Lost rights, little credit, less pay: the painful reality behind tribal music in the mainstream

The song ‘Neram Pilantha’ begins as a call to a loved one, reminding her of the breaking dawn and the reality of toiling on land they do not own, earning grain as wages. It then returns to a night of music to forget hardships, culminating in an ode to the way of life of the Paniya community, the largest Scheduled Tribe in Kerala.

Eight years ago, Prasad K. penned the song at the persuasion of a friend for an independent album that never materialised. Written in the Paniya language spoken by his community in Wayanad district, the song eventually found its way into the mainstream through the 2025 film Narivetta, a Malayalam political action thriller directed by Anuraj Manohar and starring Tovino Thomas.

For the 36-year-old, who has been an artist for 17 years, it was the kind of break he had been waiting for. But the song earned him only a one-time payment of ₹3,000, with no royalties. Prasad is credited as the lyricist and singer in the film, while Jakes Bejoy is credited as the composer.

Prasad’s case is not an anomaly. Tribal artists across the country describe a similar pattern in their contributions to mainstream films and music industries in exchange for bringing their work to the world: modest payments, little to no credit, no royalties, and agreements they have signed without fully understanding them. These problems may not be unique to tribal artists in India’s music business. But their situation is more complex, involving two distinct forms of creative ownership.

First, there are the artists’ own works — such as the song Prasad wrote, composed and sang in his mother tongue inspired from his culture — for which they are not adequately credited or compensated. Secondly, there is the community’s shared heritage, oral traditions, language and songs that belong to no single person and have been passed down for generations. Community members say these are often borrowed by mainstream cinema and productions, with no credit or adequate payment.

In both cases, the art is more than just a song; it represents an entire culture.

Law vs. reality

The problem is historical, says Jitendra Kumar Meena, assistant professor at Delhi University’s Department of History. Tribal knowledge, from art to music, has traditionally been treated in India as a collective inheritance, with little recognition of individual creators, he says. During the colonial period, this knowledge was documented and claimed by institutions, a practice that continues to this day. The government of India calls it ‘indigenous knowledge’, without acknowledging its tribal origins. “We don’t naturally deliver someone’s due share to them, because our society has not treated people with that kind of justice; it has never treated everyone equally,” says Meena, who is also the national spokesperson of the Bharat Adivasi Party. He cites an example: in the 2012 Hindi political action movie Chakravyuh, there was a tribal protest song against mining companies, but neither the protesters nor the community was credited by the film’s makers.

India’s legal framework allows for the protection of original work, but not for traditional knowledge, says Xerxes Ranina, author of Who Owns What?: The Definitive Legal Guide for Musicians, Writers, Film-Makers and Content Creators (2026). Copyright of a musical work generally lasts for the creator’s lifetime plus 60 years after their death. Traditional songs or compositions whose copyright term has expired are generally in the public domain and can be used or recreated freely. “Let’s say the style of singing or the style of the music or the instruments, that can be old. So anyway there’s no copyright on that. But if these singers come up with their own composition, then that can be protected. Then no one is allowed to use their original composition. People are only allowed to use very old compositions,” adds Ranina.

But legal protection does not always translate into fair compensation or control over one’s work. Prasad’s experience with Narivetta illustrates how an opportunity to reach a wider audience can come at a cost. His involvement extended beyond the song. He says he helped the production team bring together around 150 artists from the Paniya community for the film’s shoot and he appeared in one scene himself. He also penned the lyrics for a background score, for which he was paid a separate amount of ₹2,500. Prasad says he was asked to sign an agreement for ‘Neram Pilantha’, which was explained to him as handing over the song, and its copyright, to the film. He says he does not recall the other terms. “They were very friendly. I only saw it as an opportunity. But I heard later that many others in the industry were getting paid better. I only saw it as exposure,” he shares.

Siddharth Chandrashekhar, a Mumbai-based lawyer who specialises in Intellectual Property Rights, says production houses often convince creators to sign away royalties and moral rights for a bigger upfront payment. “Legally, creators are owed royalties. But production houses covertly insert royalty write-offs from creators within the contract. Realistically, no one wants to pick a fight with the big players because, on one hand, there’s a lot more money on the table and, on the other hand, there’s the risk of getting blacklisted and burning bridges,” he says.

