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The Musician Racing to Preserve a Disappearing Soundscape
It was the winter of 2011. The stage was set, the audience in place on a cold Delhi evening. The audience gasped audibly when Rewben Mashangva walked into the spotlight with his son Saka. Oblivious to the chill, he was dressed in the sleeveless woven red and black jacket worn by his tribe, the Tangkhul Naga. Father and son sported the traditional hairdo, with long ponytails and clean-shaven sides, called haokuirut.
Between songs evocative of the mountains and valleys of the northeast Indian state of Manipur, Mashangva spoke about the Tanghkhul Naga, who form about seven percent of Manipur’s population. Like many other Indigenous peoples in India and across the world, their culture, estimated to be over 1,000 years old, has been orally transmitted across generations through songs and stories. But the fragile links of transmission were being severed, little by little, every day.
Rewben Mashangva and his son perform wearing the traditional clothing of the Tangkhul Naga. Courtesy of Rewben Mashangva
It began in the 1890s, when the colonial British took control of Manipur and its adjoining regions. A young Scottish missionary, William Pettigrew, began converting entire villages and tribes to Christianity. Visible cultural markers of tribal identity like headgear and intricate beadwork, once worn as symbols of status, lineage and achievement, were actively discouraged, even destroyed. Oral tradition — often perpetuated by elders sitting around a fire, singing old songs and telling stories that carried their history — gave way to church-centered practices.
“By the 1980s, very few elders who even remembered the old songs and stories were left, and they lived in remote villages untouched by proper roads and means of communication,” Mashangva says. “I couldn’t let that happen.”
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The largely oral traditions of Indigenous cultures represent intangible cultural heritage, which UNESCO says is fragile and endangered as it is dependent “on an uninterrupted chain passing traditions from one generation of performers to the next.” Linguists warn that nearly half of India’s languages could vanish within the next century. Every two weeks, the world loses a language, and around 40 percent of the estimated 8,324 languages worldwide are at risk of disappearing. Every language that falls silent represents a loss of cultural heritage — an erosion of Indigenous knowledge systems, oral traditions and ways of life.
The UN has declared the decade between 2022 and 2032 the International Decade of Indigenous Languages, but the question that Mashangva grappled with in the ’80s has still not been fully answered: What is the best way to save an unwritten language?
Determined not to let the sounds of his culture fall silent, Mashangva began to travel, often trekking long distances, to over 200 remote Tangkhul Naga villages to record songs in the voices of the tribal elders. “Some of the songs were hard even for me to understand as we have multiple dialects,” he recounts. “I played and replayed the recordings endlessly and whenever I didn’t understand something, I went back and asked.” There were times when he even invited elders to stay with him, so that they would record their songs and also teach him to play traditional instruments like yangkahui (an indigenous flute with only four holes) and tingteila (a single string bowed lute). “I didn’t ever seek funding from the government,” he says. Instead, he used his income from concerts, and his wife, a teacher, supported him as well.
Mashangva introduced his son Saka to the stage when he was only three years old. Courtesy of Rewben Mashangva
As a musician himself (Bob Dylan is a significant influence and he loves to sing the blues) he found the songs fascinating. They were not performative, and were meant for the ears of people who already knew them. Many followed a call and response format, with lyrics being interspersed with rhythmic cries. Their themes represented every aspect of his ancestors’ everyday lives: there were songs for weddings, funerals, the retelling of epics, preparations for battle, feasting and farming. Some were what he refers to as “work songs,” alluding to long-lost chores like the pounding of paddy by hand. Mashangva himself had not grown up with these traditions, and this made it hard even for him to understand the subtext of the lyrics. He realized that oral traditions like his focused less on melodies and more on the words, and the transmission of their way of life. “Which is why somehow, in these songs,” he says, “I could hear the voices of my ancestors.”
Cut to the present, and Mashangva now has the only extensive archive of the songs and oral tradition of the Tangkhul Naga. In many ways, archiving is the most obvious way to preserve the histories of tribes across the globe that have no written language and records. In Gujarat, Vaacha: Museum of Voice documents oral histories and cultural expressions of Adivasi communities as many historically lack written scripts. Similarly, the Archives and Research Center for Ethnomusicology is digitizing decades-old audio recordings of musical and oral traditions (ballads, epics, storytelling) from desert communities in Rajasthan.
But something happened that made Mashangva realize that simply archiving his tribe’s songs was not enough.
“Initially, when I sang these old songs in concerts, people scoffed and laughed at me,” he recounts. Manipur and much of northeast India has had a long-standing love for western rock and pop and a more recent obsession with K-Pop. Even though Mashangva was an established name on the concert circuit, audiences reacted negatively when he sang the folk songs he had spent so much time collecting. “They said: this is too outdated … this is too backward … why don’t you sing modern songs?” he recollects.
Augustine Shimray. Courtesy of Augustine Shimray / Yuimirin’s photography
Instead of bemoaning, as the older generation is wont to do, the fickleness of his tribe’s youth, Mashangva, a brilliant, self-taught guitarist, decided to adapt the folk songs and melodies into his more contemporary repertory of the blues. “The essence of our folk songs remains, but in a version more acceptable to the modern world,” he says. “I tell people my songs are not folk songs, but ‘folk blues’ – the addition of old melodies, song structures and traditional instruments is like adding salt to the curry that is modern blues. Salt makes curry more tasty, folk elements make the blues more interesting!”
In the spirit of a living oral tradition that evolves with use, his repertory has become, in the words of his 24-year-old son Saka, a “bridge between the old and the new.”
Mashangva was given the title of Guru (teacher) by the government in 2004 and has received many accolades for his work, including India’s fourth-highest civilian honor, the Padma Shri, in 2021. But his biggest achievement, he says, is the knowledge that his tribe’s songs will continue to be sung long after he has gone. His son, who has a master’s degree in tribal studies, has been working on this. “We’ve managed to digitize over 90 percent of his collection, which was earlier just a huge pile of cassettes in our house. Some were recordings of elders, some were of my dad singing old songs … some of those cassettes, they’re not playing any more,” he says, adding that the digitized archive is in the public domain in Imphal’s Tribal Research Institute.
Perhaps more importantly, younger audiences — and consequently, younger bands in Manipur — have started singing the songs of the Tangkhul Naga. Manipur-based band Featherheads Haokui is one of them. Frontman Augustine Shimray says that he has played and enjoyed many western genres. “But when I heard Guru Mashangva’s concert, I was inspired to sing the old songs too,” he says. “It felt like I was finally getting to know myself.” Shimray, who learned about his tribe through songs and stories his grandmother told him when he was little, now loves to hang out with elders. “Their songs are stories, their stories are our history,” he says. “And when they tell and retell them, our culture will survive.”
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Saka Mashangva feels the same way. He was only three when he first performed Tangkhul Naga songs with his father, and says that growing up with this music has shaped his life. “The songs we sing, they feel like conversations — between me and my dad, between me and my ancestors,” he muses. “I’m glad I’m doing my bit to keep them alive.”
The post The Musician Racing to Preserve a Disappearing Soundscape appeared first on Reasons to be Cheerful.