Who Owns Tradition? The 'Veera Raja Veera' Case And India’s Music Copyright Crossroads

When the exhilaratingly bouncy number from Mani Ratnam’s Ponniyin Selvan 2 swept across the nation in 2023, few listeners would have anticipated that Veera Raja Veera, composed by AR Rahman, would soon become the centrepiece of one of India’s most significant copyright battles. 

At the heart of this legal saga lies the provocative question: Where does inspiration end and infringement begin, particularly in a cultural landscape steeped in centuries-old musical traditions?

The flashpoint came when Ustad Faiyaz Wasifuddin Dagar, a Padma Shri-winning exponent of the Dhrupad tradition, filed a copyright lawsuit against Rahman and the makers of Ponniyin Selvan 2. Dagar’s argument was: Veera Raja Veera was not an original work, but a barely disguised copy of Shiva Stuti, a revered composition performed by his late father and uncle Ustad Faiyazuddin Dagar and uncle Ustad Zahiruddin Dagar, the acclaimed Junior Dagar Brothers. The alleged similarities spanned the entire musical structure of the two compositions, set to Raga Adana (which itself is similar to the more mainstream Raga Darbari Kanada.)

To be fair to Rahman and his team, in the song credits list, it was indeed mentioned that it was inspired by the 'Dhrupavani' tradition. Further, Arman Ali Dehlvi, and  Shivam Bhardwaja, both disciples of Dagar, have performed in the song's Hindi version. In any case, if he had wanted to cheat and be discreet about it, Rahman would not have openly involved sishyas of Dagar.

But the Dagar family wanted acknowledgement and compensation from Rahman and the film production house Madras Talkies. 

As it happened, Justice Prathiba M Singh of the Delhi High Court, agreed with Dagar. Rahman and his producers were ordered to deposit Rs 2 crore, update credits to specifically name the Dagar Brothers as sources, and pay damages to Dagar. 

Who really composed Shiva Stuti?

Rahman’s defence went beyond mere denial. He asserted that Shiva Stuti was part of the broader Dhrupad tradition, lying in the public domain, and his own composition was a distinct, layered creation. His legal team argued that India’s Copyright Act cannot be stretched to grant exclusive rights to custodians of ancient art forms simply because of stylistic resemblance or historical stewardship.

In the latest verdict in the case, a Bench of Justices C Hari Shankar and Om Prakash Shukla of Delhi High Court observed that the single judge of the High Court had erred in principle by treating evidence of the Junior Dagar Brothers having rendered and performed the Shiva Stuti composition as prima facie proof of their having composed it.

"At a plain glance, it is apparent that the material on which the Single Judge has placed reliance, though considerable, only reflect the Junior Dagar Brothers as having rendered, or performed, the suit composition Shiva Stuti at various points of time. The Junior Dagar Brothers have never been named, shown or identified, in any jacket, literature or inlay card, as the composers of the suit composition," news reports quoting the order said.

The court further opined that the claim of exclusive authorship over the composition Shiva Stuti, allegedly copied in Veera Raja Veera, could not be sustained. 'As the claim of authorship is rejected, there is no requirement to go into the other aspects of originality or infringement," the court said.

In the 93-page verdict, the court underscored the complexity of applying copyright law to classical music traditions. "If every musical composition were to be copyrighted by its author, the definition of Section 2 of the Copyright Act would have to be changed," noted the bench.

The classical ethos: Nothing is original, everything evolves

To properly understand and appreciate the irony and nuances of these modern disputes, one must look to Indian classical traditions.

For centuries, Carnatic and Hindustani music thrived in an oral world. The guru-shishya parampara (teacher-disciple lineage) meant that compositions were passed down not as fixed entities but as living organisms. Say, a Tyagaraja kriti, sung by different disciples, would acquire different colours. A sangati here, a rhythmic twist there, a variation of mood.

Ownership was irrelevant, but transmission was everything. The greatest pride of a guru was to hear his composition bloom in the voice of a shishya. The individuality lay not in creating something new but in reinterpreting the old.

In this milieu, music was not about ownership, it was about offering. About taking what’s old and making it new. About reminding us that in India, a song is never just a song. It’s history, memory, and emotion, all woven into melody.

Courts and arts don't go together

But the twentieth century changed everything. Gramophone records, All India Radio, and film studios brought music out of temples and courts into the marketplace. What was once communal became commodified. Law followed commerce. The Copyright Act created categories that were in contradistinction to the essential Indian musical ethos. Author, composer, original work, economic rights. Suddenly, that which had been shared became owned.

Indian musicians, ergo, had to straddle both worlds uneasily. Classical singers continued to perform ragas freely, but film composers began to assert authorship. The friction was inevitable.

The thing is courts are not natural arbiters of art. How does one prove 'originality' in a raga that has existed for centuries? What counts as infringement, a melodic phrase, a rhythmic cycle, or just a 'feel'?

Globally, courts have struggled. In the US, Robin Thicke and Pharrell Williams were penalised millions for Blurred Lines, deemed too close to Marvin Gaye’s Got to Give It Up. Led Zeppelin narrowly escaped conviction for Stairway to Heaven. The lawsuit, filed in 2014, claimed the iconic riff in Stairway to Heaven was stolen from Taurus, a 1968 song by Spirit's guitarist, Randy California.

In India, musically, the challenge is sharper. The entire system is built on shared scales and cyclical rhythms. To claim exclusive rights over them is to misunderstand their essence. For instance, many Tamil film songs, at least a few decades ago, were decidedly set to a raga (especially as used in a popular krithi). 

In the classical world, these would have been seen as homage, as creative re-visioning. In the modern world, they become lawsuits.

Legal tightrope ahead

And so, where gurus once smiled at disciples improvising, heirs now file petitions against composers.

But why this change? The answer lies in economics, as streaming platforms have turned music into data. Royalties are tracked per play. Live concerts fetch millions. Performers and producers, not unreasonably, now demand their slice.

The current situation in the music industry, in the event, lays bare the cultural and legal tightrope Indian creators and courts must walk in the digital era. Legal experts, either way, warn of a slippery slope. If traditional works performed by specific musical lineages receive exclusive copyright, innovation may stall and open creative commons shrink. On the other hand, failing to credit or compensate sources can erase the very heritage that makes Indian music unique.

So, the Veera Raja Veera case, still awaiting a detailed final verdict, will likely serve as a touchstone for how India’s music industry handles the blurry lines between communal heritage and modern authorship. 

Future disputes, already brewing as more creators reinterpret folk and classical motifs for mainstream audiences, will demand a more nuanced legal approach, one that appreciates both the sanctity of tradition and the necessity of creative evolution.

The battleground is set: in choosing how to credit, compensate, and inspire, India’s artistic and legal communities will shape not just the music of tomorrow, but the memory of what came before.