Shikriwal and the Sound of a New India
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By Rahul
In his first-ever interview, the Bhojpuri artist speaks on silence, rebellion, and building a sound rooted in memory, not marketing.
There are artists who speak from trends, and then there are artists who speak from truth. Shikriwal is the latter. His voice carries Bhojpuri’s weight, India’s emotional range, and a creative language that doesn’t borrow—it builds.
This is Shikriwal’s first-ever interview, and we knew from the start it couldn’t be treated like a rollout or a headline. It had to be a conversation—about the music, the silence behind it, the rebellion inside it, and the journey that shaped it all.
What follows is a Q&A that’s honest, unhurried, and presented just as it deserved to be.
Q) For us, you’re the artist we’d play for someone who’s never heard DHH—because your voice and sound feel rooted in something unmistakably Indian. I imagine it took time to shape that identity. Can you take us back to what pushed you to become an artist, and how you arrived at the sound you have now?
Shikriwal: I was never ready to learn the hip-hop template everyone else was following.
For me, what I do feels like the easiest and most natural thing. Yes, there was a vision—to see how rap would sound if done from an Indian perspective. I was inspired by hip-hop’s vision, but I wanted to speak my own mind, my culture, and not become a puppet of western propaganda.
At first, I wanted to be a poet. But poetry seemed to demand beautification, mastery of grammar, and polished language. I never believed expression should be confined like that. Even rhyme schemes felt limiting—because for me, what is being said matters more than showing off rhymes.
Flow is always decided by how the message needs to be delivered. My goal isn’t to flex technique but to move you, make you nostalgic, surprise you.
In that sense, I think of more as a filmmaker who makes music.
I grew up like a spoiled child, boosted by my mother all my life, and I prepared myself for great things since childhood. I don’t even remember how exactly it began.
I remember making my first short film with my brothers in class 7, then my first song on guitar in class 9.
My mother was a professor and hostel superintendent, and because of that we lived in a big government house with gardens and space for imagination. By class 3, I already had a laptop and internet—rare things for that time—which gave me an edge over others.
Since then, art, science, philosophy, design—all these interests came naturally to me.
Maybe it was God’s blessing, maybe good parenting, maybe past life experiences.
I’ve always wanted to make a difference. That mentality never changed—it only evolved and sharpened with time. Even as a child, I was subconsciously dreaming all of this, and now with a grown mind I can finally see how it was always meant to be.
Q) Natya Alaapika doesn’t chase trends—it moves slow, breathes, and demands full attention. What kind of space were you in while making something like this? How long did it take to shape it fully, and what was the process like building it with the incredible musicians around you in the album?
Shikriwal: It felt like a gift from God. I’m still amazed by it—I don’t know how it all happened, but somehow it was easy, enjoyable, and a deeply beautiful experience.
I was possessed by this idea of creating an art project in my mother tongue. Bhojpuri music right now feels a little spoiled, and it needs a lot of nurturing in every way. With this project, I was all in, ready to give my best for it.
I spent a lot of time at Shakti Sound Studio, and it felt like I had finally found my people—my family.
When I first went to meet Yash Raj Mishra for the Super Shakti project, I was suddenly given the spotlight in such a beautiful, honest space. We went on to do Super Shakti 2 just a few months later, and in those six months so much happened—so many singles, so much work, and so much growth.
It charged me, it tingled my mind to be part of something like this.
Around the same time, I was also working closely with Vishal—we were on a crazy grind, making about 10 beats a day.
Out of that madness, 27.05.1997 was born, and the beats that later became Ghar and Mahabharat also came from those sessions.
I had always been lonely—not because I lacked friends, but because no one around me was interested in the things that moved me.
With this group, I found a family that chased music like it was magic. They weren’t obsessed with money, fame, or success. They enjoyed, they dreamed, and they lived what they were doing.
I remember once in Kasol, the whole band—8 or 9 of us—was sitting together, and the discussion was all about mixes and technical aspects of music.
Maahin (Little Pirate), the youngest in our group, kept looking into Yash’s eyes while asking about mixing. Suddenly, I said—“Why do you always look at Yash when you ask about the technical side? I’m a sound engineer too.”
Later, I asked Yash why I wasn’t acknowledged as a producer, even though I produced, mixed, and built my own songs. He told me he felt the same—that people didn’t acknowledge him as a guitarist, even though he played guitar in almost every track.
That moment sparked something in me. I told him, “I’m going to make a project where I compose, produce, and write everything myself—and on the artwork, I’ll write ‘Produced by Shikriwal.’
This is how I see it: from small, earthly moments comes the heavenly idea. That’s the path of inspiration.
