Some artists speak first about their work. Sanjeeta Bhattacharya speaks about places: the streets of Delhi, Bengali folk songs, the echoes between India and flamenco, and the invisible threads connecting people across borders.
Singer, songwriter, actor, and one of the voices quietly redefining India’s independent scene, Sanjeeta Bhattacharya writes songs the way others keep diaries: privately at first, almost reluctantly, before letting them out into the world. Raised between Hindustani classical music, Kathak dance and Bengali folk traditions, she moves between languages, genres and cities with unusual ease. We met in Delhi to talk about music, vulnerability, love, Baul songs, and the city she calls home: a city she describes not through monuments, but through jasmine at night, funeral fires on the Yamuna, and centuries of layered histories.
You began very young. Was music always part of your world?
My journey into music began when I was five years old. I come from a Bengali family and Bengalis are generally very connected to the arts. It is almost a given: if you are Bengali, you will somehow be involved in art. My parents put me into Hindustani classical music very early. I started when I was five. At the same time, I also had a knack for dance, so they enrolled me in Kathak classes with Pandit Birju Maharaj. He was legendary. He made Kathak one of the biggest art forms coming out of India and I was fortunate enough to learn from him. So music and dance existed together for almost a decade, maybe more. Then in school I explored many genres, and later I studied music in college. Looking back, it almost feels like the path had already been outlined for me.
Was there a moment when you realised music would become your life?
I had to choose. I was lucky because I was surrounded by encouragement, from family, friends, teachers. Everyone thought I would become an artist in some way. But eventually I had to choose between dance and music. I chose music when I was around sixteen because I decided to go to Berklee College of Music. Once I made that decision, dance had to take a step back. It was not a dramatic moment. It was simply choosing which door to walk through.
Your songs often feel deeply intimate. Where do they begin?
My songwriting is very introspective and very personal. I just finished an eleven-city tour called Dear Diary. I named it that because most of my songs start exactly like diary entries scribbles, notes, thoughts written on a random day. I never sit down thinking: This will become a song. It only becomes one when I decide to share it. And sharing music sometimes feels like wearing my heart on my sleeve in front of strangers.
Love remains one of the emotions I always return to because I think it gives birth to everything else. Romantic love, friendship, family, the relationship between a parent and a child… everything begins there. But I also write about discomfort. I released a song called Everything’s Fine? with a question mark because it questioned my own morality and our collective relationship with the Earth, how we keep digging our own grave. Music often makes me uncomfortable. Some songs are actually difficult to sing, especially in front of people I know. Strangely enough, that vulnerability becomes the point.
Why keep exposing yourself like that?
Because it is cathartic. It feels good in the end. I think art is not always meant to comfort us or help us escape. Sometimes it exists so that we face things, our problems, our fears, our own demons. When we are sad, we often use music as an escape route. For me, music is not always about escaping. Sometimes it is about facing reality.
How do songs arrive? Through words, melodies, rhythms?
First comes the idea. What am I writing about? That is always the first thing. Then the melody appears. Usually I sit with a guitar, play around with chords, and suddenly it comes. I know it sounds cliché, but that is honestly how it happens. The concept arrives first. Music follows naturally.
Which artists have shaped your musical world?
There are artists I deeply admire, though I would not say I sound like them. I love Spanish music. There is a flamenco singer I admire enormously, and I also love the Portuguese singer-songwriter Maro. People often ask why I feel drawn to Spanish or Portuguese sounds. I think it is because there are similarities with Indian music. Indian music has many inflections, and I hear echoes of them in Portuguese folk music, in flamenco, in those traditions. Historically, the Roma communities are believed to have travelled from Rajasthan to Europe, so perhaps those connections still exist. I feel attracted to those sounds. And I love those languages too. They roll beautifully off the tongue. Within India, one important influence has definitely been A.R. Rahman’s earlier work.
Books seem equally important in your creative world.
Absolutely. One of the biggest influences in my life was The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak. The book explores the relationship between Rumi and Shams. When I read it, maybe seven or eight years ago, it genuinely changed me. I realised there are relationships that go beyond simple categories. Was it friendship? Love? Teacher and student? Perhaps all of those at once. What moved me most was that both became teachers and both became students. That felt profoundly beautiful. I even wrote a song called Shams.
And interestingly, it also pushed me toward Hindi and Urdu writing because until then I had mostly written in English. I think in English, fortunately or unfortunately, but that song made me reconnect with my roots.
How does your Bengali heritage still appear in your work today?
My father played a huge role. He is a painter, but he also sings and writes poetry. Growing up, he introduced me to Baul music. I remember watching the legendary Baul singer Purna Das Baul live when I was about twelve. I do not think I was old enough to understand what he was singing, but I was old enough to feel it: I cried through the performance. To this day, I often end my concerts with a Baul song.
There is something about folk music, Bengali folk music, but really folk traditions everywhere, that connects us. It feels like trees sharing roots underground even when they stand miles apart. That is how I think music works. Flamenco reminds me of Rajasthani folk music. Somewhere there must be echoes in France too. We are probably connected in ways we do not realise.
Has India’s independent music scene changed since you started?
Yes. Independent music has more space now. Not dramatically, but definitely more than before. Social media helped. It gives visibility and reach. But it is both a blessing and a curse. Anyone can upload anything and success often depends on algorithms or moods. Still, independent musicians receive more respect today. The challenge is that India still does not have the same nurturing ecosystem you see in the West. Labels there often search for new talent, invest in them, help them grow. Here, the industry often prefers people who are already successful and simply makes them bigger. It is improving. Filmmakers increasingly want fresh sounds and independent musicians for their projects. But I think real change will happen when larger filmmakers start doing the same.
What is your relationship with Delhi?
Deep love. Of course there are contradictions. Delhi carries many prejudices now, crime, violence, pollution. These things exist and they disturb me. But Delhi is also three thousand years of history. This city has been built, destroyed and rebuilt repeatedly by empires and dynasties. Its history goes back to the Mahabharata. We are still sitting on that land. Who knows what this soil has seen? Delhi welcomed migrants during Partition. The place where we are sitting now is an immigrant colony. Many people here came from Pakistan. It almost brings me to tears.
Why is Delhi’s food so extraordinary? Because people arrived from everywhere carrying fragments of home. And they left them here. Now we get to taste those histories. There is a famous phrase: Dilli dil walon ki: Delhi belongs to people with hearts.
I am Bengali. My roots are in Kolkata. But I was born here. And I wish people would experience Delhi differently. Go beyond the monuments. Go to the ghats. Take a boat on the Yamuna. I remember watching the sunset once while a funeral pyre was burning nearby. The sun was orange. The fire was orange. The day was ending. A life was ending. Moments like that change your relationship with a city.
When you leave Delhi and think of it from afar, what scent comes back first?
Night jasmine. The flower is called Raat ki Rani. It blooms at night. Around winter, certain neighbourhoods suddenly smell of it. Delhi also smells of ghee because everyone is making sweets and laddoos. And incense. Sandalwood. That is Delhi for me.
Where do you go when you need inspiration?
Lodhi Garden. Always. That entire area (Jor Bagh, Lodhi Garden, Safdarjung Tomb) means something to me. My dance classes used to be there. Lodhi Garden has monuments, trees, people playing games, people simply living. It is Delhi in one place. I remember going to Safdarjung Tomb after finishing my school exams with my best friend. It was empty. That is the thing with Delhi. You have to live it. You cannot stay inside a car and decide what the city is. Yes, there are problems. There are bad people everywhere. But that is not Delhi. That is not the definition of this city.