The four Tetseo Sisters grew up listening to The Beatles and ABBA. But it were the folk songs of Nagaland that created a special bond. During periods of political unrest in Kohima, their father would turn up the radio so folk music would drown out the sound of gunshots. “That’s how music became a refuge for us,” says Mutsevelu Tetseo, also known as Mercy, the eldest of the four. Their growing attachment to music became so deep that, as children, they played a Tati—a traditional Naga string instrument; this one fashioned out of an Amul milk carton.
Today, Mercy, Azine, Kuvelu, and Alune carry forward their native, collective inheritance by singing in the Li tradition and in their mother tongue Naga Chokri. Their goal is to focus on both documenting and presenting traditional Naga folk to the world, and discover what can be unlocked with creativity. Their music blends Naga folk with contemporary pop sensibilities, creating a fusion that is rooted yet accessible.
The freedom to do this, they say, comes from Li tradition itself. “Li allows space for innovation and adaptation, so we sing the traditional chorus and add a few verses,” Mercy explains, “We wish to take our musical tradition forward while experimenting with songs, adding our little personal touches, but not tampering with the authenticity.” The audience, she reflects, is split in halves: some prefer traditional tunes while others enjoy the fusion numbers. The challenges lie in expression. “Li also has a fixed syllable pattern; it is hard to compress all thoughts in just five syllables!” Mercy says.
Their repertoire draws from everyday life in Nagaland. From songs sung in paddy fields while sowing the crop to lyrics personifying Kohima’s cherry blossom for first love, every melody tells the tale of Naga traditions, beliefs, and ways of life. Their songs are on love for their land and the pride in their identity, among which a few are eulogies to women. Mercy feels that this is Li history sung by its four keepers. “I love how there are multiple stories in all songs—one from the lyrics and another from the activity the song is meant for. When we’re telling these stories on stage, magic happens,” Mercy says.
That connection is palpable to audiences when they perform. “If you have a song in your heart, you’ll never be lonely,” they believe. Recently, they performed at Royal Enfield Social Mission’s Journeying Across the Himalayas. As the scarlet-washed stage rumbled with Naga drums, the sisters, dark haired with smiling faces, appeared in Naga shawls, draped skirts, and wearing elaborate headgear. As the band harmonised their voices, oscillating between shrillness and depth, the audience would have been transported to the rolling hills of Nagaland’s valleys, that shine yellow-green in sunlight.
The core of their music, they say, is to bring people together through rhythm. The Tati Song—which says ‘other lands are beautiful too, but there is no place quite like home’—resonates with Mercy deeply when she sings. She says, “We also have O Soneko—our version of the Sanskrit saying Atithi Devo Bhava—which says that we hope travellers take with them good memories when they leave our land. We recently performed a chant sung by the men of the village, meant to protect the village, and it was very exciting.”
Now in their 30s and 40s, though they don’t look it, the siblings create versatile music outside their melodies. Mercy is a musician in Mumbai and Lulu is a doctor in Delhi; the other two live in Nagaland. During shows, Mercy manages everyone’s travel, Azi and Kuku put together the costumes, while Lulu is responsible for the set list. “Being siblings, we have a natural sense of understanding and an equation that doesn’t need negotiation,” Mercy says, “There was a time when Naga students were kicked out of their rentals. We are still exoticised, but the world is now embracing different cultures. We still get that question ‘Are you Indian?’ but we have learnt to say ‘yes’ patiently.”
Despite being in Naga Chokri language, their music conveys their love for their homeland and a sense of rootedness in the stories they call their own. “Whenever we perform, people say that they have never experienced something like this, and it is poignant. We want to tell the world that this, too, exists; we are, and this is who we are.” She adds, “Our history is what the British saw, partly misunderstood, and documented. So we see our music as a chance, or rather a responsibility, to reclaim our stories and tell them in our way.” The hills of Nagaland remain alive with the sound of their music.