Hanita Bhambri Reinvents Herself with New Album ‘Shoharat’

Hanita Bhambri is in her hater era, her goth era, and maybe even her hip-hop era with Shoharat. Released on May 16, the Mumbai-based singer-songwriter also held a listening party with tarot card readings, specially crafted beverages like the LIIT-inspired Nasheeli Mohabbat and, of course, her songs last week. This showed that as much as Bhambri was the main character, it wouldn’t have happened without her friends, family, and fellow artists.

Her debut album, Shoharat, was preceded by singles like “Zeher,” “Daayan,” “Khoon,” and “Bhool Bhulaiya,” starting October last year. Bhambri saved plenty more punchy, irreverent numbers for the album, including “Bhediya,” “Macchar” and “Zillat.” A complete turn toward all things badass and unforgiving, Bhambri goes from mournful singer-songwriter to a give-a-damn pop artist. She tells Rolling Stone India what went into the makeover. Excerpts below:

Rolling Stone India: You’d dropped hints about this new sound and lyrical direction with your prior singles, starting last year. How was it received?

Hanita Bhambri: The way that I announced the shift was quite dramatic. I also archived all my old posts, and it rubbed some people the wrong way. But, pleasantly, there was more resounding support than there was criticism.

Most immediately resonated with the new aesthetic in “Zeher.” So many tripped over the darker textures and crazy lyrics in “Daayan,” the storytelling and easter eggs in “Khoon,” and the honesty behind “Bhool Bhulaiya.”

Some took a minute to adjust. But, I expected that. When you stop people-pleasing, the reactions become more polarized. And that’s when I knew I was doing something right.

Were there any comments that stuck with you? Did you get any negative feedback? Was the imagery a bit too dark for some people?

After the release of “Bhool Bhulaiya,” someone messaged me, “The toota khilona part made me cry. It feels like you’ve written that about me.” That stayed with me. There was also a lot of outpouring of appreciation for the visuals and songs. One of my favorite actors, Ayushmann Khurrana, also messaged to say how much he loves the hook of the song. Safe to say, I didn’t get any sleep that night.

And yes, some people might have felt it was “too intense,” “too dark,” “too angry.” But that’s the point. It was never meant to be comfortable. It was meant to be an expression of emotion.

Someone messaged me saying, “Your music scares me a little, but I can’t stop listening.” And I weirdly loved that. The darkness isn’t for shock—it’s for recognition

The trippiest comment was on the music video of “Khoon.” It said, “5 out of 6 of my girlfriends loved this song when I recommended it. 6th is no longer my GF.” I laughed so hard when I read that. Iconic.

I also loved how people were joining in on my hater train, saying they hate their ex, but at least they introduced them to my music. Love that [laughs].

You’ve got so many stories in here—about toxic friends, exes, and even society at large. What was it like turning off a filter and saying exactly what you wanted without worrying about how people would react?

To be honest, as I badass as I try to be, I find myself oscillating between “I don’t give a damn” and “What if they hate me?”

But writing this album forced me to stop censoring myself. I stopped asking, “Will this offend someone?” and started asking, “Is this true?” Some of it was written in anger, some in pain and grief. I’d be alone in my apartment screaming lyrics out loud at 3 am, then laughing at how savage they were.

But every word came from somewhere deep, from a place of anguish and angst, and I knew I’d rather be uncomfortable than dishonest with myself.

I wrote like no one was watching and then when it came time to release the songs, I’d moved on from a lot of my anger so I had to re-convince myself that I didn’t owe anyone my silence. I had to speak my truth the only way I knew—through songwriting and music. Growth for me was choosing to care more about my artistic expression than someone’s reaction to it.

What prompted the artistic reinvention?

I was sick of being underestimated. Sick of people thinking they can walk all over me and I won’t say anything ‘cause I’m too damn polite. Yes, I am very soft-spoken, but that softness was starting to rot under the weight of everything I held back. They mistook my silence for weakness. Well, I’m not silent now. I felt so much rage inside me, and I let my visual identity catch up with my internal world. I didn’t want to be “palatable” or nice anymore. I wanted the outside to reflect the rage, the fire. The reinvention wasn’t a costume, it was an armor.

