When you get commercial success, people think you sold your soul
From the rain-soaked hills of Meghalaya, a young woman who spent her childhood as an outsider has found in hip-hop a language precise enough to hold her contradictions. Daiaphi Lamare — known as Reble — raps in English, Khasi, and Jaintia, carrying the voices of tribal northeastern India into a mainstream long shaped by other centers of gravity. Her Bollywood debut brought millions into contact with a sound they had never quite heard before, and her rise quietly signals something larger: that Indian pop culture is learning to listen from the edges inward.
- A 24-year-old from Shillong has broken into mainstream Indian hip-hop without softening her sound, her languages, or her refusal to follow instructions.
- Her Bollywood soundtrack debut exposed millions to northeastern tribal voices, but also triggered accusations of selling out and, from church-going listeners in Meghalaya, charges of anti-Christian messaging.
- She navigates the tension between commercial visibility and artistic integrity by treating film work as experimentation rather than compromise, staying selective about the projects she accepts.
- Her new single 'Praying Mantis' is already generating intense online discussion, suggesting her momentum is building rather than plateauing.
- Her rise is part of a broader decentralization of Indian pop culture, where historically marginalized regional artists are increasingly defining what the mainstream sounds like.
Daiaphi Lamare grew up watching from the margins — a restless, friendless girl in boarding schools across India, perpetually out of step. Teachers called her difficult. She called herself a troublemaker. Now, at 24, she performs under the name Reble and has become one of the most distinctive voices in Indian hip-hop.
She comes from Shillong, a city in Meghalaya where church choirs, garage metal, and blues fill the streets — but not rap. Reble emerged anyway, rapping in English, Khasi, and Jaintia, the languages of the tribal communities that shaped her family and her sense of self. Where other voices in Indian hip-hop perform bravado, she performs precision — emotionally restrained, deliberate, and difficult to place.
Her breakthrough came through Bollywood. The action film Dhurandhar needed a soundtrack, and her cool, clipped delivery cut through on tracks like 'Run Down the City: Monica.' Millions heard her for the first time. Her latest single, 'Praying Mantis,' released this week, has already become a talking point. From the outside, the rise looks sudden. From the inside, Reble describes it as the result of showing up, again and again, refusing to be made more palatable.
The stage name is less persona than alter ego — a personal rebellion. Before it, there was a girl who dropped an engineering degree in Bengaluru after realizing she could never survive a nine-to-five. Rap gave shape to emotions she had no other way to organize. Her lyrics move instinctively between English, which dominated her boarding school years, and Jaintia, which she describes as her emotional anchor — even as she admits her fluency in it has faded. It is a contradiction central to her work: local and global at once, deeply rooted yet emotionally detached.
Success brought backlash. Some accused her of selling out after the Bollywood work. Others, in a region where church culture shapes public life, claimed her references to demons were anti-Christian or satanic. Reble seems more amused than wounded. 'When you get commercial success, people think you sold your soul,' she says. Back home, though, people are simply proud. 'They're happy that someone is doing something. Like — that's our girl.'
Her music carries that pride explicitly. In 'Opening Act,' she raps: 'I'm a Jaintia making moves / I'm a tribal.' She has encountered racism outside the northeast and acknowledges the region has not had the same opportunities as the rest of the country — but pride seems to outweigh resentment. The biggest lesson so far, she says, is consistency. 'If you're not good at something, you need to get better. Be realistic enough to know how bad you are.' Beneath the coolness in her music, there is no romanticization of struggle — only the discipline of turning it, slowly and precisely, into art.
Daiaphi Lamare spent her childhood watching from the margins. In boarding schools scattered across India, she was the girl in the corner—friendless, restless, perpetually out of step. Teachers called her difficult. She called herself a troublemaker. Now, at 24, she has become one of the most arresting voices in Indian hip-hop, and the world knows her as Reble.
She comes from Shillong, a city in Meghalaya where the hills are perpetually rain-soaked and music seeps through every street—church choirs rehearsing into the evening, garage metal bands, blues drifting through dim bars. But Shillong was never known for rap. Reble emerged anyway, rapping in English, in Khasi, in Jaintia—the languages of the tribal communities that have shaped her family and her sense of self. She writes about distance and reinvention with a deliberate emotional restraint that sets her apart from the louder, more emphatic voices that dominate Indian hip-hop. Where others perform bravado, she performs precision.
Her breakthrough arrived through an unexpected door. The Bollywood action film Dhurandhar needed a soundtrack, and Reble's cool, clipped delivery cut through the film's chaos on tracks like "Run Down the City: Monica" and "Move - Yeh Ishq Ishq." Millions heard her for the first time. Her latest single, "Praying Mantis," released this week, has already become a talking point, with listeners dissecting its dark, hypnotic architecture online. The rise feels sudden from the outside. From the inside, Reble sees it as the simple result of showing up, again and again, refusing to soften herself for consumption.
