Review: H-Pop: The Secretive World of Hindutva Pop Stars by Kunal Purohit

“What makes pop-culture-as-propaganda effective is its everydayness, easy access to prey,” writes Purohit. The “prey” doesn’t need to step out of their homes to attend a rally; they only have to feel the need to be entertained and click their way to satisfaction. The aim here, apparently, is to normalise violence and genocidal tendencies to the extent that when an actual call-to-arms is made, murdering someone for their religion isn’t viewed as sociopathic but normal.

The book quotes verbatim some of the most vicious, ignorant and bigoted lyrics of Hindutva pop songs and poems. This is accompanied by Purohit’s sharp commentary based on intensive research, reportage and extensive interviews with the three artists profiled. Every false claim is debunked with facts and there is also a detailed list of notes and references.

While the correlation between lyrics and actual violence is difficult to establish, it is true that the impact of pop culture is downplayed and the role of songs, cinema and social media influencers in propagating certain views is understudied. Purohit attempts to do this and adds an extra layer by viewing a trend in contemporary India against precedents in world history – the US during World War II, neo-Nazis in 1980s UK, and Hitler’s Germany — to show how, there too, similar methods of disseminating propaganda were used to demonise sections of society.

The three artists, whose extensive conversations with Purohit form the core of this book, do not conform to the usual macho stereotypes associated with the Hindu right wing. The first subject is a 25-year-old Haryanvi woman, Kavi Singh, who shot to fame with the song Dhara 370 post the abrogation of Article 370 and 35-A in Kashmir. The second is 28-year-old poet Kamal Agney, a Godse apologist, who attends kavi sammelans, both online and in the real world, where he recites verse that celebrates Gandhi’s murder. The third is Sandeep Deo, a journalist-cum-YouTube influencer, who dreams of replacing the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party with his own party of Hindu warriors well-versed in both shaastra (Vedic knowledge) and shastra (weaponry).

Both Kamal and Kavi believe in the existence of “good Muslims” who aren’t like “others” – those planning a “takeover” of India by increasing their population and forcefully converting women via love jihad. Muslims aren’t entirely absent from their lives either. Kavi had two friends, Salma and Shabnam, in her childhood and her mother’s landlord, a Muslim, allows her to live in her home rent-free.

How then were these individuals radicalised? It’s difficult to say considering many millions are exposed to the same texts and media with no similar effects. While Sandeep Deo seems to have appropriated the Ramayana and the Ramcharitmanas to fashion himself as a saviour of Hindus, Kamal’s transformation can be traced to his family’s traumatic experience with a Muslim neighbour in Gosaiganj. The hyper nationalist Sunny Deol-starrer Gadar coloured Kavi’s perceptions while her father-manager, Ramkesh, who admits to crying when Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated in 1991, changed his political allegiance after listening to Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s speeches on social media.

Through detailed descriptions of these artists’ ambitions and lives, and extensive interviews with their friends and immediate family, H-Pop presents a well-rounded picture of their lives and, through that, a political snapshot of post-2014 India. Key events of the last decade, including the abrogation of Article 370, the Pulwama attack and the anti-CAA protests, form the backdrop to Kavi, Kamal and Sandeep’s stories.

For a book on ugly propaganda, H-Pop does have its touching moments. The chapter entitled A Sudden End, which details the author’s meetings with Kavi and Ramkesh after the father-daughter duo have parted ways, is particularly poignant. Playing Pygmalion to Kavi, Ramkesh had tried to curate her popstar image with such overbearing rigour that the young woman was compelled to cut him off. Here, both individuals emerge as real human beings with difficult lives and complicated relationships instead of non-state actors furthering an extreme agenda. Full of pathos, it leaves the reader feeling guilty for having previously judged the two harshly.

H-Pop is a worrying read. Purohit states that his book lays the “foundation stone to fill the critical void” left by the lack of research on aspects of fascism in India. “Grimmer days are upon us,” he writes towards the end of the volume, and the reader is instantly reminded of Ramkesh’s chilling words: “This is only going to get bigger. Believe me. There is going to be bloodshed. There will be a massive riot. Trust me. And it will be so big, much, much bigger than 1947.”

Hopefully, for all our sakes, these predictions of the apocalypse will come to nought.

Deepansh Duggal writes on art and culture. He tweets at Deepansh75.