From there, I started producing daily with Abhishakti, recording flute sessions. Abhishakti, Yash, and Ana became my backbone during this process—they supported me, believed in me, and kept the project alive when it was just an idea floating in my head.
At first, I planned to mix it myself and release it in August 2024, but when I tried back at my studio in Garhwa, I failed. The sessions sounded messy, and I lost confidence. I was close to giving up.
Then in Noida, I met an artist through Instagram, Vilohhit. I thought he was a singer-songwriter, but he turned out to be an incredible bass player—and much more than that.
He was good at so many things, and that energy showed when we worked together. I played him the album, and he immediately started jamming over everything. Some tracks he completed in a single take, others we worked on together section by section. That brought my groove, my inspiration, my energy back.
After that, I moved to Mumbai and rented a place. The host, Piyush Ambore, brought his own magic into the project. Around the same time, Abhishakti was visiting Goa and stopped by Mumbai. I played him all the tracks—old and new—and he jammed over them again, giving me arrangements, textures, and sections I hadn’t even imagined. Suddenly, everything clicked into place.
The next two months in Mumbai were about living and breathing the project. I arranged, reworked, and refined the tracks, while also meeting people, and just enjoying the chaos of the process.
When I returned to Garhwa, I quit smoking and drinking for three months, fully focused.
I charted everything, fixed the release date—my birthday, May 27th—and locked the tracklist at 18 songs. On the track “Nirnayak,” I had the chance to collaborate with Niharika. I gave her the beat with my verse already on it, and she brought it to life with her beautiful hook and heartfelt expression. Her texture added a whole new dimension to the song.
That’s how Natya Alaapika was born—out of loneliness and rebellion, out of family and friendship, out of small earthly sparks that grew into a heavenly vision.
Q) You represent Bihar—a region that’s often stereotyped or misunderstood, especially in the North. But your work feels like it’s written entirely on your own terms. Has being from there shaped how you define yourself as an artist—or do you feel your voice comes from somewhere deeper than geography or perception?
Shikriwal: I don’t represent Bihar, and I don’t tend to think that way. I’ve been to many places and lived life in pieces.
Being from this region has shaped me, but not in a stereotypical sense.
People often reduce places like Bihar or Purvanchal to clichés, but for me, it was a playground for imagination, discipline, and resilience.
My voice as an artist comes from that mixture of experience and observation, but it’s also something deeper than geography. It comes from my curiosity, my hunger to express truth without following templates, and my desire to reflect my culture authentically.
Q) Regional rap is being heard more now—but so much of that attention comes with urgency: go faster, get louder, be seen. Your work moves in the opposite direction—slow, patient, rooted. Do you ever feel conflict between visibility and intention? Or have you reached a point where the process matters more than the spotlight?
Shikriwal: For me, living life the way you want is success.
I’m a crazy person—I don’t value my ambition the way others do, because it changes every day.
What I care about is sticking to what I love doing, and how I love doing it, even if it comes with a lot of mistakes. I also care about people—I try to give back and add value to society with what I do. I get so much in return: all the modern comforts I enjoy every day. This is the least I can give back to society.
Q) There’s a strong Jazz influence in your sound—space, improvisation, unpredictability. Who are some of the artists that have shaped your musical instincts over time? And who are some contemporary Indian artists you find yourself returning to these days?
Shikriwal: There are so many legends—anyone who has approached music honestly has shaped me in some way.
Beyond the famous names, I’m more inspired by the artists I know personally, the people I hang out with. Being around them, seeing their personalities, their approach to creation—it teaches you a lot.
There are legends all around us, everywhere, and that constant exposure and energy keeps inspiring me to push my own music further.
Q) If someone only heard one piece from you—song, verse, bar—that you feel sums you up, what would you want it to be?
Shikriwal: “Muh se swad chinta jaa rha hai, mera dost chinta jaa rha hai, mera pyar chinta jaa rha hai.”
Q) Through all the noise, all the waiting, all the moments when the world didn’t seem to be watching—what kept you going? What’s been your anchor through it all?
Shikriwal: My anchor has been the people and environments that nurtured me: my family’s support, the collaborators who shared my vision, and the love for the craft itself.
That combination kept me grounded and moving forward, no matter the noise, the waiting, or the moments when it felt like no one was watching.
Final Thoughts:
Shikriwal didn’t just talk about Natya Alaapika: he gave us the process behind the process, the loneliness before the collaboration, the early spark before the craft.
He doesn’t call himself a representative of Bihar. He doesn’t have to. His work speaks with more honesty than any label ever could.
What makes him important isn’t just the music—it’s the refusal to dilute, to rush, or to fit into someone else’s frame. Shikriwal isn’t playing the game. He’s building a new room inside it.
And from where we’re standing, the door is wide open.
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