I feel I desperately needed to reclaim power. The visuals—gothic, eerie, fierce—the clothes, the makeup. After years of shrinking myself to fit expectations, I wanted to dress like my rage, my grief, my defiance. I wanted to be seen the way I felt—not pretty, but potent.

You experiment with a bit of a hip-hop sound and rap as well. Did you take any kind of training/advice for that, or did you just go with your gut/wing it?

Pure instinct. I wasn’t trying to be a rapper—I was just angry.

I remember writing “Bhediya” in under 15 minutes after sobbing on the bathroom floor. I got up, I looked at the mirror and, reassuring myself, I said, “Bure sapne ki tarah bhool jaa” (Forget about it like a bad dream). I kept repeating it over and over again till it sounded biting and sarcastic and manic. Till it sounded like a threat. And then the rest of the words just flowed out of me in pure rage, and I recorded it on my voice notes app. The anger was just too intense and I just rapped. And the arrangement you hear on the song was initially for “Shoharat” (the title track). It’s mad, I know. But I heard it and I said to my producer, “How about we take this and increase it by 20 BPM and you send it to me.” And it just clicked. I just went into the studio and let the rage explode.

Later, I played the demo for a hip-hop artist, and he told me I shouldn’t rap cause it doesn’t sound great. He even told me I should consider not putting it on the album. That made me want to keep it on the album even more. Because the more someone tells me not to do something, the more I wanna do it. Because “Maine wahi likhna hai jo bhi meri rooh kahe”. I wasn’t trying to get it “right”—I was just trying to get it out.

Another conversation that comes up in pop music is about how artists often keep reinventing themselves, entering new eras, and creating new personas. Some of it is natural and a reflection of creativity, but sometimes it also happens when something in the past hasn’t worked. How do you see it, as both an artist as well as a fan of the likes of Taylor Swift?

As a fan, I love watching artists shapeshift, whether it’s Taylor, Sabrina, Charli XCX, or Billie Eilish. It makes them like I’m watching them grow. As an artist, I have so much creative hunger. I’ve had to burn parts of my identity just to be real with myself.

I was ready to give up on music and, at times, my life. Reinvention is not always a strategy. Sometimes it’s grief. Music has always saved [me]. It chose me even when I didn’t want to choose it anymore. It called me back cause it’s my home. And I love experimenting and learning new things. I just wanna create something that feels true to me right now. I wanna write songs that I resonate with right now. Not for applause. But because there’s a burning need for expression, like if I don’t write this song and put it out, it would kill me. That’s how I felt while making this album.

How did the album launch show go for the album? Any standout moment you’d like to share?

When I was writing the album, I knew I wanted to celebrate it surrounded by friends, family, and everyone who had worked so hard on bringing the album to life.

I wanted to invite people into the world we crafted for the album. So the theme of the party was goth. Dramatic, red lips, winged eyeliner, badass jewelry. And everyone looked so great. We had tarot readings and custom cocktails, and mocktails after the names of the songs. My favorite was “Nasheeli Mohabbat,” which was stronger than an LIIT. It was insane.

There were a lot of standout moments, but for me, it was my parents looking at me with so much pride and tearing up in the crowd. Bringing them on the stage and all of us sobbing and hugging. Given how shy they are, they were stunned looking at everyone who showed up for me. They felt so proud, it meant everything to me. When I had moved to Mumbai around one and a half years ago, I was completely alone in a new city—heartbroken, no friends, no one to talk to, alone with my thoughts, overlooked, humiliated, anxious, ready to give up. No one believed in me but them. They gave me the courage to get up and fight every single day. They told me I was born for this, and it’s my destiny. And it kept me going. That moment on stage? It was everything I’d fought for. It felt like closure and a beginning all at once.

So does Shohorat mark a new era, or do you feel it’s just one part of the multitudinous world of your artistry, and we might hear something different next? Another reinvention, perhaps?

Shoharat to me was a rebirth, it’s what I needed to write to survive. The only way I could reclaim my power in an industry that openly exploits artists. It gets messier, weirder and has an even more expansive story. I’m sure there are versions of me that I haven’t met yet. I don’t know what’s coming next yet, and that excites me. All I know is, I’m not done. Not even close.