Does Dakhni have a dictionary for people who are interested to learn? Pasha Bhai, the frontman of Dakhni hip-hop group ‘Clan Bokka Phod’ coolly says, “Yes, there definitely is one available now…” — pausing to encourage his associates to take a guess. To everyone's amusement, he clarifies that the dictionary is called ‘Bangalore Ka Potta’, cheekily referring to their independent Dakhni hip-hop album that has been blazing a path for audiences to access the marginalised language.
A medium preferred by poets and writers in its heyday, today Dakhni and its users are victims of widespread stereotyping. Their distinctive cultural and socio-economic contributions to the region haven’t prevented their marginalisation even in urban centres like Hyderabad, Bengaluru-Mysuru and Chennai, where large Dakhni populations live in segregated parts and/or ghettos.
Containing sharp wit and sarcasm, for centuries the Deccani language (or Dakhni) has been rendered in a variety of ways and tones across the towns and cities of the Deccan plateau. Primarily associated with Muslims in this region, Dakhni survives as a spoken language that can be written in Urdu and Hindi alike.
Over nearly 600 years, Dakhni has constantly evolved by adopting south Indian languages, though more recently Dakhni’s literary stature and identity have been languishing. Aware of their context and equipped with cadence, a group of hip-hop producers and performers from Bengaluru work to reclaim pride for Dakhni. Dakhni hip-hop ensemble ‘Clan Bokka Phod’ (CBP) and their frontman Pasha Bhai insist on promoting Dakhni, which often faces relegation even from within the Muslim community it is native to.
Apart from compositions that articulate prevailing Islamophobia, CBP’s discography also adds further intrigue to Dakhni’s centuries-old, mystified past. In an era when Muslims find themselves increasingly marginalised in public spaces, the ensemble sets context through consciously crafty lyrics, soundscapes and themes for diverse audiences. While remaining mindful of prevailing and oncoming majoritarian threats, the artists don’t hesitate to voice realities around the marginalisation they face.
Today, CBP hosts dozens of emerging rappers, poets, music producers, and performers who have found a creative sanctuary around their headquarters - Dakhnistan Studios. Inside the busy bylanes of Neelasandra in Bengaluru, a short walk from where the founders live, the spacious rooftop space is where the important work and conversations happen. The successful second edition of their flagship event ‘Galata-e-Dakhnistan’ was held at The Museum of Art and Photography on July 21.
As a group that seems to have earned the tag of ‘pioneers’ in the emerging Dakhni hip-hop scene, CBP’s co-founder and rapper Pasha Bhai insists that there was already some foundation for the language in popular culture. “ Mehmood sahab, who has been a prominent figure in Bollywood and was part of songs like ‘Hum kale hain to kya hua, dilwale hain’, created space for Dakhni in the audiences’ heads. Maybe that made it easier for us to capture their attention… Even Johnny Lever is a fluent Dakhni speaker, he speaks all the Dakhni dialects very fluently.”
Co-founder and music producer Demixx is quick to point to the countless misrepresentations of Dakhni in Bollywood. “Kya ji tume? Aati jaati sab khati kya?... But that is not how we speak, even non-natives speak better than that. But that is how the Bollywood sharks choose to put it out, while appearing to include Dakhni. They think we are all about the masala dosas and idli”. Pasha laughs. “Actually we have got better biryanis than you all… We have got paya and sira, dishes you may have never heard of that might just be better than your cuisine.”
Strangely enough, despite such ruptures between speakers of northern Urdu-Hindi and Dakhni, CBP admits to enjoying more acceptance from north Indian audiences. Ironically, their following among Hyderabadi audiences isn’t encouraging. “We haven’t been able to attract the Hyderabadi audiences,” Pasha also admits, “Though most people in Hyderabad speak Dakhni and there is an established culture, we get more plays from Chennai instead.” CBP rapper Marwan adds, “The main resistance we face in Hyderabad is the acceptance of the term Dakhni, because they are accustomed to the term ‘Hyderabadi Urdu’.”
To understand the inflection between Hyderabadi Urdu and Bangalore Dakhni, we must first note that both dialects are categorised by linguists under the Deccani languages often called Deccani Urdu. Also, Dakhni is spoken by a widespread ethno-religious community eponymous with the region. At the base of it, however, the fault lines between these ‘dialects-within-a-dialect’ emerge from the higher ratio of Urdu in Hyderabadi usage in contrast to the ‘lects’ of Dakhni spoken further south.
