<p>I had expected my son to develop a more refined taste in music after studying at a reputed heritage boarding school. Yet such was the magnetic pull of this Punjabi rapper that not just my child but an entire generation seemed enthralled by him. One day, out of sheer curiosity, I tuned in to one of his most popular tracks, 295. To my surprise, I found myself drawn to its lyrics and the subtle message beneath them. In a chilling twist of fate, Sidhu Moosewala was murdered that very evening – May 29, 2022.</p>.<p>The sheer tide of mourners after his death stirred my curiosity about the man. Beginning as a songwriter, he shot to fame overnight with his debut album in 2018. He won the Best Lyricist award for So High at the Brit Asia TV Music Awards, while Bambiha Bol featured among the top five on the Global YouTube music charts. The Guardian listed him among 50 emerging artists, and Spotify ranked him among Punjab’s most popular singers. He also became the first Indian artist to perform at the Wireless Festival in Canada. An impressive résumé indeed.</p>.<p>As he muscled his way up the ladder of fame, controversy trailed him. His lyrics and themes were frequently accused of glorifying gun culture. He often locked horns with fellow singers, taking sharp digs at them during live performances. Few artists inspired such fierce devotion and equally fierce criticism. Admirers saw in him a grounded man rooted in tradition, while detractors dismissed him as brash and boastful about his meteoric rise to stardom.</p>.<p>Yet there was another side to him, far removed from the swagger of his songs. Despite his stardom, he remained deeply rooted, choosing to live in his native village of Moosa, which he immortalised by adding its name to his own. He spoke of his parents with reverence, and his affection for them echoed repeatedly through his songs. Though he often antagonised religious leaders, he also inspired thousands of his faith to wear the turban, a cherished symbol of his religion. In many ways, he was a living contradiction unto himself.</p>.<p>I also noticed how often he alluded to an untimely death in his songs. Call it premonition or coincidence; fate seemed to echo his final release, The Last Ride, issued days before his death. There was, moreover, an uncanny parallel between Moosewala and his idol, Tupac Shakur, the American rapper. Both rocketed to fame with astonishing speed, commanded cult-like followings and gave voice to the concerns of ordinary people. And in a chilling symmetry, both met violent deaths in their youth under strikingly similar circumstances.</p>.<p>Moosa village was once a quiet hamlet amid sand dunes (called tibbey in Punjabi). Yet while those dunes disappeared by the march of the Green Revolution, this tibbeyan da putt (son of sand dunes) continues to live in the hearts of his fans. Somewhere along the way, I realised I too had become one of them.</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>I had expected my son to develop a more refined taste in music after studying at a reputed heritage boarding school. Yet such was the magnetic pull of this Punjabi rapper that not just my child but an entire generation seemed enthralled by him. One day, out of sheer curiosity, I tuned in to one of his most popular tracks, 295. To my surprise, I found myself drawn to its lyrics and the subtle message beneath them. In a chilling twist of fate, Sidhu Moosewala was murdered that very evening – May 29, 2022.</p>.<p>The sheer tide of mourners after his death stirred my curiosity about the man. Beginning as a songwriter, he shot to fame overnight with his debut album in 2018. He won the Best Lyricist award for So High at the Brit Asia TV Music Awards, while Bambiha Bol featured among the top five on the Global YouTube music charts. The Guardian listed him among 50 emerging artists, and Spotify ranked him among Punjab’s most popular singers. He also became the first Indian artist to perform at the Wireless Festival in Canada. An impressive résumé indeed.</p>.<p>As he muscled his way up the ladder of fame, controversy trailed him. His lyrics and themes were frequently accused of glorifying gun culture. He often locked horns with fellow singers, taking sharp digs at them during live performances. Few artists inspired such fierce devotion and equally fierce criticism. Admirers saw in him a grounded man rooted in tradition, while detractors dismissed him as brash and boastful about his meteoric rise to stardom.</p>.<p>Yet there was another side to him, far removed from the swagger of his songs. Despite his stardom, he remained deeply rooted, choosing to live in his native village of Moosa, which he immortalised by adding its name to his own. He spoke of his parents with reverence, and his affection for them echoed repeatedly through his songs. Though he often antagonised religious leaders, he also inspired thousands of his faith to wear the turban, a cherished symbol of his religion. In many ways, he was a living contradiction unto himself.</p>.<p>I also noticed how often he alluded to an untimely death in his songs. Call it premonition or coincidence; fate seemed to echo his final release, The Last Ride, issued days before his death. There was, moreover, an uncanny parallel between Moosewala and his idol, Tupac Shakur, the American rapper. Both rocketed to fame with astonishing speed, commanded cult-like followings and gave voice to the concerns of ordinary people. And in a chilling symmetry, both met violent deaths in their youth under strikingly similar circumstances.</p>.<p>Moosa village was once a quiet hamlet amid sand dunes (called tibbey in Punjabi). Yet while those dunes disappeared by the march of the Green Revolution, this tibbeyan da putt (son of sand dunes) continues to live in the hearts of his fans. Somewhere along the way, I realised I too had become one of them.</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
