In an age where cruelty can go viral faster than compassion, singer-songwriter Shweta Harve is turning her pain into power—and her voice into a vessel for healing. With her bold new single “What the Troll?”, Harve confronts the digital venom of online hate with unflinching grace and fearless honesty. But this is more than a protest song—it’s a deeply personal reckoning, born from real wounds and spiritual resilience. In this intimate conversation, Shweta opens up about being silenced, rising through the noise, and discovering the quiet truth that no troll can touch. From the little girl who once doubted her voice to the woman now using it to uplift others, Harve reminds us that sometimes the most radical act of defiance… is remembering who you really are.
Shweta, you’ve written a song that takes direct aim at online hate. But let me ask you, have you ever personally been the victim of trolling—and how did that experience shape the woman we see today?
Absolutely. “What The Troll?” also comes from a personal place. I’ve had people tell me to my face—and behind a screen—that I shouldn’t sing, and that pursuing a career in music was a joke. It wasn’t just criticism; it was meant to break my spirit. But over time, those very words became fuel. They made me dig deeper, train harder, and stay true to my voice.
So yes, I’ve faced trolling, both subtle and loud. But instead of letting it define me, I let it refine me. Today, the woman you see is someone who sings because they said I couldn’t, and writes songs like this because people tried to silence me. This track is my way of standing up—not just for myself, but for anyone who’s ever been told they’re not enough.
Your voice is gentle, but in “What the Troll?” you sound fearless. Where does that courage come from? Were you always this strong?
I wasn’t always this grounded. In the beginning, trolling would sting deeply. I mistook the voice of the world for the truth of who I was. But as I began walking the path of self-inquiry, I realized that those voices were just noise—reflections of illusion, the illusion that keeps us tied to fear and separation.
The courage you hear in “What the Troll?” doesn’t come from ego or defiance. It comes from stillness. From knowing that no comment, no troll, can touch the essence of who I truly am. That fearless sound is not just my voice—it’s the voice of awareness waking up to itself. And once you taste even a drop of that truth, no hate can shake you.
If I were to speak to the little girl you once were, what would she say about the woman you’ve become?
If you were to speak to the little girl I once was… she might look at me wide-eyed, almost in disbelief. She’d probably whisper, “Is that really me?”—not because of the stage or the music, but because of the quiet strength in my voice now.
You see, that little girl was sensitive, full of wonder, but also deeply unsure of her place in the world. She wanted to sing, to create, to express—but was unsure. She carried those doubts like heavy stones, believing they defined her.
But if she could see me today, she’d realize something sacred: that all those judgments, all those voices—were never real. They were passing clouds. And beneath them, there was always light. Always that still, unshaken presence the sages speak of. The Self that cannot be wounded, cannot be diminished.
I think she’d be proud. Not because I’ve proven anyone wrong, but because I’ve stopped needing to. She’d see a woman who no longer seeks validation, because she has touched something far deeper: the knowing that she is already whole.
And I would tell her, gently: “You were never broken. You were just waiting to remember who you really are.”
You’re using your art to confront cruelty—something very real in the digital world. But what gives you hope, Shweta, that kindness can still win?
Cruelty online is very real. It can be loud, relentless, and at times dehumanizing. But what gives me hope is the quiet power of awareness—the understanding that beneath all the noise, we are not separate. That the same consciousness looking out through me is looking out through you.
Duality is an illusion. The hate we see is just a shadow born of ignorance—people mistaking themselves to be incomplete, isolated egos trying to protect something fragile. But when even one person awakens to the truth of our shared essence, something shifts. Compassion becomes possible. Connection becomes real.
What gives me hope is seeing how art—music, words, a single honest voice—can cut through that illusion. When someone messages me saying, “Your song made me feel seen,” or “I thought I was alone until I heard this,” I know kindness is still alive.
Kindness isn’t weak. It’s the force that arises when the ego dissolves. It’s not louder than hate—but it’s deeper, more enduring. And I believe that every act of love, no matter how small, reverberates beyond what we can see. In knowing that, I place my hope. And in that space, I create.
You’ve partnered with dancers, composers, and engineers to bring this vision to life. What did it teach you about the power of collaboration—and the vulnerability of trust?
Bringing “What the Troll?” to life was never a solo journey. It was a dance of many minds, hearts, and energies coming together—and that in itself was a lesson in surrender. When you collaborate, especially on something this personal, you have to be willing to let go of control. That’s where trust comes in.
Working with dancers, composers, and engineers taught me that creation isn’t about one voice leading—it’s about many voices listening. And that’s deeply aligned with the idea where the separate self is seen as an illusion. In true collaboration, the ego has to step aside so that something greater—the unified expression—can come through.
Of course, that also means being vulnerable. You’re not just sharing a polished idea; you’re revealing your raw thoughts, your imperfect drafts, your fears. But when you’re held in a space of trust, you realize that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s the gateway to authenticity.
I learned that collaboration is not just about skills—it’s about energy. It’s about aligning with people who honor the emotional truth of what you’re creating. And when that alignment happens, it’s magic. It’s not “me” or “them” anymore—it’s us. A shared frequency. A single intention moving through many forms.