Longstanding imbalance

Recently, in an effort to address the challenges faced by artists from tribal communities and provide guidance, the Indian Performing Right Society Limited (IPRS), with funding from the Ministry of Tribal Affairs, held ‘Living Roots Originals’,a songwriting and creator rights camp in Kolkata. In August, around 25 artists from States including Kerala, Jharkhand, Nagaland, Chhattisgarh and West Bengal participated in the five-day residential programme.

At the camp, the rights to the songs were assigned to the artists and registered in their names. Under the programme’s format, 50% of the royalties will go to the creators, while the remaining 50% will go to Living Roots Originals, to be channelled back into the community for artist development and the preservation of its music.

“We are in a very different situation today, where people are looking for new music, new sounds and new instruments, but nobody is preserving their origins. It is extremely important not to just pick up this music, but to also ensure that it is preserved,” says Rumpa Banerjee, head of corporate communications, marketing and member relations at IPRS, a government-authorised copyright society for music creators and publishers.

Initiatives such as these seek to address a longstanding imbalance in the music industry, and the problem extends well beyond any one community or region. The appropriation of traditional music often follows a familiar pattern: songs travel, acquire new audiences and commercial value, while their original creators risk being left out of the recognition and rewards. For many artists, the challenge is not simply to keep their music alive, but to retain a stake in what happens to it once it leaves their communities.

The journey of ‘Adalu Maralu Thottilu Katti’, a song released on YouTube last year as part of the Kannada film Shabbash, illustrates this disconnect. The song had travelled a long way before reaching Sandalwood, but its lyricist, Ramesh J.B., was absent from much of that journey.

An artist from the Jenu Kuruba community in Karnataka’s Kodagu district, Ramesh wrote the song in 2014 in his mother tongue, known as Jenu Kurumba. A lullaby about parents putting their child to sleep in a makeshift cradle tied to an Adalu tree before heading into the forest to collect honey, fruits, and wood, it offers a glimpse into the community’s everyday life. Ramesh performed it at stage shows before it was recorded and documented by the Kochi-based Archival Research Project Organisation (ARPO). “We wanted to publish it as part of a folklore archive. But later, Ramesh told us not to as he had given the song to someone else. We had thought it was a folk song, and not an original. Interestingly, the song went on to win prizes at the Kerala State School Youth Festival’s folk song competition category,” says Sruthin Lal, Executive Director, ARPO.

Ramesh, a former daily-wage labourer who became a professional singer 25 years ago, watched as his song performed by school students went viral on YouTube. “I didn’t know what to do or how to stop it. The song is there on social media in Kerala. It hurts a bit. Some know it’s mine. Some don’t,” says Ramesh.

A few years later, the makers of Shabbash approached Ramesh and his music troupe to use the song. The film version released on YouTube has an upbeat arrangement, which Ramesh says was added later. The video garnered around 30,000 views. The composer is credited as MAD-D, while the lyricist is listed as Girijana Samagra Abhivruddhi Kala Samsthe, a cultural organisation of which Ramesh is a member. A contract was signed, but Ramesh says he never received a copy. He was also told by the film crew not to perform the song on stage or allow it to be used in other movies. Ramesh says he and five other members of his group who worked on Shabbash were paid a total of ₹50,000 for the song.

In the digital space

The problem is not limited to films. Nearly 2,000 km away in Jharkhand, Ho community artist Shyam Bobonga has had a similar experience in the digital space. The 41-year-old, who has been involved with music for nearly 25 years, says he and other musicians have worked with multiple YouTube productions over the years but have never signed an agreement with any of their collaborators.

In one such instance, Bobonga and five other artists contributed two songs to a production by YouTube channel Sarna Films, earning ₹500-₹1,000 each, he says. Uploaded several years ago, one of the tracks, ‘123 Sasang Rid Diri’, has over 10 million views. Sung by Bobonga, it is an upbeat courtship song about marrying the maternal aunt’s daughter.Bobonga says he also wrote the lyrics for a different song in the same album.“There was no agreement signed,” he says. “They must be continuing to earn through YouTube all these years later.”

Sawan Soy, who runs Sarna Films and is himself from the Ho community, says the production house mostly works without contracts, on “trust” and “community support” for the growth of the Ho language. Back in 2017, he paid artists ₹500-₹1,000 per day plus food, he says. Now, the best singers get up to ₹10,000, while other artists and lyricists are paid ₹2,000-₹3,000, and actors and choreographers earn ₹5,000-₹10,000.

