The Haryana Story

To what extent can the popular Haryanvi ‘gangster music’ be attributed to the stereotypical image of the Haryanvi populace? Or is the regional art just amplifying what’s already there? Let’s brood.

When I walked in on my 13-year-old cousin cranking a brazenly violent Haryanvi song at an ear-piercingly loud volume, my immediate reaction was one of concern. The singer, a regional talent, audaciously sang: ‘ek khatolla jail ke bheetar, ek khatolla jail ke bahar’ (I have one bed in the prison and a second one outside). 

My cousin knew the lyrics by heart and was showing off to me by humming them along. His playlist was laden with such bawdy, violent songs, dropping swag on every beat that you can’t help but marvel at the gusto of such artists with no fear of consequences. And this ‘Khatolla’ guy definitely knew the ‘formula’, because the song is currently sitting at 45 million views on YouTube.

I would be lying if I told you I was startled at the gauche lyrics. They spoke of nothing I hadn’t heard randomly on the streets of Haryana, or the roadways buses, or my family members quarrelling among each other throughout my growing-up years. But my 13-year-old cousin’s fascination with it rubbed me the wrong way. I was way past the age of this influence, but what about him? How long until his subconscious inherits it as the ‘cool thing’ and it metastasises into a full-blown behavioural disposition later in his life?

It got me thinking. When I was growing up, the popular music was raagnis, an old traditional folk form of Haryanvi music that flourished on the back of beautiful poetry and moral and ethical lessons. But did they ever even leave a dent in the zeitgeist of Haryanvi society and make it poetic at heart? No. Rather, the opposite.

So then, is it a futile conversation whether art impacts society in any way? Let us dig deeper into the matter.

Chicken and egg Situation

We can debate endlessly on whether art influences society or vice versa. The artists I am so strictly against are a product of the same society. They grew up in the same primordial khichdi of conditioning, behavioural quirks, language, and the cultural symbols that they later adapted in their music. Citizens found relatability in the music, and it goes on in circles. It’s hard to find a perpetrator in this case, so then, from which direction should the winds of change begin to flow- the society or the artists?

I didn’t manufacture this debate; it is as old as the art itself. And yet, there is no concrete conclusion. 

Art can go either way - it can take responsibility and (at least) try to bring about a better change in the society, or it can just reflect what’s already out there in all its nakedness. In the context of Haryana, it’s a little more complicated. 

The Pride vs The Arrogance

Haryana has primarily belonged to the warrior clans, historically and demographically. Several great wars, including but not limited to the mythological Kurukshetra War and three medieval wars of Panipat, were fought here. Many jokes circulate around this being the reason for the ‘Haryanvi aggression’. Unfailingly identifiable through their rustic khari boli, temper, dry humour, and behavioural bluntness, a Haryanavi is often stereotyped the moment he or she enters a room. And surprisingly, they take it as a badge of honour.

The ‘Haryanvi Pride’ is a legit phenomenon that still overshadows individual identity and achievements by making them puff their chests over their heritage, blind to the randomness of their birth. Pride is another thing; arrogance is a completely different monster. When the ‘pride’ crosses the line into arrogance, it results in a rot of civilizational values and social constructs built so carefully by our ancestors. The result: try asking someone who lives in Delhi NCR, around the areas bordering Haryana or Delhi’s localities swarmed with Haryanvis. 

‘Who will mess with these fatheads?’ would be the standard response more often than not.

You would think this would be offensive to a Haryanvi. Well, you are wrong. Haryanvis are probably the only race of people who’ll find it more an adoration than an insult. An acceptance of their authority and superiority. They would sometimes go out of their way to facilitate this stereotype, because, ‘who cares about your intellect when you can break their teeth instead of arguing with them?.’ That is an average Haryanvi right there. ‘They speak like they are abusing you,’ said one of my colleagues when the topic came up about my heritage. ‘You are too well-spoken for a Haryanvi,’ he further remarked. I blushed. Who would like to be categorised among rowdy gundas? 

The Musical Trouble

Haryanvi popular songs leave no stone unturned in milking this Haryanvi fascination with crudeness and their general likeness for intimidation. The community that takes immense pride in its identity of being violent, nonchalant, rude, and numerically strong is fed content that further gives them validation. As a result, it becomes worse and leaves them to find their identity in the behaviour portrayed in those songs. It adds fuel to the fire. Becomes a vicious loop. Music influences society, and society influences music. And the cycle continues.

