As a child, Reble often felt she was watching life from the sidelines. Now, at 24, the rapper has become one of the most compelling new voices in Indian hip-hop.
Hailing from the rain-soaked hills of Meghalaya in India’s northeast, Reble raps in English as well as Khasi and Jaintia – indigenous languages spoken by tribal communities in the region – and writes about distance, reinvention and survival with an emotional restraint that feels unusually deliberate.
Until recently, she was known mostly within Shillong’s close-knit music circles, in a city better known for rock bands, church choirs and old guitar legends than hip-hop.
Her breakout moment came with Dhurandhar, the Bollywood action film whose soundtrack introduced millions to her cool, clipped delivery. On tracks like Run Down the City: Monica, Naal Nachna and Move – Yeh Ishq Ishq, Reble’s restrained verses cut through the film’s louder, more chaotic energy, quickly making her a fan favourite.
Reble’s rise reflects a wider shift, as artists from India’s northeast begin finding audiences far beyond the region. Wedged between Bangladesh, China and Myanmar, the northeast has long felt culturally distant from the mainland, with many from the region speaking of being treated as outsiders in their own country.
What makes Reble compelling is her refusal to soften herself for wider consumption – she resists explaining, translating or flattening her world into something more familiar.
“I don’t like anybody telling me what to do,” she tells the BBC.
That stubbornness – the sense of not quite fitting in – was shaped early in life.
Before the stage name, she was Daiaphi Lamare, a girl moving through boarding schools with what she now describes as a constant feeling of being out of place.
“Young Reble,” she says, laughing softly, “was always by herself. No friends. Sitting in one corner. Everybody was like, who’s that weird girl?”
Reble/Homegrown MusicThe loneliness hardened into her personality. Teachers found her difficult; she disliked routine and authority. “I was a bit of a troublemaker,” she says.
Science became one of the few things that could hold her attention. An engineering degree in Bengaluru followed, though she speaks of it now like a temporary detour. “I knew I won’t be able do a nine-to-five.”
That resistance eventually became the defining act of Reble itself.
The stage name, she explains, is less persona than alter ego – “a very personal rebellion”. Rap gave shape to emotions she did not know how to organise earlier. “It became the perfect medium to express this feeling of being a misfit,” she says.
That tension still runs through her music. While many Indian rappers showcase big personalities and emphatic bravado, Reble’s style feels tighter and more restrained – less explosive anger and more something quieter and personal.
Her rhymes move instinctively between languages. Years spent away at boarding schools meant English gradually became dominant, though Jaintia – the language spoken at home – remains, as she puts it, “my emotional anchor”.
“When I write in Jaintia, it’s a very personal emotion,” she says. “But I’m also not very fluent in the language unfortunately.”
The contradiction feels central to her work: local and global at once, deeply rooted yet emotionally detached.
There are other ironies too. For someone now praised for her lyrics, Reble insists she dislikes writing. “I can’t write,” she says bluntly. “I get bored and I make mistakes.” Even now, most of her lyrics exist as scattered notes and unfinished scribbles.
Her growing popularity has also brought backlash. Some listeners accused her of “selling out” after her Bollywood breakthrough, while others online claimed her music was anti-Christian or even 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 more like experimentation than compromise. “If I’m singing for a film, I enjoy that,” she says. “But I’m picky about the projects I take.”
Part of Reble’s mystique comes from Shillong itself.
In Meghalaya’s capital, music spills constantly through public life: church choirs rehearsing late into the evening, teenage metal bands in garages, blues musicians drifting through dimly-lit bars.
Reble emerged from that ecosystem, but also from a newer internet-shaped version of the city where local influences collided with global hip-hop and trap.
She says she connected with Eminem’s work early on – especially the feeling of being out of step with the world around you and turning that alienation into music. Her favourite song is Beautiful, and its mix of vulnerability and defiance quietly echoes through her own work.
Getty ImagesYet for all its global influences, Reble’s work remains deeply tied to Meghalaya. In Opening Act, she raps: “I’m a Jaintia making moves/ I’m a tribal.”
She traces that pride back to the village her family comes from and specifically the women she grew up around.
Like many northeastern Indians living elsewhere in the country, she also 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. “Coming out from a region like that, I feel very proud.”
Back home, she says, people have responded emotionally 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.
If her rise appears sudden from the outside, Reble sees it simply as the result of persistence.
“The biggest lesson so far is that consistency is key,” she says. 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’s a refusal to romanticise struggle, even while turning it into art.
Indian pop culture is increasingly becoming decentralised, with some of its most interesting energies now emerging from places once treated as fringe. The big cities no longer decide what feels culturally relevant so much as they absorb it.
And somewhere above the foggy hills of Shillong, a young rapper seemed to have understood that long before everyone else did.
