Shonar Bangla Circus: Was it the calm or the scream that drew you to them?
Looking ahead, the band is focused on movement: their latest music ill come alive on the road in the Mohashoshan Jatra (The Great Crematorium Journey), a deeper dive into the band’s collaborative spirit
It was one of those late-January afternoons that unfold without urgency – quiet, unassuming, and perfect for conversation. On a city rooftop, over cups of tea, I spent the day with a band that has been steadily finding its way into the playlists and minds of young listeners – awake enough to grapple with big ideas, curious enough to question the descent of humanity itself.
Away from the stage lights and amplified sound, Probar, Shakil and Saad revealed a different rhythm altogether – easygoing, thoughtful, and genuinely pleasant to be around.
This wasn't an interview in the conventional sense. It felt more like a hangout, the kind you remember long after it's over.
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Probar, so commanding on stage, was strikingly calm in person – measured in speech, philosophical in thought. Shakil carried a quiet shyness, his connection to music as deep and gritty as the strings he plays. Saad, composed and reserved, could easily be mistaken for a corporate professional rather than a core member of a hard-edged band.
Another presence lingered in the conversation: Seth, affectionately called "Pandu" by the others, who was out of the country at the time. Stories flowed easily in his absence, equal parts fondness and longing, underscoring the bond they share.
It was a rare glimpse into the band in their own element – no performance, no pretence. Just waking up, freshening up, and easing into conversations about life, music, and everything they've been immersed in lately. Like old friends catching up after a long pause.
For the uninitiated, this close-knit group is none other than Shonar Bangla Circus.
Formed in 2018, Shonar Bangla Circus emerged from Dhaka with ambitions that extended well beyond the usual contours of a rock band. From the outset, their work leaned heavily on surreal literature, long-form conceptual arcs, and a theatrical sensibility that's not something everyone can stomach.
Led by singer-songwriter Probar Ripon, the band's international lineup – American guitarist Seth Panduranga Blumberg, British keyboardist Saad Chowdhury, and bassist Shakil Haque – adds texture rather than novelty, grounding their sound in intent rather than spectacle.
Musically, their work often invites comparisons to artists from an earlier era, particularly in its patience and atmospheric build. But what sets Shonar Bangla Circus apart is not nostalgia; it is their refusal to simplify. Their songs unfold slowly, steeped in philosophical inquiry, interrogating ideas of civilisation, decay, and resistance with an almost literary seriousness. This is music that demands attention – and occasionally tests it.
That approach reached a wider audience with Hyena Express (2020), a debut concept album that traced the moral collapse of humanity through a carefully constructed narrative. Songs like "Epitaph" and "Mrittu Utpadon Karkhana" became entry points into a much larger idea, helping the band gain critical recognition while retaining its core complexity. The subsequent Hyena Express Experience tour translated that narrative into a live format, reinforcing their reputation as performers willing to blur the line between concert and performance art.
With Mohashoshan, their album released in January 2026, the band pushes its ambitions further still. The 17-track double album continues their overarching mythos, following a character named Droho through cycles of resurrection and rebellion against mankind itself. At times sprawling and deliberately overwhelming, the record tests the limits of its own scale.
Yet it is precisely this excess – this unwillingness to edit its worldview down to size – that cements Shonar Bangla Circus as a singular presence in the Bengali rock landscape, operating on its own terms, indifferent to trend or convenience.
What makes them click with the youth?
For Shonar Bangla Circus, the music truly comes alive on stage. Their concerts are volatile, improvisational, and often teeter on chaos.
When asked why young audiences resonate with their themes of resistance and idealism, Saad gives an unexpected answer: "The first audience is really just us in the band. We make a sound we like. With that, there is no deliberate targeting. The audience gets drawn to something authentic and unpredictable."
Moments of connection can be profound. Saad recalls one show where it was pouring rain and police tried to shut them down. Amid the disruption, an 18-year-old boy knelt in the rain, shirt open, singing every lyric. "I realised we were doing something to that person that I can't even fully comprehend."
That "off the rails" unpredictability, he says, is what draws people in.
"People like that it's energetic and a little chaotic," Saad adds.
