Guitarist-composer Susmit Sen, the co-founder of the Indian Ocean, on his latest album, Azaadi, collaborating with artistes across states, and why he has sued his former band members
Guitarist-composer Susmit Sen, the co-founder of the Indian Ocean, is synonymous with the birth of what many call the “Indian fusion rock” movement — a soundscape that marries Hindustani classical with folk, jazz, and rock elements. For decades, ever since one of the most popular Indie rock bands burst on the scene in 1990, Sen’s guitar riffs have entranced music lovers. But in 2025, years after stepping away from the band that brought him fame, Sen is tuning into a more introspective rhythm. This Republic Day, he launched the title track of his latest album, Azaadi (in collaboration with Songdew and produced by Miti Adhikari, who has been a producer of Coldplay, Pearl Jam and Nirvana, among others), a sonic exploration of the multifaceted idea of freedom, with a live gig at the Museum of Goa.
Released as separate singles across the streaming platforms, Azaadi comprises four tracks, each carrying its own linguistic and musical signature: Azaadi, featuring vocalist Sudheer Rikhari, the lead singer of Sen’s band, Susmit Sen Chronicle; Mazaar, with Tamil singer Gayathri Natarajan; Saiba Tandela, with Rikhari and Kannada singer M.D. Pallavi; and Kuvar, with Pallavi and Goa-based songwriter Umesh Sardesai. These tracks travel across Konkani, Tamil, and Sanskrit, creating an interwoven auditory panorama that truly defies borders. “Each song has its own thought process,” Sen tells The Federal. Each language brings its own flavour and rhythm; language, like a tuning fork, resonates differently depending on the listener, but the emotion behind it is universal.
The freedom song
The title track, Azaadi, featuring Sudheer Rikhari, opens with Susmit’s unmistakable guitar work — gentle, deliberate, almost meditative — before Rikhari’s earthy voice enters with a rendition of Vande Mataram about one and a half into the track, carrying the weight of the lyrics like a breeze trying to lift a kite. “Azaadi is a word that’s gaining a lot of attention and speculation at this point in time because it seems that the world is interpreted in completely different ways by different people,” adds Sen. To him, it’s the historical connections that form the backbone of Azaadi; the track reflects on freedom not just as political independence but as the creative, emotional, and cultural liberty to question, express, and connect.
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Sen elaborates that the Vande Mataram used in the song was originally composed/arranged by Vishnu Digambar Paluskar, the founder of Gandharva Mahavidyalaya, who also sang the original version of the bhajan Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram, in Lahore during pre-Partition India. He first sang it in the Lahore Assembly in 1905. After Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, the nationalist icon who came from eastern Bengal (now Bangladesh) — wrote Vande Mataram, a hymn to the motherland, in the 1870s, it became a rallying cry for India’s freedom movement. The Partition of Bengal, like that of India, left deep scars, making the concept of azaadi bittersweet. “I’m throwing a question at the listeners: What do you comprehend when you use the word freedom? Should it be inclusive or exclusive? Let the listeners decide and figure out for themselves what they want freedom to be, politically and personally. Personally, everybody wants freedom,” shares Sen.
Saiba Tandela and Kuvar, written by Sardesai (a professor of Engineering, and son of poet-writer Manohar Rai Sardesai), are in Konkani. “I shifted to Goa a year and a half ago, and this is what I wanted to give back to Goa,” Sen tells The Federal. Natarajan is a Tamilian from Hyderabad, who has been singing with him for 8-9 years. ‘Saiba Tandela’, which means ‘master boatman’ in Konkani, tells the poignant story of a young girl pleading with a boatman to ferry her to her beloved across the river. The imagery is as evocative as Sen’s guitar work, which flows like the river central to the tale. Mazaar, in Tamil and about 10-minute-long, is a hauntingly beautiful piece featuring Natarajan’s grounding and transcendent vocals that seems to come from a very visual place. Kuvar (The Prince), sung by Pallavi, captures the ache of longing. The story of cows returning to an empty village mirrors the emotional void of the protagonist awaiting her absent lover, set against a backdrop of melancholic and richly textured melodies.
‘Betrayal’ by former bandmates
What ties these diverse tracks together is Sen’s signature guitar work — a fusion of Indian classical phrasing and Western acoustic techniques. No discussion of Susmit Sen’s music is complete without acknowledging the legacy of, and the fallout with, Indian Ocean. While proud of the band’s trailblazing contributions, Sen speaks candidly about the rifts that have developed over time. He recalls the early days of the Indian Ocean when he set a bold vision: no covers, only original music. This defied conventional wisdom, as many doubted whether audiences would go for unfamiliar sounds.
But Sen’s determination paid off, earning the band a unique place in India’s musical history. However, the creative unity that once defined the Indian Ocean began to fray. Sen’s eventual departure from the band in 2013 (he was replaced by Nikhil Rao) is a subject he speaks about with a mix of pride and pain. Could he have continued with the Indian Ocean for the benefit of listeners? “I could not have. Creatively, I was getting suffocated. And the fact is that I have not taken anything away from my listeners. I’m still creating. Tracks like Mazar or Saiba Tandela wouldn’t be possible while I was still with the band.”
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On August 16 last year, Sen and Sunita Chakravarty, wife of late Asheem Chakravarty (he died in 2009), filed a police complaint against former bandmates, Rahul Ram and Amit Kilam, for non-payment of royalties. Sen says: “They are not giving what’s due to us. They are trying to prove that there is no case, no nothing. But where is the money? She needs it and I rightfully deserve it. I handpicked each one of these people. I trusted them so much, but they have betrayed me. They are living off my creations. Even the name, Indian Ocean, was suggested by my father. They are not even acknowledging that. When my father died in 2020, there was not even one mention by them that the person who named the man is no more. Such conceit!”
‘Making music feels like a curse’
Sen says he and Sunita have not been paid royalties since 2020. “The reason they gave Sunita was that during the pandemic (2020), they were not earning so couldn’t give us anything. That was logical. But, in the same year, they did a business of Rs 1.5 crore. Now, we are equal shareholders in the company, but they wouldn’t give royalties to us. I really don’t know where this thought process comes from. I feel ashamed about the fact that I once worked with these guys, with such a mentality,” adds the guitarist.
“In the media, it’s Rahul Ram’s version that has been highlighted. Ram says that I left the band because of ego. I wouldn’t have chosen Nikhil Rao as the person who would replace me. I chose Himanshu Joshi. I took him into the band when I was leaving. I gave my guitar to Nikhil Rao. I taught him how to play certain things technically, which he was not able to. Would I have done all this if I was an egoist? I wanted the good of the band.”
Sen, who grew up on a vast expanse of Indian classical and world music, says he rarely listens to music these days, trying to find it instead in Nature. “The marketing of music has become quite a task,” he admits. “It’s almost like after creating an album, I feel it’s a curse on myself. I’m never sure if I’d get my investments back.” Sen’s honesty underscores the precarious position of independent musicians in a streaming-dominated era. But his collaborations with platforms like Songdew and his willingness to adapt to new mediums demonstrate his resolve to keep pace with the changing times. Through his latest album, Sen proves that his creative spirit remains undeterred, even as he grapples with the challenges of an industry that’s changing by the day.