Apart from debates among linguists and other academics, these intricacies are part of conversations around CBP and Pasha’s hip-hop and Dakhni advocacy. In the past, CBP encountered a popular Hyderabadi influencer accusing them of undermining Hyderabadi Urdu, by presenting the language as Dakhni instead of Urdu. As a self-styled Urdu teacher, that influencer also asserted that such usage creates a “divide in the community”.
Instagram/Clan Bokka Phod
“Our goal is not to label it Dakhni Urdu, but to give the same people a sense of identity and belonging, where they can realise — ‘I have a culture, I have a long history where my ancestors have built something’,” Pasha says, adding, “Those arguments against us gave us a space to negotiate and put the seed in their heads that there is something called Dakhni and they should look it up.”
A quick search of the Dakhni language’s history reveals its long and complex journey through the Indian subcontinent. Nearly 700 years ago, in 1347 AD, its predecessor Dehlavi was brought in from the Delhi Sultanate to their new capital Daulatabad (near Aurangabad, Maharashtra). Over the next century, a blend of Dehlavi, Marathi, and other Deccan languages gave birth to Dakhni. Originating as a people’s language mostly used outside the Persian-speaking royal courts, Dakhni spread further south toward Gulbarga by 1430 AD, and eventually to Bidar under the Bahmani dynasty.
Despite remaining outside the royal court until then, Dakhni literary culture had evolved considerably. As the Bahmanis came to power, the language received some patronage, and around that era, the earliest manuscript of Dakhni literature – Kadam Rao Padam Rao – was composed by Fakhr-e-Deen Nizami of Bidar between 1421-1434 AD. It contains over 4000 lines of mathnawi (rhyming couplets) and is a Sufi tale describing a king named Kadam Rao whose soul is trapped inside a parrot by a yogi, who then rules by possessing the king’s body. The king is eventually rescued by his vizier Padam Rao. While metaphorising timeless didactics to the royal classes, the original work uses loanwords from local languages such as Telugu and Marathi.
As the earliest known manuscript of the Dehlavi/Deccani language, Kadam Rao Padam Rao has been cited by academics such as Prof VP Mohd Kunj Mettar, establishing that Dakhni is among the earliest sources for modern Hindi — a fact mostly acknowledged only in academic records.
Owing to its predominance among common folk under the Bahmanis, the Sufis started using Dakhni in their preachings instead of Persian, further encouraging its use. By around 1680 AD, the growth of Dakhni literature reached an impasse with Mughal conquests of the region bringing further insistence on promoting Persian. This prompted many Dakhni writers and poets of the time to comply and adapt in order to maintain favour and patronage, and many even migrated to the northern centres.
Still, other Dakhni poets continued to speak to the masses in this period. Emblematic of this embattled era for Dakhni, a couplet by Hashmi Bijapuri reads:
‘Tujé chākrī kya tu apnīch bōl,
Térā shér Dakhnī hai, Dakhnīch bōl’
This translates to ‘Why bother about patrons, in your own words do state; Your poetry is Dakhni, and only in it should you narrate.’
Dakhni’s presence as a predecessor to Hindustani (a combined term for Urdu and Hindi registers) is a finding that appears to be concealed by generations of hearsay and misrepresentation. In the 300 years that have passed since Hashmi Bijapuri composed those lines, Dakhni has survived mostly as a marginalised subculture, with its acceptability in Deccan Muslim high society remaining particularly low.
In the present scenario, an unease around the use of Dakhni throws up many peculiarities. CBP’s co-founder and rapper Mohd Shoaib aka Aib says, “Growing up, there was a hesitancy to speak Dakhni. Everyone had it because we didn't really know what we were speaking, we were doing as we were shown – that's how Dakhnis are. Everyone always said this is Urdu, but while we never learned Hindi, we could still watch Bollywood films and understand everything. We actually thought they were talking our language.”
Apart from acts of erasure, some entrenched beliefs of contamination seem to have also played a part in Dakhni’s relegated status. Demixx says, “About a decade ago, whenever we interacted with some rich or elite people, we hesitated to speak Dakhni, and a weird kind of Hindi would pop out, and honestly that was some awful Hindi too.” Pasha adds, “That is probably why many use the expression ‘broken Urdu/Hindi’ [when referring to Dakhni].”
Clan Bokka Phod
In their own quest to create a Dakhni hip-hop niche, CBP’s rise had humble beginnings. Starting out as a group of friends penning down poetry, the group realised the need to develop ‘contacts’ only after they decided to produce music. Dakhnistan Studios came together with a core group of about 10 friends collaborating to set up this self-funded label.
