultures in Nagaland, for instance, there is the incredible Hornbill Festival, a seven-day cultural fiesta held amid the mountainous backdrop of Kohima every December.

For Baul music, there is Poush Mela every winter, a colorful rural carnival in West Bengal’s Shantiniketan that sees nomadic Bengali singers, tribal dancers, and folk opera acts attract millions every year.

For more classical lineups, the Sawai Gandharva festival in Pune every December is arguably the largest, most popular, and most sought-after Indian classical music festival in the world, famous for its star performers and all-night concerts.

And finally, the Rajasthan International Folk Festival is an annual music and arts presentation of rich North Indian traditions held in the magnificent Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur.