If you have been keeping tabs on the narrow yet robust indie music scene in Nepal, you have surely stumbled upon Jerusha Rai. Rai has been covering songs by international artists—from Nick Drake to Ben Howard—while also releasing originals in between, such as Jimi and I Love a Man. Last year, she released her debut album, A Dark Place to Think, that featured seven English songs characterised by her vocals that rise a notch above a soft whisper and deeply personal lyrics. 

Rai released a new single recently, titled Barud, which marks a significant departure from her earlier body of work. For one, written in Nepali, the song is immediately accessible to many listeners that had not tuned into Rai’s English songs. Secondly, because it evokes themes from the decade-long Maoist insurgency, it takes flight from the personal signature that were a hallmark of her earlier songs and puts Barud firmly into a new strain of Nepali music willing to explore the dark underbelly and the deep scars that bind together our new republic. 

But you wouldn’t be able to tell it if you were judging the song on its video alone. Shot masterfully by Awesh Gurung, the shimmering visuals—which pan through breathtaking landscapes from the upper Himalays, river valleys and the open plains—you’d be forgiven for mistaking it for a hip new travel video at first. The drone footage is exquisite and extensively used; and is interspersed with some great time lapses fuse to create a montage that might have worked just as well for a ‘Visit Nepal’ promo. 

But Nepal is not all mountains and rhododendrons, despite what the chest-thumping patriotic ballads will have you believe. It is a land that is still struggling to come to terms with conflicts that left its citizens divided; its social fabric thread-bare. It is a land, pretty as it is, where, as Rai puts it, “Hawa ma ajhai barood ko gandha chha” (The smell of gunpower is still in the air). A land where, “Aankha ajhai ni banda cha” (Eyes are still wide shut).

You will not find a more minimalistic song than Barud this year. A shade over two minutes long and with just eight lines for lyrics, the song is in fact done and dusted before you know it. But Barud is sure to leave you with a strong melodic after-taste—not unlike the smell of gunpower that still wafts the air. 

Barud is no doubt a visual treat to look at, but when juxtaposed with the stirring lyrics and Rai’s haunting voice, it becomes so much more—a testament to the fact that not all powerful songs need be loaded with over-used clichés. 

Jerusha Rai represents the latest crop of musicians in Nepal’s indie scene—the new age musicians who grew up uploading their work on YouTube. These artists have been putting out works that take the narrative traditionally explored in Nepali music beyond its comfort zone and reflect the paradoxical times the musicians grew up in—for instance, Bartika Eam Rai’s powerful songs, Khai in particular, captures and redefines the ethos of the working-class Nepali; and Phatcowlee’s recently-released Cinema recalls and renews the sounds of Adhunik Nepali music. 

Now, Jerusha Rai’s Barud adds to that expanding canon, assuring us that Nepali music is well and alive beyond the mainstream tropes that seem to have been flogging a dead horse for the past two decades. Barud, when it released, might have made only a small splash on YouTube, but its ripples will hopefully resonate for a while to come.