Bollywood and stand-up comics have never missed the opportunity to pull jokes on them either. Most members of the community unironically rejoice in this mocking stereotyping, not because they don't get the irony, but because for them it reinforces the idea that Haryanvis need to be feared.

Two of the biggest artists from the land, Randeep Hooda and Jaideep Ahlawat, earned the most popularity by playing no-nonsense, brazen, and blunt Haryanvis in Laal Rang and Pataal Lok, respectively. That itself speaks a lot. And then the cycle continues. Hooda and Ahlawat portrayed many other characters that were sensitive male figures on-screen, and yet, none of them became memorable for the people of Haryana.

As a result, for most people from the state, that aggression becomes their only collective identity, something bigger than themselves. And hence, it lives on. 

And the booming music industry is furthering this fake sense of pride, which harms them more than it serves them. The result is a feared reputation on the streets of Delhi and Haryana, increasing gang violence and more youth inclining towards this attitude, which sometimes costs them their future.

But when it comes to the majority, what’s the harm, right?

A group of people want to be feared, their favourite music further reinstates their belief. Win-win!

But what about the other side of Haryanvis?

Not from Here, Neither There

When I moved out of Haryana and into the intellectual circles, I was received either with fear or confusion. ‘Are you really from Haryana?’ was the most frequent jibe at my occasional accent slips. Even the people who had never encountered a Haryanvi were shocked to see a non-aggressive Haryanvi who looked like a well-behaved, decent person and who wrote poetry. I would defensively cite examples from artists such as Dada Lakhmichand and Azaad Singh Khandakhedi, two legendary poets from Haryana. It turned out they were muted amidst the loud, deafening music of modern Haryanvi pop. Nobody knew about them. Out of shame, I began to cover up my background and found a sense of validation when someone pointed out that I don’t look or talk like a Haryanvi. 

In my quest to distance myself from my cultural identity, I took it as a compliment and consciously worked towards cementing my identity as the ‘least Haryanvi Haryanvi guy you know.’ Every time I would hear a Haryanvi song with problematic lyrics, I would turn my head away, mock it, and reject it outright. As if my rejection of them would help land the point that I am not ‘one of them’.

But my refusal of association with my identity was short-lived. Sooner rather than later, I had to confront it.

Family gatherings became a struggle to sit through. My attempts to fit in failed miserably when, during cousins' get-togethers, the stories of their fights and brawls flowed like whiskey and hookah. I would sit in a corner, brooding at how I am supposed to be a part of this alien circus. 

It took me a long time to make peace with the fact that I am a Haryanvi, and the most I can do is to stay as far from this circus as I can. But I did not really need to turn my head away from it. As an artist myself, why shouldn’t I carry the responsibility to do what I expect other artists to do? 

Result? Two feature films, Raanda Ramphal, and Daraava. One talked about an ageing, lonely Haryanvi man finding love in a social outcast prostitute, and the other talked about a girl fighting to snatch her rights from her patriarchal family. People liked the films, which was as hopeful an outcome as I expected. 

In the course of making the films, I discovered that I was not alone. I found many Haryanvis, a lot more than I thought I would find, whom I intellectually connected with. The situation wasn’t as bleak as I thought.

But as it stands, they were the exceptions, and their becoming the norm is what I desire. It’s a long shot, and yet. The hope lives.

Let’s circle back to my cousin. ‘Oh, brother, it’s fine. It’s just a song,’ he said with confidence. I wished it was true.

The question of how far Freedom of Expression can be allowed to stretch is an ongoing debate, and I am no expert. 

To Conclude

I remember an incident. A filmmaking stint of mine brought me in touch with one of the said singers who was riding high on success, making crass and violent music. When I asked him if his conscience allowed him to make such songs, his reply was a vain laugh. ‘Chottey bhai, appa jaat hain. Padhayi likhayi kamzora ke kaam hoya kare, hum to sirf ghusand bajaaya kare.’ ‘Little brother, education is for the weak; we Haryanvis are men, and we only talk with fists.’ 

Minutes later, the crowd, filled with an army of very impressionable teenagers, demanded that he sing his most famous song, which talked about a man happily murdering the entire family of the girl he was in love with because they didn’t want their daughter to marry a gunda. 

I looked at the roaring crowd, shook my head, and drove back home, humming the very catchy tune of the song.

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By Manoj Ashodia

 Manoj Ashodia, an Indian filmmaker and writer. He has produced 10+ short films, most of which have been selected for multiple film festivals. He has also published his writings in Ukiyoto Publication and a Canadian poetry journal, ‘As Alive Journal’. 

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