Why don’t we see more female indie musicians on a festival line-up? It’s not because there aren’t enough of them, but because there exists an inherent bias and systemic harassment that causes many of them to back off, or even quit the industry. They tell us their story
“People are more open to hear a man make experimental music than women,” says Soniya Pondcar. PIC/SATEJ SHINDE
When indie musician Heeya Tikku (@heeyaatikku6) recently shared screenshots on Instagram, the message was as ugly as it was familiar. An organiser on Instagram had been pointlessly disrespectful, reducing her identity to gender alone. “You are a woman and a nobody, so do not show me your attitude because you’re just a woman who won’t end up anywhere,” he wrote, unprovoked, entitled, and unashamed.
What is worse is that for many women in India’s independent music scene, this isn’t shocking, but a norm. The question that lingers then is: what does a woman have to endure to make music for a living? For Soniya Pondcar, rap began as a lifeline. At 13, she started writing verses in English, turning low self-esteem and anxiety into rhythm and rhyme. But when she entered inter-college contests, she quickly realised how lonely it was to be a woman in rap. “Most of the time I was the only girl in a rap contest,” she recalls. While men routinely advanced to finals, the farthest she reached was the semi-finals. “I’ve heard from others that they don’t usually choose women in rap contests.”
Later, when she looked for producers, the bias deepened. Instead of encouraging her experimental style, they asked her to sing in a “poppier” way, to fit a safer mould of what female performers were expected to sound like. “It is anyways difficult for abstract rap to gain traction in India but I feel like people are more open to hear a man make experimental music as opposed to women.” Frustration eventually pushed her to stop releasing music altogether. Even at gigs, the hostility persisted. Male rappers patronised her with condescending quizzes about hip-hop, making her prove her legitimacy in a space that should have welcomed her talent.
Her story echoes wider realities where a UK Musicians’ Union census found that 51 per cent of women in music have faced gender discrimination. If Pondcar’s story highlights erasure, Aanchal Bordoloi’s shines a light on safety both on and off stage. Touring often meant late-night buses, journeys that felt unsafe while organisers washed their hands of responsibility. “We don’t get any safety measures from organisers no matter how late it gets,” she says. The risks extended into the venues themselves. At 19, she was harassed at a festival where a man followed her around relentlessly and later spammed her Instagram DMs. “He followed me outside my green room. The organisers did nothing,” she shrugs.
With six years of music experience, Chennai-based singer and songwriter, Aanchal Bordoloi observes, “We don’t get any safety measures from organisers no matter how late it gets.”
Even among peers, she found little respite. At parties, fellow musicians mocked her songs and dismissed her work, an early taste of the bullying women often face in creative spaces. Reflecting on another artiste, DJ Kayan, she says she has noticed how attention frequently gravitated towards appearance rather than craft. “People speak more about how she looks than how she plays,” she observes, pointing to the wider sexualisation women musicians endure.
The live music circuit, too, is riddled with hazards. “Gigs are such male-dominated spaces that women get harassed all the time,” she says. Her experiences align with industry-wide data. A Radio & Music survey found nearly 70per cent of women in India’s music industry have faced harassment.
When Apoorva Vishwakarma entered the industry as a teenager, she quickly realised that talent alone wouldn’t shield her from its power games. Nearly a decade in, she recalls how even basic requests like safe travel after late-night shows are brushed off. “I was told I shouldn’t expect special treatment,” she says. Managers’ negligence extended to others too: during one of her friend’s performances, the woman was harassed in full view of the organisers, who never took any action.
Having a deep voice, strangers often asked the singer and songwriter Apoorva Vishwakarma if she smoked to sound the way she does, or if she was “really a girl”. PIC/NIMESH DAVE
The barriers multiply for working-class women. “Big studios and labels favour artistes who are already wealthy or well-connected,” she explains, “and for women from modest backgrounds, it’s even tougher.” Alongside financial gatekeeping, Vishwakarma has battled constant scrutiny due to her deep voice. Strangers asked if she smoked to sound the way she does, or if she was “really a girl.”
Yet the most corrosive experiences came from men exploiting power. A studio owner once tied her payment to “how much she could please him.” A well-known music director invited her to his home under the guise of work, only to press drinks on her while radiating predatory intent. “I trusted my sixth sense and left immediately,” she says. Such incidents underline how gatekeeping and harassment overlap with those holding money and access, exploiting their position. Women like Vishwakarma navigate music while negotiating with both misogyny and class hierarchies at every turn.
Known on stage as Bhoomika Yellow B, Bhoomika entered the professional circuit in 2020 and was all about music until she found herself grappling with gendered double standards from the outset. When she attempted to network, her outreach was often read as flirting, a perception her male bandmates never had to contend with.