The connection is particularly strong with youth, who Ripon believes occupy a brief window of emotional freedom before societal pressures take hold. "Youth under the age of 30 haven't been 'censored' by the economy yet…Once they get married and have kids, the 'fall' starts."
Young listeners, still unencumbered by compromise, respond to honesty and defiance in small gestures – like Ripon lying down on stage, which they interpret as protest against a world too routinely. Older or prematurely jaded spectators may misunderstand it, but for Ripon, performance is not grandeur: "Singing isn't a 'big task'. It's like a farmer weeding a field. The true weight of the world is carried elsewhere."
On the long 3-year wait
Questions about excess followed immediately following the band's second album – released on 8 January – for its sprawling 17-track lineup that defies contemporary industry expectations.
Probar rejects the premise. For him, Mohashoshan feels large only because "there is too little of this kind of work happening." He situates the album in the tradition of 1990s musicianship, when double albums and long tracklists were common and music was pursued as a life-defining commitment rather than a side pursuit. Industry pressures, he argues, should not dictate song length, format, or artistic output.
The album's scale emerged organically. During a touring break after Hyena Express, Probar, Shakil and Pandu ended up writing 32 songs in 22 days. Narrowing them down proved painful, eventually resulting in a double album developed over three years. That wait fueled skepticism, but Probar considers doubt part of the process, which was only understood once the album was released.
Creatively, Mohashoshan marks a decisive shift. Moving away from Western rock templates, the band sought sounds rooted in the land itself. Folk instruments became foundational, valued for their raw energy. For a band named Shonar Bangla Circus, Probar says, grounding the music in "Bangla" was essential.
Much of the album's expansive sound comes from Saad Chowdhury, whom Probar credits with shaping its sonic identity. Drawing on his Western classical training, Saad built dense orchestral layers. The result, he says, is an "orchestral circus" – a record designed to unfold slowly, revealing something new with every listen.
On understanding lyrics thru emotion
For Shonar Bangla Circus, understanding music transcends literal meaning. It is a feeling, from the tension in the voice, power in the music – enough to "ride the wave".
Probar situates this instinct in a universal context. "It's like when we listen to Azerbaijani, Spanish, or Latin music. Most of us don't understand the lyrics, but we might cry because of the tune or the singer's expression. Music has its own power." That intuition extends to live performances, where spontaneity guides the band.
In Ondho Buror Blues (Blind Old Man's Blues), Probar reads a poem without telling the band which one or what scale he will use. The others respond instinctively, translating emotion into sound.
This responsiveness, almost telepathic at times, shapes the band's dynamics. Saad calls Probar and Pandu "amazing conductors," while bassist Shakil places Probar at the heart of the project. "I honestly don't know what Sonar Bangla Circus would be without Probar. He is the heart of it."
For Probar, writing is an act of boundless freedom: "From under the ground to the sky, to space, and back into a violin's bow. It's just a poem."
That philosophy informs Mohashoshan, particularly "Bertho Manush" (Unsuccessful Man), where the song challenges modern definitions of success imposed by economic frameworks.
"A man might be excellent at cutting grass or playing the flute, but because he doesn't earn Tk1 lakh a month, he is labeled a 'failure,'" Probar says.
Myth and message at the heart of Mohashoshan
At the core of Mohashoshan (The Great Crematorium) lies a narrative of fear, collapse, and resistance – an extension of questions first explored in Shonar Bangla Circus's debut.
"Our first album was about human civilisation on the brink of nuclear destruction," explains Probar Ripon. In this imagined world, survival is unequal, and power operates through terror: "The rich might survive, but they use fear to control us. In that state of fear, the brain stops working."
The story begins with death. The central character is executed and buried, represented in the song "Epitaph." Rebirth follows, bringing awareness and, eventually, anger.
"He realises, 'They killed me and I tolerated it? Do I have no power? Am I not a part of nature?'" That awakening leads him away from human structures toward the natural world, encountering a dying Forest God who charges him with resisting humanity's destructive force.
The protagonist, named Droho (Rebellion), abandons the "blind city" to align with animals and plants. Yet the story offers no comfort: human arrogance persists, and catastrophe is inevitable. "Ultimately, humans detonate their bombs, and the earth is destroyed," Probar says.
