Casteless Collective & Modi Mastan
Stars twinkled overhead; sparks flew from the embers of corn sellers’ coal stoves at Besant Nagar Beach. It was a typical Sunday evening crowd—families, couples and vendors. But at the far end, in the Urur Olcott fishing village, something interesting was underway: the Chennai Kalai Thiru Vizha. A Tamil band called The Casteless Collective was tuning up for a performance as part of the festivities.
The band’s style is rooted in Gaana, a genre of music which originated in the rough neighborhoods of northern Chennai. Like the Blues music of African Americans in the early 20th century the Southern United States, Gaana songs expresses themes of grief, hardship and resilience and, ultimately, joy despite pain. More recently, Gaana — the party-like kuthu form — has been featured in Tamil films and polished for mass appeal –my favorite from the films is KasuPanamDuttu.
Blended with rap and folk, Gaana can also be a vehicle for protest, storytelling, and cultural reclamation as the Class Collective proved. Indie artists are valued for their raw artistic expression, and often experiment with unconventional sounds, lyrics, and formats — this band, for instance, uses instruments like the chatti a clay pot traditionally associated with cremation grounds, repurposed as a percussive instrument. They also use the parai drum an oldest percussion instruments in Tamil culture, historically played by oppressed castes. There was also the usual guitar, bass and keyboard.
The set that evening was anything but light entertainment. They sang of the men condemned to clean the city’s sewers, some of whom die of asphyxiation in the process. “You can keep that compensation money, I’d rather have a living dad, thank you,” they sang. The lyrics were direct, devastating, and impossible to ignore. There were verses in praise of Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar, the architect of the Indian constitution and a visionary of egalitarianism. The band also addressed the uneasy reality of caste-based quotas in education and employment. It was ironic how those who dream of a casteless society must still invoke caste to advance. The takeaway was clear: stop feeling guilty. This is what it takes to undo centuries of oppression.
Let’s face it: none of this is your average person’s idea of Sunday evening entertainment. But the beats were rousing, the lyrics woeful and witty, and the words could not be ignored. Conceptualized by Tamil film director Pa. Ranjith, the Indie band, the Casteless Collective gave its first public performance in January 2018. At the Besant Nagar event, a standout song began with a feigned agreement: “It’s the 21st century and caste is an old story, right?” Then came the litany of ways in which caste-based discrimination persists, even in the capital city. The musicians sang of their lived experience.
As the crowd processed these hard-hitting truths, another bit of reality intruded. The group began singing about Modi Mastan, a term in conversational Tamil for a mystical fraudster. When they sang the song, set to the tune of Nagoor Mastan by Gaana Pazhani, police officers stepped in and said something to the event’s main organizer T.M. Krishna who immediately sprinted up to the singers. He must’ve asked them to switch songs — the new track had a peppy beat. Blink and you would’ve missed this disruption. The crowd danced. Then people dispersed to catch a good night’s sleep before the work week began.
The next day’s papers speculated that the song was silenced because it may have referenced Prime Minister Narendra Modi. Modi Mastan evokes the image of street magicians who promise dramatic feats—like making snakes and mongooses fight—but never deliver. The crowd waits, the tension builds, and eventually disperses, having seen nothing but smoke and mirrors. The police reaction to this political metaphor was swift, unexpected.
The acoustics at the beach were imperfect, but that wasn’t the point. The Casteless Collective delivered lyrics that lingered. Their songs spoke of truths ignored, of lives rarely honored. The band whose members are usually suited and booted wore informal shirts for the beachside concert. Their full quora of rappers, Gaana singers and instrumentalists wasn’t there that day. Earlier that evening, playback singer Chinmayi Sripada performed a few film hits at the same venue. She, too, had recently challenged power in the film industry – accusing a senior song lyricist of sexual harassment. No disruption followed her set — there was no visit from the goon squad. Instead, she was approached by fans who wanted selfies.
The concert was a reminder that public space can be reclaimed, and that art —when it refuses to kowtow to existing power structures—can still gather a crowd. On that beach, under a salt-laced breeze and a watchful sky, Chennai listened to some uncomfortable truths and pondered on a Sunday evening