Artists receive a one-time payment, Soy says, and they are not told about royalties because production costs, about ₹80,000 per song, are high. His channel earns some ad revenue, especially for Nagpuri and Santhali songs, but Soy says it is erratic. When asked about the success of ‘123 Sasang Rid Diri’, he says he does not know how much the song has earned. “We work on the basis of trust, it’s not that formal… No agreements are signed as such,” says Soy. He describes Bobonga as a long-time associate and their arrangement as informal.

The reliance on trust and informal agreements is common in the industry. Mumbai-based filmmaker Shishir Jha, known for his debut Santhali-language feature Tortoise Under the Earth (2022), says he too often relies on a community member to establish trust when working with tribal artists. Once that trust is established, communities often contribute far more than what is asked of them, driven by pride in their culture, he says.

Jha believes oral traditions passed down through generations should circulate freely, provided singers are paid, lyrics are credited as “traditional” and the original cultural context is respected. Working with tight budgets, he usually pays artists in line with what they earn from local performances. But he argues that there should also be a simple, accessible forum — rather than a court process — where artists can seek additional compensation if a film becomes commercially successful.

Although music composer Jakes Bejoy, who worked on Narivetta, was contacted for this article, he did not respond to our questions. According to director and editor Mahesh Narayanan (Malik, Malayankunju), artists are entitled to royalties when their authorship of a work can be established, but the question becomes complicated when dealing with traditional oral songs whose origins are difficult to trace. He adds that artists must establish their terms during negotiations before signing agreements. “The valuation of the artist depends on their own valuation, right? Shouldn’t they be the ones to decide it? You have to take that negotiation power... That power needs to be there right from the beginning,” says Narayanan.

Altering oral traditions

While individual artists are stripped of ownership when their original works are used by others, the community’s oral traditions, too, suffer when they go mainstream. Bindhu Irulam, a Kerala-based poet, lyricist and researcher from the Kattunayakan community, says that members of her tribe, including herself, are often approached by people claiming to be from the film industry and by professional folk singers seeking traditional oral songs (vaamozhi). She says the work that later appears in the public domain is sometimes altered, while the community itself is not credited or fairly compensated.

“If it is a song I wrote, it is my own. Or if it is vaamozhi, it is my community’s. From early on, many would come and shoot our lives and art forms. But we never received any credit or even compensation. The most they gave us is money for tea,” says Irulam.

Leela Santhosh, a filmmaker from Kerala’s Paniya community, says oral traditions can be used without permission, but the problem often arises when songs are altered with different tunes and words. She says the film industry treats the contributions of tribal artists merely as “symbolic”. Artists like her are told what they will be paid, in a “commanding voice” by producers, without any negotiation, and the amount is lower than industry standards. “I have often felt like I’m being used as a ‘brand’, my identity as a tribal woman is used. We are not recognised or respected as artists, but only as tribal artists. It’s really painful,” she says.

While such experiences point to the need for greater recognition of artists and communities, they also raise questions about how existing copyright mechanisms can protect their work, particularly when it is rooted in oral traditions. “If you are creating a work, it is important to register it with a copyright society,” says Banerjee of IPRS. This could protect both the artist and the work, she adds.

In January, IPRS is planning to launch a Living Roots music festival to celebrate the music and showcase tribal traditions on a par with mainstream music. Talent mapping and regional training programmes are also in the pipeline. While such initiatives are needed at a time when the world is seeking new talent and sounds, Banerjee also underlines the need for legislation to protect communities’ traditional music.

The way forward may lie in learning from countries that have sought to balance the preservation of tribal identity with the need to bring it to a wider audience. Kenya’s Protection of Traditional Knowledge and Cultural Expressions Act, 2016, for instance, recognises communities as the owners of their oral traditions, music, dances and folklore. It requires outside users to obtain the community’s prior informed consent and agree to fair benefit-sharing, with county governments playing a key role in its implementation.

In Ghana, the National Folklore Board serves as the custodian of folk traditions. Australia, meanwhile, has committed funding to develop standalone legislation to protect indigenous cultural and intellectual property, beginning with measures to address fake indigenous art and souvenirs, with broader rights envisaged in subsequent stages.

The writer is an independent journalist based in Kerala.