Rishi Roy Sings About Things Most People Want To Hide

There’s something about being a misfit that makes you listen to music differently. For Rishi Roy, music wasn’t a hobby or a calling—it was an escape hatch. He was just a kid sitting on his bedroom floor, rewinding cassettes and pretending the world outside didn’t exist. He didn’t have a scene. He didn’t fit in at school. He barely spoke in class. But when he came home and turned on the radio, something in him softened. Music didn’t demand any explanations—it just sat with him. “I think I fell in love with music because it made me feel less lonely,” he says. “It was the only thing that didn’t make me feel like I was on the outside.” 

Rishi’s first performance happened almost by accident—someone handed him a mic in tenth grade and he found himself singing “Summer of ‘69.” “I still remember the standing ovation,” he says. “That was the first time I thought that I could be good at something.” Around that same time, he stepped into his first studio session—one he couldn’t afford. A friend paid his bill. “Two thousand rupees,” he recalls. “That’s what it cost. That’s what it took for me to start.” 

Finding the spark: For Rishi, the spark didn’t come from a label or a viral moment. It came every time he created something that reflected what he was feeling. “I get that ‘this is it’ feeling often,” he says. “Not because something blows up. But because it aligns. Because it sounds like me.” He doesn’t make music for mood boards or trends. He makes music to reconnect with himself, over and over again. It’s that honesty that’s led to his growing catalog of deeply personal songs. On tracks like “Agle Janam,” he’s melancholic and sparse, singing about the ache of a love that didn’t last, but still lingers. The track is quiet, almost tender, but it holds the kind of pain that doesn’t shout. On Delkochi, his collaborative album with long-time partner Dabzee, Rishi taps into something spiritual, not in a religious sense, but in the way the music reaches inwards. “We didn’t plan any of it,” he says. “It just happened. Two guys in an Airbnb in Delhi, pouring out everything we’ve ever lost, and everything we still believe in.” The album isn’t polished or overproduced, it’s raw, emotional, and deeply reflective. It feels like a late-night conversation with no filter, the kind you carry with you long after it ends. 

A sound for the sleepless: The title Delkochi comes with its own rhythm—a name that sounds like a place, but feels like a pause. “It’s for people who can’t sleep,” Rishi explains. “Our music is a kind of medicine. A warm cup of something you can sip on at 2 a.m., hoping you’ll rest a little easier.” Dabzee and he built the album like a shared diary—filled with grief, hope, and the tiny joys you don’t notice until you stop to feel them. “We’re not a factory,” he says. “We don’t sit down to make hits. We sit down to feel, and then the music follows.” They’ve made several songs together already, and many more are unreleased. “We’re just getting started,” Rishi mentions. Whether he’s writing, singing, producing, or just tearing down a full track because he doesn’t like the way it breathes—Rishi is all in. “I love every part of the process,” he says. 

The indie uprising: What’s perhaps most powerful about Rishi’s journey is that he made it without waiting for permission. “There was a time when you had to go through Bollywood or a label to get anywhere,” he says. “Now, you just need a song. You need your own voice.” One of his earliest tracks cost him just ₹1,500 to distribute. “And then it went viral,” he laughs. “That moment changed everything for me. It was validation. And it came from me.” He believes the rise of independent music is one of the best things to happen in India. “No one’s waiting to be discovered anymore. If you’ve got something real to say, people will find you. That’s the beauty of where we’re at.”

What lies ahead: Rishi has two EPs and an album on the way—each one touching new moods, genres, and collaborations. “I’m working with artists who’ve never been heard of before. And some who you already know,” he says. “It’s all about building something surprising. Something that sounds like growth.” He describes it as an adventure. A constant rediscovery. “My next record might sound nothing like my last one,” he says. “And that’s the whole point.” When Rishi thinks about the future of music in India, he sees freedom. “It’s no longer about fitting in,” he says. “Genres are blurring. Artists are finally creating without restrictions. That’s where real art lives.” He believes the most powerful thing happening right now is accessibility—more people making music, more stories being heard. “The future isn’t controlled by corporations. It’s in our hands. In our headphones. Every kid who posts a song from their bedroom.”  And if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s this: “Music will always be medicine. And there’s always someone out there who needs it.”