Aksomaniac

“I named it Kanmashi because I grew up in a household where my role felt too predetermined. Even something as small as putting kohl on my eyes became an act of self-assertion — it was one of the first ways I took control of how I presented myself. Kanmashi was not written overnight; it grew from everyday moments of choosing myself in how I dressed, looked, and moved through the world,” says Aron.

“When I started writing Kanmashi and the piano rolls came in, the sound felt happy but carried a hint of mystery and sadness. The riff sits in that in-between space, neither fully happy or sad, accurately conveying the mixed emotions I experienced while trying to understand myself.”

Aron’s journey into music was not a straight choice. As a child, he tagged along to Carnatic music classes because his sister went, but he never felt connected to it. After a brief stint with the tabla, his school teacher encouraged him to try the keyboard.

“My parents bought me a piano, and that changed everything for me. I began practising intensely, sometimes up to nine hours a day. I was attracted to the instrument’s scale and presence,” Aron says.

Aksomaniac

When Covid hit, Aron found time to focus fully on music. Encouraged by a friend, he moved from covers to creating original songs. For Aron, songwriting is like a diary, a way to share feelings he might not otherwise express. “In hip hop or R&B, it’s all about speaking your truth. The sound, lyrics, and narrative all come from where I am in life and what I’m feeling. I try to be honest and sincere, sharing vulnerability without making listeners uncomfortable,” he says.

But the Carnatic influence runs deep in his music. For him, genre is no longer a creative starting point — it’s a retrospective label.

He says, “I don’t start a song thinking R&B, hip-hop, or Carnatic. I just follow instinct, maybe a melody on the piano, drums, I feel in the moment, and let it grow from there. Genre only comes in later, to help curators or guide listeners.”

Writing in Malayalam was challenging for Aron, especially without formal training, but it was not something he could not handle.

“Lately, Malayalam films have opened tough conversations, but songs have not really gone there yet. I did not have many examples to follow, which made writing Kanmashi challenging,” he says.

In Kanmashi, Aron uses mythology to connect with the theme. He draws on Gandharvan, the demi-god of music and love, and Manmadhan, the god of love, to express the mix of joy and insecurity he felt. As he says, “I imagined a love god embracing and validating me during those uncertain times.”

Aksomaniac

This is just the beginning for Aron. Along with Kanmashi, he plans to release songs like Papam, Aliyum, and Karupp as part of a larger project titled Varthamanam. Papam explores themes of sexual autonomy and cultural taboos around intimacy in India, while Karuppu stands as an anthem celebrating brown identity in Kerala. More tracks and stories will unfold as the project develops.

Aron sees this moment as a turning point for indie music in Malayalam.

“Indie artists now get to decide what they say on a record, something we didn’t have before. I love film music; most of my favourite songs come from Malayalam cinema, but those songs primarily serve the film. Indie music, on the other hand, lets artists share personal truths, strong, even controversial, opinions, and connect directly with audiences. There are many stories beyond what films can tell, so why not have musicians tell theirs too?” he smiles.