Jangama Collective Reclaims Ancestral Memory Through the Rhythm of 'Nannajja'

There are sounds that carry the weight of generations — sounds that remember, even when people forget. The rhythm of a drum, the pulse of a funeral procession, the vibration of an old hide stretched across wood — these are not just notes. They are inheritances. For Jangama Collective, a Bengaluru-based group of theatre artists, rhythm is a form of remembering: of returning to the wisdom, the pain, and the dignity of ancestors whose music was dismissed as noise.

Their new work, 'Nannajja', which they describe as a rhythmic activity alluring to its instrumental theatrical nature, takes its name from a poem by Kotiganahalli Ramaiah, a poet, playwright, and political philosopher from Karnataka. But for Lakshmana KP, who is one of the founding members of the collective, 

“‘Nannajja’ is the title of a poem by Kotiganahalli Ramaiah. In his work, the figure of the grandfather is not a biological one, yet he is not distant either. Ramaiah’s Ajja becomes a symbolic presence, an embodiment of cultural ancestry. As he navigates across different times, spaces, landscapes, and metaphors, Ramaiah constructs a new poetic and sonic imagination of what it means to be Dalit," the founder says, as we speak ahead of the Kiran Nadar Museum of Art (KNMA) Music Festival in Delhi, where the group is going to perform on October 11.

Rhythm as Memory, Rhythm as Dignity

Through 'Nannajja', Lakshmana and his collaborators transform that imagination into sound. “Percussion instruments, for us, are as old as our ancestors. The moment we became aware of dead skin, we discovered rhythm. These instruments carry the wisdom, knowledge, and memory of our people.”

The performance does not dwell on shame or loss. Instead, it insists on reclamation. “The humiliation projected onto our ancestors, because of their instruments, rituals, or bodies, was never truly their problem. It was the problem of those who saw them as ‘Other.’ With Nannajja, we do not dwell in that humiliation. Instead, we reject it. We challenge discrimination, but more importantly, we reclaim our ancestors’ knowledge and wisdom. This is the heart of the work: rhythm as memory, rhythm as dignity, rhythm as reclamation.”

The politics of rhythm

For the Jangama Collective, the drum is more than an instrument. Many of their instruments have been played at funerals or temple rituals, but rarely recognised as art. “We have played some of our instruments in funerals. Some people play in temples. I think, for us, dead bodies are more important than gods. Some people thought that we are less of musicians, or that our music is less of music. Their visions and ears were corrupted. How is it that participating in funerals, which is part of a collective grief, makes us less of a people?”

The statement pierces centuries of silence. “This is not saying much about us, but it’s saying more about their understanding of music and humanity,” Lakshmana continues. “We are really not trying to challenge anything through 'Nannajja'. We are trying to celebrate our cultural ancestry. Celebrating our ancestry is very important for us because our ancestors were never celebrated. If that looks like cultural resistance, one can name it that way. But we are inviting you to be part of our celebration.”

Many roots, one pulse

The collective brings together percussionists from marginalised communities across South India — artists whose instruments are bound to the soil, ritual, and memory of their regions. “I’ve been working with some of these musicians for nearly five or six years, while others are new collaborators whose work I deeply admire. What connects us is the shared root of our instruments, most of which are made from ‘dead skin’. That became a kind of mother root for this project.”

“One of the key intentions was to bring together a diversity of sound textures, without losing the individuality of each instrument. At the same time, it was important to create musical and rhythmic conversations between them to allow them to speak to one another within the performance. Through this process, we’ve been exploring both aesthetic differences and commonalities. Ramaiah’s 'Nannajja' became our shared ground—something we could all stand on together.”

A theatre of listening

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Lakshmana’s journey towards 'Nannajja' began with returning to the world he once tried to escape. “I grew up surrounded by these instruments; they’re part of my world. But when I was studying theatre, I was trying to escape from that world. There was so much shame, violence, and humiliation projected onto it. Through my earlier work, 'Dalka Katha Devi Kavya', I began reconnecting with that cultural world. I stopped trying to escape and started drawing energy from it.”

“I began to understand untouchability as a lived experience that holds stories, wisdom, and strength. That’s when my idea of theatre began to change. I realised I didn’t need to speak lines to tell stories. Rhythm and sound could carry memory, politics, and performance. That’s what 'Nannajja' is—a theatre of listening.”

The forgotten instruments

Among the many instruments featured is the Arrai — one that bridges the percussive and the meditative. “Sincerely speaking, I have not revived any of these instruments, and I don’t even know how to play them. Revival is a big word; I don’t dare to use it. It is the players who are keeping these traditions alive. As I’ve said before, these instruments were, and still are very much part of the world I long for.”

“The Arrai, in particular, is a very important instrument in Karnataka. It has a strong presence in many rituals and fairs, especially in the southern regions. It is believed that the Arrai can invoke anyone—gods, spirits, or people. It is played everywhere: in the streets, in the fields; it carries with it not just sound, but an entire community, even a cultural ecosystem. I feel that the mainstream understanding of music is very narrow. To truly understand what music means in these contexts, one needs to live among these communities to feel how music lives with them.”

Towards a shared listening

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For Lakshmana, the work is not about visibility but about touch. “As we try to expand our cultural identity, we are also rejecting the identities that have been assigned to us. We—including our ancestors—have always wanted to touch people through our music and art. We believed in touch, while they believed in untouchability. But we continue with the generosity of our ancestors—our Ajjas and Ajjis.”

“I hope the people who witness it will feel some of that, too,” he says quietly.