"I don't like anybody telling me what to do," she told the BBC. That stubbornness—that refusal to explain or translate her world into something more palatable—is central to who she is. The stage name itself is less persona than alter ego, a very personal rebellion. Before it, there was a girl who disliked routine and authority, who found science one of the few things that could hold her attention, who pursued an engineering degree in Bengaluru before recognizing she could never survive a nine-to-five. Rap became the medium for emotions she had no other way to organize. It gave shape to the feeling of being a misfit.
That tension still runs through her music. Her rhymes move instinctively between languages—English, which became dominant during her years away at boarding school, and Jaintia, which she describes as her emotional anchor. When she writes in Jaintia, something shifts. The emotion becomes more personal, more rooted, even as she acknowledges her fluency in the language has faded. It is a contradiction that feels central to her work: local and global at once, deeply rooted yet emotionally detached. She is also, by her own admission, someone who dislikes writing. "I can't write," she says bluntly. "I get bored and I make mistakes." Most of her lyrics exist as scattered notes and unfinished scribbles.
Success has brought backlash. Some accused her of selling out after the Bollywood breakthrough. Others claimed her music was anti-Christian or satanic because of its references to demons—a particularly loaded criticism in Meghalaya, where church culture shapes much of public life. Reble seems amused by the outrage. "When you get commercial success, people think you sold your soul," she says. For her, working on film music feels like experimentation rather than compromise. She is picky about the projects she takes.
Her connection to Eminem's work runs deep, particularly the way he transformed alienation into art. "Beautiful" is her favorite song—that mix of vulnerability and defiance echoes quietly through her own work. Yet for all its global influences, her music remains tied to Meghalaya. In "Opening Act," she raps: "I'm a Jaintia making moves / I'm a tribal." That pride traces back to the village her family comes from and specifically to the women she grew up around. Like many northeastern Indians living elsewhere in the country, she has encountered racism outside the region. "I do believe that we haven't had the same opportunities as the rest of the country," she says. Still, pride seems to outweigh resentment.
Back home, people have responded to her rise even if they do not always fully understand the music itself. "They're happy that someone is doing something," she says, laughing. "Like—that's our girl." Which is partly why her Bollywood breakthrough felt larger than a routine success story. Bollywood has long mined regional music scenes for reinvention—Punjabi pop, Mumbai hip-hop, Tamil indie—but Reble arrived with a sound still unfamiliar to much of mainstream India. The biggest lesson so far, she says, is that consistency is key. More than talent, she believes in the discipline of getting better over time. "If you're not good at something, you need to get better," she says matter-of-factly. "Be realistic enough to know how bad you are." Perhaps that is why her rise feels so special. Beneath the coolness and detachment in her music, there is a refusal to romanticize struggle, even while turning it into art. Indian pop culture is increasingly decentralized, with some of its most interesting energies emerging from places once treated as fringe. And somewhere above the foggy hills of Shillong, a young rapper seemed to have understood that long before everyone else did.
Notable Quotes
I don't like anybody telling me what to do— Reble, in interview with BBC
The biggest lesson so far is that consistency is key. More than talent, she believes in the discipline of getting better over time.— Reble, on her approach to music
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What made Shillong an unlikely place for hip-hop to emerge?
The city has always been saturated with music—but it was church choirs, rock bands, blues bars. Hip-hop felt like an outsider's art form in a place that already had its own sonic identity. That's probably why it suited Reble so well.
She raps in three languages. How does that change what she's able to say?
English lets her reach a wider audience. Jaintia is where the emotion lives. When she switches, it's not just translation—it's a shift in intimacy. She's said Jaintia is her emotional anchor, even though she's not fully fluent anymore. That gap between fluency and feeling is part of what makes her work so honest.
The backlash about selling out and satanic imagery—did that surprise her?
Not really. She seemed amused by it. She understands that commercial success makes people suspicious. But she's also clear that working on film music is experimentation, not compromise. She's picky about what she takes on.
Why does Eminem matter so much to her?
He showed her that alienation could become art. That feeling of being out of step with the world around you—that's not a liability. It's material. She's taken that lesson and rooted it in her own place, her own languages, her own tribal identity.
She says she dislikes writing, yet she's a lyricist. How does that work?
Most of her lyrics exist as scattered notes and unfinished scribbles. She gets bored easily, makes mistakes. But that restlessness might be exactly what keeps her from overthinking. She trusts instinct more than craft, even though she's also disciplined about getting better over time.
What does her rise mean for Indian pop culture more broadly?
It signals that the big cities no longer decide what's culturally relevant. Places like Shillong, once treated as fringe, are now shaping the mainstream. Reble understood that before most people did.