Rage, Raga, and Rhythm: Indian Ocean at Ashoka

Indian Ocean performing in Ashoka University | Photo courtesy: Arish Azmat

There is something about an Indian Ocean concert that feels less like a performance and more like a journey— one where time folds into itself, where past and present blur, and music becomes not just sound but presence, a current that pulls people in, lifts them up, and carries them forward. Not just because of their sound—a blend of classical ragas and guitar lines—but because of what their music holds. 

At Ashoka University’s Literature Festival on 21st March, the concert didn’t just feel like a shared trance—it became one. The moment the band walked on stage, the air shifted. Hundreds of students packed the space, standing or sitting shoulder to shoulder, phone flashlights glowing. There was anticipation, yes—but also something quieter. Recognition— of the band’s legacy, their sound, the memories their music held.

And then, the surge—Kandisa, Bandeh, Jaadu Maaya. These songs carried weight: in their lyrics, in the force of the voices singing them, in the memories they stirred. They echoed with protest, longing, and something older still. They weren’t just tracks on a setlist; they were timestamps— political memory, teenage nostalgia, grief that had been carried too long and now found release in something collective, loud, and alive. The field became a choir— not solemn, but electric. 

The band seemed to feed off the energy in the room. “We’ve been playing in colleges for years, and we still love it.” said Rahul Ram, bassist and vocalist, with a smile, “ College students give the most honest response. They’ll tell you if something’s not working—they don’t pretend.” Then, with a laugh: “At corporate shows, people need three drinks before they start appreciating the music. But here, you know they came for us.”

For a college like Ashoka, where student culture is shaped by dialogue, dissent, and debate, Indian Ocean’s presence didn’t feel like just another event on the calendar—it felt like a conversation. Students clapped, swayed, and often closed their eyes as though the music had stirred something quieter, older. For many, these were the songs they had grown up hearing, played by their parents on long car rides, or discovered during late-night YouTube rabbit holes. But in the dark of the sunken field, surrounded by friends and flickering lights, it felt like the music was being heard again for the first time.

Their music wasn’t just something to move to—or remember, or sit in something unresolved. 

It was the kind of sound that didn’t seek answers, only presence. And in a university space where students are constantly in dialogue with the political, the philosophical, and the personal, the songs landed like echoes from parallel timelines. Some sang with their fists in the air; others closed their eyes.

The concert became a kind of loop—between generations, between movements. “When we play Bandeh, people still cry,” Rahul said. “It was made for a film. But it outgrew it.”

From their early days in the 1990s—when their sound, a blend of rock, Hindustani classical, folk, and jazz, defied easy categories—Indian Ocean has been hard to pin down. Before the show, all dressed in loose kurtas, they sat around a table at Dosai sharing a round of chai (no sugar, as Amit requested), “When we started out, we had no references,” Himanshu said in an interview with The Edict. “There was no ‘scene’ for this kind of music in India. No template. We just made what we wanted to hear.” That freedom is still audible, decades later. Every song feels lived-in, but also alive, as though it could become something else at any moment.

The band has never stayed still—geographically, musically, or emotionally. They have scored films, written for theatre, jammed with international collaborators. “You can’t keep doing the same thing,” Tuheen said. “Then it’s not art— it’s nostalgia.” 

The idea of carrying memory, of holding space for what was while making room for what can be, runs deep in Indian Ocean’s work. Their songs travel. From the Narmada valley to protest marches in Delhi, from theatre stages to environmental campaigns. “We never set out to ‘be political,’” Rahul said, “but we live in this country, in this time. How can we not be affected?”

Take Jaadu Maaya, one of their newer songs, released in 2023. “Yahaan bandon ne bandon kee laashon pe sarkaar banaai hai,” (“Here, people have formed a government on the dead bodies of humans,”) Rahul sings. The line lands like a blow. The first time that line hit the air at the concert, there was a moment of stunned silence followed by surprise among the crowd. It was as though the audience had just been handed a truth they knew but hadn’t yet voiced. Then, when Rahul sang it again, the reaction was different— louder, sharper. 

 When asked about it, he said, simply, “It came out of what we were seeing. There’s a lot of anger. And music is one way to hold it.” He is quick to add that they don’t write slogans. “We don’t tell people what to think. We just write what we feel. After that, it’s out of our hands.”

Their performance at Ashoka was not just a nostalgia trip. I don’t mean to suggest that the crowd was merely reliving the past—far from it. To me, it was a reaffirmation that music, when done with honesty, never really ends but just shifts shape.

The band does not romanticise their legacy. They don’t indulge in the idea of being iconic. When asked about the weight of expectation that comes with being one of India’s most iconic bands, they laughed, “Shatter it,” Rahul said with a grin. “There are people who make music by looking at the market,” they mused. “That’s not a hindrance. It’s just a different way of doing things. But for us, once the song is made, it belongs to the world.”

For students at Ashoka—who often engage with art and activism—the band’s performance did more than entertain. It reminded them that music can think back. That it can rage, remember, and also rebuild.

So, where do they go from here? They did not talk about five-year plans. What came up instead were half-jokes about upcoming gigs, excitement about new collaborations, and a stubborn refusal to stop. “There’s no formula,” they said. “We’re still curious. We still want to play. That’s enough.”

(Edited by Teista Dwivedi and Srijana Siri Murthy)