When the desert falls silent: saving rajasthan’s folk music

The Thar Desert is often captured in photographs — endless dunes, blazing sun, and silhouettes of camels. But the deeper soul of this landscape lives elsewhere: in the voices of the Manganiyars, Langas, Bhopas, Mirasis, and Jogis who have sung its history for centuries. Their music, carried across sand and generations, is not just art — it is Rajasthan’s memory system, emotional vocabulary, and cultural shield. Yet today, these custodians of history stand at a heartbreaking crossroads.

Rajasthani folk music is a living archive. The Manganiyars’ resonant voices, the Langas’ sindhi sarangi and algoza, and the Bhopa–Bhopi’s storytelling with the sacred phad make the Thar a musical civilisation. Their songs preserve romance, war, devotion, migration, and everyday survival. But what happens when the singers themselves are pushed into silence?

A Tradition That Walks, Works, and Waits

One moment at a recent workshop at IIT Jodhpur captured the crisis with unsettling clarity. Three Bhopa artists — Bablu, his brother Sitaram, and their mother Bhawari Devi — performed with deep devotion, turning the auditorium into a travelling temple. Their phad came alive with stories of Pabuji, as if the scroll itself breathed.

After the performance, we casually asked, “Have you visited IIT Jodhpur before?” Their reply stunned the room: they had been here before — not as artists, but as construction labourers. How can custodians of a centuries-old sacred art be forced into such work? Why does admiration not translate into livelihood? The truth is stark.

Extreme heat, landlessness, and unstable incomes push families like Subhash’s from Churu to migrate — often with their children — to Uttar Pradesh for manual labour, not performances. Their instruments gather dust, their songs fall silent, and their children drift from the traditions that shaped them. Climate change deepens this erosion: fewer fairs, erratic seasons, and shrinking temple gatherings have reduced performance opportunities. Folk music, once woven into the rhythm of rural life, now struggles for bare survival. The Manganiyars and Langas are internationally celebrated; many have performed across Europe, collaborated on global fusion albums, and appeared in documentaries. Yet their daily lives back home often remain unchanged. Why does applause abroad not protect them from poverty at home?

The reasons are familiar:

1. Intermediaries absorb most profits, leaving artists with only a small share.

2. International tours are irregular, creating unstable incomes.

3. Artists lack contract awareness, making them vulnerable to unfair terms.

4. There is no social security or pension, even for legendary performers.

5. Caste identity continues to restrict mobility despite artistic brilliance.

6. Royalties rarely reach the musicians, even after successful recordings.

Is it fair that an artist who fills concert halls abroad returns to a village life marked by uncertainty? Can a musical tradition survive when the people who carry it cannot secure a dignified livelihood?

Despite climate stress, economic hardship, and social barriers, the music of the Thar refuses to die. A Manganiyar’s kaafi can still silence a gathering, a Langa’s soulful jogiya can still move listeners to tears, and a Bhopa’s night-long recital before the phad can still transform a commons into a sacred space. These artists sing not for income, but because it is their inheritance and responsibility; they are desert archivists — storytellers, priests, historians, and moral guides — reminding us that heritage survives through people, not institutions. Yet even the strongest traditions need support. If India truly values its intangible heritage, admiration alone is insufficient.

These musicians need sustained, structural backing: more performance platforms; fair, transparent payments; pensions and insurance; digital and financial literacy; stronger documentation; and integration of folk music into education. Without this, the songs of the Thar may fade — not from irrelevance, but from our neglect. Rajasthan’s folk music carries history and dignity; it has endured droughts, caste barriers, poverty, and now climate change, but it cannot endure indifference. The question remains: will the desert’s music become a museum artefact, or will we help it thrive as a living tradition? The future of the Thar’s music depends on the choices we make now, and preserving it is not merely cultural duty — it is a moral one.

Bhaswati Sarma is a Professor of Practice in Performing Arts, IIT Jodhpur and Souryabrata Mohapatra is an Assistant Professor of Economics, IIT Jodhpur; views are personal