The Elvis of Punjab

Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll: A phrase that emerged in the 1960s and captures a shift in counterculture — one that emphasized liberation, personal expression, and challenged social norms. In the west, the phrase is synonymous with youthful rebellion, partying, and epicurean behavior.

On March 8th, 1988, Amar Singh Chamkila and his wife Amarjot Kaur arrived in the village of Mehsampur, Punjab for an afternoon performance. 68 days into the new year, they were already on their 75th live performance of the year.

You see, Chamkila and Amarjot weren’t simply local folk musicians. They were international pop stars with a demand so high, they performed more shows than there are days in a year.

Known for his boyish, suggestive, and “vulgar” commentary on the social mores of the time, Chamkila was a controversial figure, perhaps in the same way Hip Hop artists of the 90s were. His music was a stark contrast from the folk hits of the time. While his contemporaries sang about a simple life in the village, falling in love, and often put out devotional albums, Chamkila made his career on singing about social taboos and forbidden behavior that society, at the time, often kept under wraps.

At the time of his stardom, music and film were seen as escapism — picture perfect worlds in which nothing bad could happen. Music provided a reprieve from the hardships of daily life and transported people into a world where love, colors, and happiness prevailed. Reality was meant to be escaped, not brought to the forefront.

Chamkila, however, was a simple man and a straight shooter. This made him a musical trailblazer who dreamt of going toe-to-toe with his idols, Surinder Shinda and Kuldeep Manak. With only a Tumbi in his hand, and his self-taught knowledge of music, he sang about the life he was exposed to — cheating, betrayal, casual drug use, alcoholism, female sexuality, poverty, and the realities of life in the village. When we look at Chamkila’s music in a modern context, we find it relatable — the double entendres and the lyrics are cheeky, poetic, and comical. They make us laugh and shake our heads at the same time. But in 1980s Punjab, in a deeply conservative, highly patriarchal society, his music was considered unsophisticated and provincial by many.

Those who attended his live shows were considered low class and of a lower caste, but it was common for the refined masses, especially women, to listen to his music in secret. After all, his lyrics were a direct reflection of their realities. With Amarjot at his side, singing duets of suggestive, flirty banter, women, too, felt empowered to express themselves in ways they were never previously encouraged to.

As you may imagine, society was up in arms over his music. Punjab in the 1980s was already facing a world of upheaval. On the one hand, Sikh militants were pushing for a separatist Punjab, based on highly conservative Sikh ideals. These separatists, known as Kharkus, designated themselves as the caretakers of society. They felt Chamkila’s music and transparent lyrics were a detriment to society as they saw it. They began to strong arm Chamkila into changing his lyrics, composing traditional folk songs, and adopting devotional styles of music.

On the other hand, a rapidly developing Punjab, due in part by Indira Gandhi’s Green Movement, was expanding its horizons, seeking modernized sources of income, growing its economic output, and opening up its state lines to industrialization. This half loved Chamkila and propelled him to international fame, yielding concerts in the US, Canada, Bahrain, and Dubai.

Both sides of society, however, proved to be detrimental to Chamkila’s well-being. Giving into the Kharkus and mellowing down his music raised red flags with the authorities. While Chamkila briefly vowed to stop singing provocative songs to avoid the Kharkus threatening his life, the authorities feared what might happen if someone with Chamkila’s reach became involved with the Kharkus. On their end, they began to threaten him out of singing devotional songs and back into adopting his original style.

Chamkila, however, was a slave to his audience. He couldn’t fathom why he should cater his music to the sentiments of the authorities or separatists when the audiences, themselves, came out in droves to support him. Fed up with being pulled in both directions, Chamkila set out to do what he knew best — making music about the life he experienced around him. He knew he was living on borrowed time. So did Amarjot.

On March 8th, 1988, Amar Singh Chamkila and his wife Amarjot Kaur arrived in the village of Mehsampur, Punjab for an afternoon performance. Sixty Eight days into the new year, they were already on their 75th live performance of the year.

As their car pulled up to the venue, Amarjot stepped out of the vehicle and was immediately shot at pointe blank range by a masked assassin. The man then moved onto Chamkila, shooting him once in the back, and then unloading a rifle to the front of his body.

To this day, the assassination in shrouded in mystery. Some claim that separatists, fed up with the liberalization prompted by his lyrics, decided to take him out. Other theories range from caste-based violence or rivalries from his contemporaries.

Chamkila and Amarjot left us 26 years ago, almost as long as he was alive. Chamkila’s legacy, in just 27 years of being alive, has had an immeasurable posthumous impact. Today, artists like Diljit Dosanjh, Honey Singh, Badshaah, AP Dhillon, Punjabi MC, and many more trace their inspiration back to Chamkila. They’ve built their careers on the legacy Chamkila left behind. Yet others, like Sidhu Moosewala, have seen a fate similar to Chamkila’s.

This begs the question — are trailblazing musicians in Punjab safe to live out their potential, or are they simply living on borrowed time?