Guest Column | The dangers of misogyny in music

The imagery is particularly unsettling. The protagonist is styled as a teacher, while girls in uniforms perform before him in a basketball court. For a state and a country that is working hard to ensure that girls do not drop out of school after puberty, this strikes at the heart of progress. Nearly 15% of adolescent girls in India are still withdrawn from school once they reach puberty, largely due to fears about safety and social perception. What message are we sending to their parents when streaming platforms, through these music videos, turn the schoolgirl into a sexualised object?

The cost of a catchy beat

The danger is not abstract. Studies show that one in nine girls in India experiences some form of sexual abuse before the age of 18. When mainstream songs normalise predatory fantasies, they don’t just reflect society—they shape it. They tell young men that objectification is stylish, and they tell young girls that this is their fate.

Of course, misogyny in music is not new. In my own teenage years, the global hit Barbie Girl was the song of the moment. We sang along without recognising its undertones of sexism. But today, the context is very different. The songs dominating charts are far more explicit, far more casual in their sexualisation of women, and amplified endlessly by algorithms that chase views and clicks.

Punjabi music, once the heartbeat of identity, resilience and celebration—has been pulled into this spiral. The casual use of cuss words in chartbusters has already made it difficult to play them on the radio or in family cars. More recently, the Punjab State Women Commission summoned Karan Aujla over his song MF Gabru and Yo Yo Honey Singh for Motherf**** Billionaire*. Clearly, we know it’s a threat to our women, to our society.

This is not a stray concern, but a reflection of a larger cultural shift. The repetition of profanity in mainstream music subtly legitimises it in conversation, in schools, even at home. In effect, the music we consume is shaping the vocabulary of an entire generation, and not for the better.

Dropping abuses into party tracks

And there is an irony here. Rap as a genre emerged as protest music, as a voice against racial oppression and inequality. It was born out of struggle. But when Punjabi pop borrows rap’s vocabulary only to drop abuses into party tracks, it loses both its essence and its purpose. It is like telling a French joke in Chinese: You may get the words right, but the meaning is completely lost.

The tragedy is that Punjab does not need this kind of shock value. The world already recognises the richness of our folk music, poetry, and rhythm. The real swag of Punjab has always been its cultural depth, not profanity. Why trade a centuries-old legacy of respect and creativity for a few million clicks?

The responsibility lies with more than just the artists. Platforms that amplify such songs need to put in stronger checks, especially for advertisements that cannot be skipped. Parents and listeners, too, must be mindful that every click is an endorsement, every play a push in the algorithm. This is not about nostalgia or moral policing. If we allow lyrics and imagery that trivialise abuse to pass as entertainment, we risk raising a generation that confuses disrespect with style.

Let music be creative, let it be bold, but let it not cross the line into normalising predatory behaviour. When our children grow up and look back at the songs that shaped them, will they remember rhythms of celebration—or echoes of exploitation?

[email protected]

(The writer is media adviser to National Commission for Women and co-founder of Punjab Lit Foundation. Views expressed are her personal)