He was a storm, and storms don’t last,” says a character in The Killing Call, BBC’s killer, two-part documentary (that’s dropped on YouTube), on the assassination of hip-hop star, Sidhu Moose Wala (nee Shubhdeep Singh Sidhu), in rural Punjab, May 29, 2022.
Another character exclaims how Sidhu packed 50 years into a five-year career: “Two films, three albums, an EP, 30-35 songs (even) leaked…” An absolute glocal sensation.
Which was also my first thought, learning about Yo Yo Honey Singh from Mozez Singh’s doc, Famous (on Netflix) — that his rise, before fall, lasted three years (2012-2014), really.
Badshah became the new Honey, perhaps; Diljit Dosanjh, the reigning Badshah, thereafter. Karan Aujla is probably the big kid on the block.
Barring the turban, and the language of expression, it’s equally a mystery to me how so much of current Punjabi hop-hop stardom fits so seamlessly into African-American pop-culture, without quite coming across as caricatures/fakery.
BBC investigative journalist Ishleen Kaur. Pic/BBC
And I don’t just mean, sartorially, as in bling, leather jackets, or even affectionately public displays of wealth, fast cars/SUVs… But also, the general expression of talking oneself up; as gangsters for role-play; guns, guards, girls…
London-based investigative journalist, Ishleen Kaur, who’s co-presented The Killing Call tells me that while she grew up around this music in Punjab, in the ’90s, she didn’t quite make the connection then.
As she sees it now, “At the core of both cultures is a shared story of being pushed to the sidelines — African-Americans in the US, and rural Punjabis, whether back home, or working hard abroad.
“Life wasn’t handed to either group on a silver platter. Maybe that’s why music became their way of pushing back, flipping the script, and making their voices heard — even if wrapped up in gold chains, flashy rides, and designer threads.
“In Punjabi music, the ‘gabru’, lines up pretty well with the ‘gangsta’, in American hip-hop.”
As per Ishleen’s doc, Brampton, off Toronto, Canada, is the “mother lode” of this music scene. I’ve been there once, to attend the inauguration of Raj Kapoor Street.
Which tells you how much of a Punjabi/Indian outpost that city is. It’s from where Sidhu found astounding global/cross-cultural fame.
But soon enough, returned home, that, you know from Sidhu’s stage-name, is the village/pind, Moosa, in Mansa district, Punjab.
Fame = access = power. What follows in the chilling Killing Call is Sidhu, perhaps naturally, widening his network of powerful plus shady friends, hence enemies.
It feels no different from Bollywood’s run-ins with the underworld in the ’90s. The latter love to fraternise with the famous (everybody does) — especially if the former are acceptably fine with it.
Also, it’s one thing for Sidhu to pen lyrics about gangsters; another, to be in their proximity. The threat’s more real.
Sidhu’s onstage signature-step was ‘thapi maar’ (slapping his thigh), from kabaddi, that’s basically a sign of public defiance/challenge — do what you want!
His songs also addressed political issues, social injustice, and marginalisation, even if a li’l fuzzy on history, I’m told.
There’s an essential strand of caste, specifically ‘Jatt-waad’ for jaati-waad, that frames Sidhu’s worldview, explained in-depth by Shiv Inder Singh for Caravan (August 2022: ‘Hollow Cult of Sidhu Moose Wala’), that the documentary skips altogether.
Add to this mix, state politics, linked to Punjab’s contemporary/post-’80s bloodied history; gang rivalries, allegedly implied even in song (‘Bambiha Bole’); sticking neck out for farmers’ protests; joining Congress Party, fighting election…
You realise, from The Killing Call, that Sidhu was anything, but just a writer-singer! He adored Tupac Shakur; similarly murdered, in 1996.
It’s a shame that I knew next to nothing about Sidhu until his assassination. Let alone his greatest global hits, ‘So High’, ‘47’, ‘295’, etc.
His shocking death was a strange career move. Also, says a lot about how we don’t operate in a mainstream mono-culture anymore.
That said, Indians in general would’ve first heard the name of his assassins, the Lawrence Bishnoi gang (Lawrence was already in jail then), only upon Sidhu’s murder.
They took Sidhu’s fame to spread their own notoriety, and have dominated India’s tabloid news since, whether for extortion threats/calls, alleged hit-jobs, including targeting hip-hop star AP Dhillon’s home, in Victoria Island, Canada.
Hours after Sidhu’s murder, Goldy Brar from Lawrence’s gang, publicly claimed responsibility. Nobody’s gone on trial for the murder since.
Despite the high-profile nature of the crime, that’s not even a whodunnit. At best, it’s a whydunnit. Nobody’s nabbed Goldy either.
In what’s the calling card for The Killing Call, Ishleen spent months attempting to trace gangster Goldy, “through every possible channel; a constant cycle of persistence and patience.”
And then, “one crisp autumn afternoon,” she got a call. It was Goldy Brar (currently on Interpol’s wanted-list). This ain’t platforming. It’s plain, dogged journalism, with sharply pointed questioning.
They spoke on voice messages, recorded over six hours. Excerpts of which make it to the doc, that’s about so much more than murder.
Although anybody getting away with it so easily feels frightening. How’s that, anyway?
Ishleen tells me, “It’s almost unbelievable… Even more surprising is how Punjabi organised crime has, in many ways, migrated to the West, with operations now being directed from abroad. As for Goldy Brar, the truth is… He could be anywhere.”
Mayank Shekhar attempts to make sense of mass culture.
He tweets @mayankw14 Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com
The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.