Known as Bhoomika Yellow B, the singer opens up about how one organiser addressed her: “If you don’t execute the show properly, I’ll spank you.”
The gatekeeping extended into outright misconduct from managers. One insisted that female musicians “meet” him privately before gigs were confirmed. Another threatened her, “If you don’t execute the show properly, I’ll spank you.” She was also told to “wear nice attractive dresses that give the audiences something to look at” — reducing her artistry to appearance.
For a young artiste still trying to establish herself, such coercion creates roadblocks before the music can even be heard. Bhoomika’s story underscores how the earliest stages of women’s careers are shaped by exploitation, making survival in the industry as much about navigating harassment as about honing their craft.
Taken together, the stories reveal a continuum of barriers that women face in independent music. Pondcar encounters gatekeeping and erasure, where her presence on stage can be ignored or undermined. Bordoloi describes unsafe venues and the casual bullying that makes performance itself a risk. Vishwakarma exposes the deeper structural sexism, from predatory men in positions of power to an industry architecture built to sideline women. And Bhoomika’s entry-level experience shows how even the first steps are fraught with coercion and objectification.
The pattern is clear: harassment and discrimination are not isolated incidents but woven through every stage of a career, from first gigs to long-standing practice. Yet, alongside this reality, women are pushing back by choosing independence, playing for themselves, and building communities of support that allow their music to thrive outside hostile gatekeepers’ control.
So, what does it cost a woman to make music in India’s indie scene? The answers ripple across every account: casual disrespect that erases their work, harassment and sexualisation that shadow their presence, and exclusion built into the industry’s very architecture. The price is steep, yet women persist — writing, singing, rapping, and performing with resilience and solidarity. But resilience should not be their survival standard.
As Bordoloi reflects after six years in music, “I can feel the industry changing bit by bit but there are no direct effects yet. I still keep hearing women being shortchanged in gigs. I still don’t see any incentives to help indie female musicians.” Her words underline the urgent need for structural change: safer gigs, accountable managers, and recognition rooted in artistry rather than gender. Only then will India’s indie music truly deserve the name “independent.”
‘It’s been happening since the 1990s’
Narendra Kusnur
Veteran music journalist Narendra Kusnur says that this harassment has roots in the past: “Since the 1990s indie-pop era, women, mostly singers, were often respected once established, but newcomers faced men demanding ‘favours’ in exchange for breaks. Today, more women compose and write, though rarely in the spotlight. Harassment isn’t entirely systemic but neither is it isolated, with social media pushing more women to speak up and men to act cautiously about reputation. Yet, the scene lacks organised safeguards; independent musicians remain most vulnerable. Younger or inexperienced women are especially at risk, as men tend to take advantage of that. These incidents are not systemic considering how big the music industry is overall but we cannot call it isolated either.”
‘Come out and talk’
Brian Tellis
Brian Tellis, Co-Founder of Fountainhead MKTG and a consultancy company called Radioactive Ventures, emphasises the importance of people talking and pointing out such instances: “In my view, respect in the music industry must be non-negotiable, regardless of gender. I’ve heard of women artistes being disrespected or taken advantage of, and there is simply no excuse for such behaviour. The industry needs stronger forums where women can voice concerns and companies can address behavioural patterns with initiatives like WECARE at EEMA (Event and Entertainment Management Association of India) are a start. While line-ups should be about talent, not tokenism, India’s larger male-dominated culture often seeps into entertainment too. Festivals and organisers must align their teams to a culture of safety, inclusivity, and awareness, because unless we talk about these issues loudly, nothing changes.”
‘We have to get their outfits approved’
Raghav Meattle, musician and the founder of the music company first.wav, admits that they get the outfits of their women artistes approved by the organisers as there is no other choice: “Women musicians in India’s indie space often face challenges that men rarely think about. At writing camps or gigs, they’re often the only woman in male-heavy rooms, which can feel isolating even if the intent isn’t exclusionary. Safety is another huge concern. While tier-one cities offer some security, smaller towns can be unpredictable. We’ve had to bring in bouncers because crowds sometimes don’t know how to respectfully interact with women artistes. I’ve also seen double standards first-hand: as a male performer, no one asks me what I’ll wear at a corporate gig, but women artistes are often asked for photos of their outfits.
Raghav Meattle
“Sadly, organisers of concerts or events continue to demand pictures of what our female performers are going to be wearing which they never do for our male musicians. At first.wav, we’ve worked to counter this by building a 50-50 gender-balanced team, supporting women artistes early in their careers, and creating safe, professional environments. For me, true inclusivity means more than ‘tolerance’ because it’s about ensuring women feel secure, respected, and empowered to focus only on their music.”
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