Seemingly benign yet insidious, the Hindutva pop playlist includes songs set to hypnotic beats with lyrics that hint at an Islamic takeover of India, or which claim to tell the truth about India’s freedom struggle. Some of these are filled with conspiracy theories and historical inaccuracies meant to stoke communal tensions. In H-Pop: The Secretive World of Hindutva Pop Stars, journalist Kunal Purohit begins by conducting a post mortem of a riot in Jharkhand. A truck with loudspeakers blaring vitriolic songs targeting Muslims drives through town on Ram Navami. A riot breaks out as it nears a mosque and police have to come in to quell it. Later, a local Muslim man is lynched on suspicion of love jihad. H-Pop makes a connection between the vicious anti-Muslim propaganda conveyed through the brand of music blaring from the truck and incidents such as these.

“What makes pop-culture-as-propaganda effective is its everydayness, easy access to prey,” writes Purohit. The “prey” doesn’t need to step out of their homes to attend a rally; they only have to feel the need to be entertained and click their way to satisfaction. The aim here, apparently, is to normalise violence and genocidal tendencies to the extent that when an actual call-to-arms is made, murdering someone for their religion isn’t viewed as sociopathic but normal.

The book quotes verbatim some of the most vicious, ignorant and bigoted lyrics of Hindutva pop songs and poems. This is accompanied by Purohit’s sharp commentary based on intensive research, reportage and extensive interviews with the three artists profiled. Every false claim is debunked with facts and there is also a detailed list of notes and references.

While the correlation between lyrics and actual violence is difficult to establish, it is true that the impact of pop culture is downplayed and the role of songs, cinema and social media influencers in propagating certain views is understudied. Purohit attempts to do this and adds an extra layer by viewing a trend in contemporary India against precedents in world history – the US during World War II, neo-Nazis in 1980s UK, and Hitler’s Germany — to show how, there too, similar methods of disseminating propaganda were used to demonise sections of society.

The three artists, whose extensive conversations with Purohit form the core of this book, do not conform to the usual macho stereotypes associated with the Hindu right wing. The first subject is a 25-year-old Haryanvi woman, Kavi Singh, who shot to fame with the song Dhara 370 post the abrogation of Article 370 and 35-A in Kashmir. The second is 28-year-old poet Kamal Agney, a Godse apologist, who attends kavi sammelans, both online and in the real world, where he recites verse that celebrates Gandhi’s murder. The third is Sandeep Deo, a journalist-cum-YouTube influencer, who dreams of replacing the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party with his own party of Hindu warriors well-versed in both shaastra (Vedic knowledge) and shastra (weaponry).

Both Kamal and Kavi believe in the existence of “good Muslims” who aren’t like “others” – those planning a “takeover” of India by increasing their population and forcefully converting women via love jihad. Muslims aren’t entirely absent from their lives either. Kavi had two friends, Salma and Shabnam, in her childhood and her mother’s landlord, a Muslim, allows her to live in her home rent-free.

How then were these individuals radicalised? It’s difficult to say considering many millions are exposed to the same texts and media with no similar effects. While Sandeep Deo seems to have appropriated the Ramayana and the Ramcharitmanas to fashion himself as a saviour of Hindus, Kamal’s transformation can be traced to his family’s traumatic experience with a Muslim neighbour in Gosaiganj. The hyper nationalist Sunny Deol-starrer Gadar coloured Kavi’s perceptions while her father-manager, Ramkesh, who admits to crying when Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated in 1991, changed his political allegiance after listening to Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s speeches on social media.

Through detailed descriptions of these artists’ ambitions and lives, and extensive interviews with their friends and immediate family, H-Pop presents a well-rounded picture of their lives and, through that, a political snapshot of post-2014 India. Key events of the last decade, including the abrogation of Article 370, the Pulwama attack and the anti-CAA protests, form the backdrop to Kavi, Kamal and Sandeep’s stories.

For a book on ugly propaganda, H-Pop does have its touching moments. The chapter entitled A Sudden End, which details the author’s meetings with Kavi and Ramkesh after the father-daughter duo have parted ways, is particularly poignant. Playing Pygmalion to Kavi, Ramkesh had tried to curate her popstar image with such overbearing rigour that the young woman was compelled to cut him off. Here, both individuals emerge as real human beings with difficult lives and complicated relationships instead of non-state actors furthering an extreme agenda. Full of pathos, it leaves the reader feeling guilty for having previously judged the two harshly.

H-Pop is a worrying read. Purohit states that his book lays the “foundation stone to fill the critical void” left by the lack of research on aspects of fascism in India. “Grimmer days are upon us,” he writes towards the end of the volume, and the reader is instantly reminded of Ramkesh’s chilling words: “This is only going to get bigger. Believe me. There is going to be bloodshed. There will be a massive riot. Trust me. And it will be so big, much, much bigger than 1947.”

Hopefully, for all our sakes, these predictions of the apocalypse will come to nought.

Deepansh Duggal writes on art and culture. He tweets at Deepansh75.