'Millionaire' Lyrics Controversy: How Much Does A Beat Excuse The Bars?

So when Yo Yo Honey Singh and Karan Aujla were recently summoned by the Punjab State Women’s Commission for allegedly misogynistic lyrics in their song Millionaire, the question wasn’t just why, but why now?

In India, the lines between art, entertainment and accountability are often blurred—more so when the beat slaps and the dance floor fills. Controversy surrounding lyrics isn't new. Misogyny in music, like misogyny in society, has always been present—normalised, remixed, and, more often than not, blasted out of wedding speakers and nightclub sound systems without so much as a raised eyebrow.

To be clear, "Millionaire", released in July 2024, is another Punjabi-English pop-rap collaboration between two of India’s most commercially successful artists. The song, while catchy, has drawn sharp criticism for lines that many have interpreted as objectifying and demeaning to women.

It's not their first brush with controversy. Honey Singh, in particular, has had a long and messy history with misogynistic lyrics—some so explicit that they've been banned from airplay.

In 2013, public outrage and multiple FIRs (First Information Reports) were filed over lyrics that glorified sexual violence. That led to Singh taking a long hiatus, a period marked by addiction, alleged mental health struggles, and eventually, a heavily marketed comeback.

Karan Aujla, while less controversial, is no stranger to lyrical bravado. Known for his metaphor-heavy Punjabi writing, he has largely escaped the scrutiny Singh has endured. But with "Millionaire", both artists now face formal notice—a legal one, not just a Twitter storm demanding explanations for lyrics that allegedly degrade women.

Are Lyrics Just Lyrics?

Should we be policing lyrics? Should musicians be forced to justify every metaphor, every exaggeration, every boast? Or, in a country where free speech is constitutionally protected but inconsistently practised, are we simply witnessing the tightening leash of cultural conservatism disguised as moral policing?

This isn’t to say the criticism is unfounded. Far from it. I remember being 12 the first time I heard a Honey Singh track at a friend’s birthday party. I didn’t know what “misogyny” meant then, but I understood what the lyrics felt like. They were not only objectifying, they were also aggressive, flippant, soaked in a hyper-masculine energy that reduced women to props. And yet, the beat was fire. That’s the Honey Singh paradox: you hate it, but you still dance to it.

It’s not just an Indian issue. Hip-hop, globally, has had a long, fraught relationship with how it portrays women. Take American rapper A$AP Rocky, who in a 2015 debate at Oxford University's Oxford Union, the world's most prestigious debating society, was challenged for his lyrics.

His response?

He wasn’t misogynistic because he, “I’m just speaking on situations I’ve been in. If I’ve been with a bunch of girls and things went sour, then I might rap about that. But that’s not the only side. I talk about people in general. I don’t degrade women intentionally.”

He also added, “I know sometimes I come off as misogynistic. But I’m not trying to degrade women. I’m just talking about what I know.” It’s a weak defence, but it reflects a pattern: artists rarely see themselves as contributors to societal harm, especially when their music “just reflects reality.”

But who defines reality? And when that reality includes violence against women, should music not be more responsible?

The Curious Case of Chamkila

This debate isn’t new to Punjabi music either. Amar Singh Chamkila, the maverick singer of the 1980s whose raunchy lyrics about sex, infidelity, and social taboos drew massive crowds, and enemies, was shot dead in 1988 under still-murky circumstances.

His lyrics weren’t misogynistic per se; they were frank, scandalous, and unashamedly honest about rural Punjab’s underbelly. Netflix’s Chamkila, directed by Imtiaz Ali, explores this complex legacy, how one man’s freedom to sing became a threat to societal norms.

In that light, is "Millionaire" just a modern update to the same tradition—blunt, flashy, and controversial? Or is it a regressive throwback to a brand of masculinity we should have left behind?

Let’s not pretend this is an easy debate. On one hand, freedom of speech is vital, and artists should be able to provoke, question, even offend. But when that provocation consistently reinforces gender stereotypes and normalises toxic behaviours, doesn’t society have a right to push back?

We’ve seen comedians arrested, films delayed, books banned. And now, it seems, songwriters are next in the crosshairs. But if there is to be a cultural reckoning, it needs to be nuanced. Not every sexually suggestive lyric is misogynistic. Not every critique is cancel culture.

Yo Yo Honey Singh has been on a reputation rehab tour for years—toning down his lyrics, cleaning up his image, even speaking out against drugs. "Millionaire" may be a misstep, or it may be a reflection of how deep these attitudes still run.

Either way, the larger question remains: when we consume this music, dance to it, stream it, lip-sync it on Instagram, are we complicit in its message? Or are we just enjoying a good beat?

Perhaps the real issue isn't what’s being sung, but how comfortably we keep listening.