The message, Ripon insists, is not metaphorical. It is explicit: "This earth does not belong to humans alone; every creature has an equal right to live."
For Ripon, Mahashashan reflects observation as much as imagination. Environmental destruction, urban isolation, and disconnection from nature are not abstract – they are daily realities. "Humans have destroyed the habitats of orangutans and white rhinos…we are becoming depressed."
Modern life, he argues, sacrifices belonging for comfort, rendering people "comfortably numb." The consequences extend to future generations, as humanity trades connection to the world for economic gain.
In the album, Shonar Bangla Circus delivers this critique loudly and mythically, refusing consolation. It is a mirror held to civilisation, uncompromising and urgent, demanding that listeners confront the trajectory of human progress and its cost to the earth and the self.
Many worlds, one band
What makes Shonar Bangla Circus hard to categorise is not just its sound, but the extraordinary convergence of lives behind it: Bengali classics, folk poetry, Western classical training, American blues, hip-hop, ghazals, corporate and village backgrounds – all coexisting seamlessly.
The band's evolution mirrors that refusal to conform. Their rise was organic, born from experimentation rather than ambition.
"We didn't start this to be a 'big band,'" Probar recalls. Early performances at small venues like Jatra Biroti, and unpromoted recordings, were exercises in curiosity.
"People were tired of standard love songs…There are other things: a dead crow in a dumpster, or a piece of wood being burned. Those things have a 'cry' too," he explains.
For the band, art is a responsibility: "It's the artist's job to show what the world hasn't seen," drawing on the freedom of modern poetry to expand perception.
Bassist Shakil, who joined in 2018, immediately recognised the band's organic vision. He sketches each member with clarity and affection. "Probar is a 'proper' Bangladeshi boy – born and raised here, a poet with original, piercing ideas. Saad brings a different, calm vibe but is musically very sharp. Pandu brings the entire 60s and 70s catalog and hip-hop experience from America."
Shakil himself brings a hybrid background, shaped by time in the Middle East, India, and Bangladesh, along with early exposure to Nazrul Sangeet and Ghazals.
Shakil's own life has been nomadic, absorbing cultures rather than settling into one. Those early influences still surface. Yet what defines the band, he says, is not discussion or negotiation, but instinct. "When we come together, everyone is an 'original.' We don't sit around and discuss 'where should we take this song.'"
Years of shared performance have made that communication almost predictive. Behind that organic flow, however, is intense unseen labour. Much of it, the band says, was carried by Pandu.
The band's story is also one of chance and continuity. Ripon met Shakil in 2009; after nine years abroad, a single phone number reconnected them, leading to the band's current lineup. Diversity is central: "Our music doesn't sound like it's from one specific zone…We just bloom toward the music like a sunflower blooms toward the sun."
Ripon's own path into music is as unorthodox as the band itself. Raised in Modhupur village in Jhenaidah, freedom came early.
"My father was a teacher and businessman. I was the younger brother, so I had no responsibilities and did whatever I wanted." Dhaka brought both rupture and clarity.
"During a statistics exam at Commerce College, it started raining." What followed ended his academic career there.
"Looking out at the Turag River, I started writing poetry on my exam paper instead of the answers."
Expulsion became confirmation. "I realised then that I was born to write and sing."
Charukala offered not structure, but space. "I didn't actually paint there. I used the space because I could sing and 'scream' loudly for 17 hours a day without bothering neighbors."
The campus remembers. "Every inch of Charukala knows my voice." That voice – especially the scream – made an impression on Shakil.
"That 'scream' is what drew me to him. It isn't just yelling; it's a technical vocal skill."
Looking ahead, the band is focused on movement: their latest music ill come alive on the road in the Mohashoshan Jatra (The Great Crematorium Journey), a deeper dive into the band's collaborative spirit.
Ripon stresses collaboration, naming Dhol, trumpet, folk percussion, and violin as key contributors. Requests to listeners are simple: "Please listen to it carefully…Don't force anyone else to listen."
As for what comes next, Ripon hints at abundance without promise. "We have a lot of songs saved up."
Shakil grounds it gently. "We will try our best. The world plays its role, and we will play ours."
No grand declarations – just continuity, movement, and a band still blooming toward its sound.