That, to me, is the real power of collaboration: the realization that we were never creating alone—we were always co-creating with each other, and with something divine.
You sing, “I won’t feed you, nor react.” But is there ever a moment where silence feels like surrender? How do you know when to speak, and when to walk away?
Yes, silence can feel like surrender—if it’s coming from fear. If you’re silent because you feel powerless, or because you’ve internalized the hate, then it’s a silence of suppression. I’ve been there before. I know what it’s like to hold back just to avoid conflict. But the silence I sing about in “I won’t feed you, nor react” is different. It’s not submission—it’s discernment. The wisdom to distinguish between the real and the unreal. And I’ve come to see that not every battle is worth fighting, especially when the “enemy” is just noise born of ignorance and ego. There is a deep power in silence when it comes from clarity. When I know who I am—not as a role or a personality, but as consciousness itself—then I don’t need to react. I can see the projection for what it is and simply not engage. That’s not weakness; that’s freedom. At the same time, there are moments to speak. When my silence would allow harm, or when my voice could lift someone else out of their own darkness—then I speak. But not from anger. From presence. From stillness. So for me, it’s not about always being quiet or always fighting back. It’s about being rooted enough to choose. To respond, not react. To walk away—not in defeat, but in dignity.
This song is bold and direct. But when you go home, when the music fades—what quiet truth do you hold onto most?
When the music fades, when the lights go down and I’m just sitting with myself—what I hold onto most is the truth that I am not this noise. I am not the praise, the criticism, the fear, or even the voice that sings. All of that rises and falls. What remains is silence. Awareness.
Beneath all our identities—artist, daughter, fighter, friend—there is a still, unchanging Self. That’s what I come home to. That’s the space where I don’t have to prove anything, protect anything, or perform. I can just be.
It’s easy to get caught up in the intensity of this world—especially when you’re putting out bold art that confronts real issues. But the quiet truth I live by is that I am already whole. I don’t need the world to approve or applaud to feel real. The song may be fierce, but the soul behind it is at peace.
And that peace—more than the words, more than the melody—is what I hope to pass on. Because when the world feels loud, it’s that quiet truth that becomes the most revolutionary thing of all.
You’ve said this song is more than music—it’s a message. If the worst internet troll in the world were listening right now, what would you say to them?
If the worst internet troll in the world were listening right now, I think I’d first take a breath—and then I’d say this:
I see you. Not just the hate you’re throwing, not just the anger or cruelty in your words—but the pain underneath it. Because no one lashes out like that unless they’re hurting. No one tries to dim someone else’s light unless they’ve forgotten their own.
And that’s the thing. You haven’t been forgotten by life. You’ve just forgotten yourself—your real self. The part of you that is beyond fear, beyond comparison, beyond the need to destroy to feel seen.
The same divine presence lives in all of us. Even you. Even me. We are not separate. And so, while I won’t absorb your hate, I also won’t return it. I’ll stand firm in who I am, I’ll draw boundaries—but I won’t let you make me forget that you, too, are a spark of that same consciousness.
So no—I won’t feed you. I won’t react. But I will keep shining. Because maybe, just maybe, one day, that light will remind you of your own.
Many young people look up to you for your strength. What would you say to someone facing relentless bullying online, someone who feels alone in the fight?
To anyone out there who feels alone right now—especially if you’re facing cruelty online—I want to say: I see you. I’ve been where you are. And I know how heavy it can feel when the world throws shadows at your light.
But please hear this: you are not the names they call you. You are not their projections. You are not their noise. You are something far deeper—far purer—than any of that. You are the awareness watching all of this unfold. And that awareness? It’s untouched. Whole. Divine.
We suffer when we forget who we truly are—when we start believing we are just the body, just the mind, just someone’s target. But the truth is, you are not broken. You are not weak. You are the limitless consciousness. You are already complete.
Yes, it’s okay to feel hurt. It’s okay to cry. Don’t suppress your pain. But don’t let it define you, either. You are allowed to log off, to protect your peace, to say no more. And in that silence, remember: even if the world can’t hear your worth right now, it doesn’t mean it’s not there. Keep creating. Keep healing. Keep choosing yourself—even when it feels hard. Especially then.
And if you ever doubt your light, borrow a little bit of mine—until you remember it was always yours to begin with.
And finally, Shweta—if you could be remembered not for your voice, not for your music, but for just one thing—what would it be?
If I could be remembered for just one thing, beyond my voice or music, it would be for being a spark of kindness and courage in a world that often forgets how powerful love truly is.
I want to be remembered as someone who didn’t just sing about change but lived it—who faced fear and hate with an open heart, who chose compassion over anger, and who helped others see their own light when the world tried to dim it.
Because at the end of the day, music fades, voices quiet, but kindness—that ripple of love—can awaken souls and shift the world in ways words alone never could.
So if I leave behind anything, I hope it’s the reminder that courage and kindness are not opposites, but the same flame, burning bright even in the darkest times.