Pasha says, “Today we are able to make some money off hip-hop, we are able to afford a place and a setup like this – it is all our own. When we rap about Dakhni identity, it makes sense to us. We can’t rap about bling because it will eat us up.”
Negotiating this autonomous space within the community is just a start according to the group. The jam-pad allows them the freedom to record and create without interruptions or supervision. They insist that this represents just the first step towards expanding their enterprise beyond conventional heights. Aib says, “There are no mentors in the clan, we work as associates and because of that we have a good bond to create music.” Talking about balancing life and their art form, Pasha insists that the little discipline they follow comes from a shared adherence to their faith and their upbringing that has tempered their sensibilities around right and wrong.
Referring to their original collective ‘Wannandaff’, the members of CBP maintain, “As a movement, we have always been a little anti-structure, not exactly (anti-) establishment. We like to break things— structures — and that's why ‘Clan Bokka Phod’. We did not f**k with the conventional idea of the (hip-hop) scene that is more like a spider’s web… We also wanted to take back authority from the big sharks, they don’t focus on the south all that much.”
The rapid expansion of hip-hop from Mumbai and Delhi seems to embolden CBP further.
While closing in on their first one lakh Youtube views on the track ‘Pasha Bhai’ from their album Bangalore Ka Potta, they also continue to find relevance with newer audiences. CBP was recently informed of a listener base for their work among a small group of Dakhni speakers in Pakistan. Pasha reckons these listeners could be related to Deccan immigrants from the Partition, and hopes to perform live for them someday. Surprising them further, CBP learned that their track titled ‘Adikass’ was also featured on a radio channel in Brazil, on a playlist of unique and distinguished hip-hop acts across the globe.
In terms of the boundaries they set for themselves, the different members of CBP agree to disagree on the use of profanity in their lyrics. Aib clarifies he never uses profanity in his writing as it doesn’t fit the messages he wants to relay with his work. He cites the track Khuda Gawah, where he recites his disagreement with the misuse of religious sentiments; he believes any profanity would distract listeners from his thoughts. In lesser measure, Aib also fears his family wouldn't approve either.
On the other hand, Pasha says, “I usually put out a lot of cuss words in my writing, but it is not mindless and I'm very aware of it and who I am addressing it to. This is part of Neelasandra, where I grew up. You wake up to sounds of cussing with mother/father references, so you hear it and it's ingrained in your mentality to use cuss words. If I am not using it in my music, my music is not real to me.” He also insisted that the group keeps the profanity gender-neutral, and is constantly checking each other so they don’t cross those lines mindlessly.
Instagram/Clan Bokka Phod
Within an art form with a history of confrontations between performers — often provoked by territorial power dynamics — CBP is also disinterested in ‘beefing’ (having rivalries), though Demixx adds that they don’t plan on backing off if/when confronted. Pasha adds that hip-hop is a “competitive art form, like a sport, its lyrical combat so you don’t go easy on someone just because you don’t want beef (rivalry), you are always calling people out… We also don’t want to be fighting all the time. We want to make music and make some money as well to take care of our families, and we don’t want any distractions.”
He adds that keeping the ‘beef’ on stage “is a great way of settling things through a microphone and music. Instead of going out there and shooting, cutting or beating people, you can have a lyrical competition and everyone can keep their differences aside and settle things. You keep it in the ring. It’s like a boxing match, there are rules to it and lines you don’t cross.”
In their music, Dakhni’s in-built sarcasm and colourful words/expressions appear to be ideal for creating verses that evoke reflection along with levity in good measure. It also gives a malleable medium for these performers navigating unknown terrains and adverse conditions. In that context, Pasha poignantly adds, “There are different layers to look at us. We identify as people who laugh in the face of our misery, which is the identity of minorities everywhere actually. If someone has passed away and there is mourning, there will still be those cracking jokes and laughing in some corner — that is how Deccanis are. We don’t want to be serious all the time, or else we would have no time to laugh or celebrate, we would always be depressed. So they (Urdu speakers) think that we are fools, that we don’t take things seriously, but we see things very differently.”
Sumanto Mondal is an independent writer and editorial consultant specialising in long-form feature writing and social research on caste demographics in Bengaluru. He is a former correspondent with the ‘Global Macroeconomic Polling’ team at Reuters International News, prior to which he reported on Bengaluru's local economies and culture.