Meet India’s hottest new independent director

Somewhere from the middle of 2013 there was a vague-ish buzz about a certain ship—or was it about a film about a ship? Slowly, sit-downs and chin-wags later, the context was clearer. Apparently, the vessel, the film called Ship of Theseus had sailed straight into its audiences’ hearts. Receiving rave reviews among Delhi, actually India’s intelligentsia, the film was about a paradox discussed by Greek historian and philosopher Plutarch, involving King Theseus. When the beloved king and his crew returned home from Crete after years, citizens preserved 30 oars of Theseus’ original ship. They kept on replacing its older planks as it decayed, putting in stronger timber. King Theseus’ ship became an example for a question of things that grow and change. Plutarch took this story to question whether an object remains the same if it is entirely replaced, piece by piece—30 years down the line, despite all the changes is it the same Ship of Theseus?

Inspired by this Theseus Paradox, Anand Gandhi’s film examines three stories. The first is about a blind photographer, the second, a monk, and the final, a young man whose profession is tied to meeting someone called Yamamoto. The three have one trait in common—they all have had or needed at some point, an organ transplant. Aaliya, the photographer, discovers sight when her corneas are replaced. Maitreya, the monk, campaigns fiercely against pharmaceutical industry’s practices of animal testing and discovers he needs a liver transplant but accepting the transplant would mean taking medicines made by very companies he has attacked in the past. Navin, who cannot meet Yamagoto, chances upon an organ trafficking racket when he realises he may have been given an illegally-procured kidney.

Before we delve into why Ship of Theseus is one beautiful and unconventional film, here’s a bit about the unconventional mind behind it.

Anand Gandhi, its young director, is truly an exceptional character. He dropped out of college and since then “pretty much designed his own education”. The statement seems flippant at first, but looking closely at the years that have gone into making this Indian director one of the most sought-after independent directors on a global platform, one realises just how true his sentiment is.

Gandhi is an old soul trapped in a young body. At the age of 13, he co-curated a philately exhibition with an expert. “I was interested in philately at that period. I had gone to the expert to learn more about stamps and their history—he said I should be involved in the exhibition to get an indepth idea. I wanted to pursue my passion for stamps in a way that was holistic,” says Gandhi. For Gandhi, being curious means to delve deep into any subject. It is his way to learn from doing. To know stamps he felt a need to curate an exhibition. By 17 (right after school) he was running a graphic designing firm (Cicero Graphics) with a businessman who wanted to invest in a meaningful venture. He convinced him that Cicero would be that meaningful venture. All along, Gandhi felt a lacuna left by the dearth of a “solid liberal arts education” in India. So, he gave himself a liberal arts education by pursuing all courses he could, and following inspirational figures who he met. One such person happened to be a certain Abhay Mehta. Mehta—if you remember—was an MIT-based molecular biologist who became interested in the economics of the Enron-Dhabol Power project after he returned to India in 1993. In India, he launched a website called altindia.net where Gandhi worked with him. He was a little older than 17 years then. His second-greatest influence was probably thespian Alok Ulfat, with whom Gandhi travelled the breadth of this country performing and staging plays. He took up several courses along the way—Gandhian economics, philosophy, physics—anything and everything that caught his fancy. But somewhere, the man who was to make a mark was yet to find a footing. “I was fortunate to have a family that was happy as long as I was positively engaged. Of course, there were worries. I would actively pursue a course/path and abandon it for something completely different. I have been like that. After my design studio, I began a printing firm with a friend who is now a partner in my production company (Recyclewala). I was always curious and wished to learn by working,” he muses. “I love learning,” he says as I prod further. “When I was a child I wanted to be a scientist, then a mathematician, then a philosopher. I wanted to write, act and direct. Somewhere I realised that a production company would give me an opportunity to do all that—be a scientist, philosopher, writer and director.”

But before he could settle down, his curiosity led him to play a few curve balls. His ambition to write led him to Ekta Kapoor and Balaji Productions. The young drama writer (yes, by then he had a few scripts and screenplays in his kitty) managed to impress Kapoor who was keen to work with a young team herself. She hired him as a scriptwriter for her famously regressive soap operas. Gandhi did write a sizeable amount of episodes for two of the longest-running Kapoor serials, till truth hit home. “It was regressive to say the least. I soon understood that. After a while it was not what I wanted to do.” So, he quit. Needless to say, the restless director returned to theatre and travelled extensively to unlearn information he had reluctantly assimilated and to concentrate on an idea that had been germinating for long.

It was a shot—Right Here, Right Now (2003) in which he explored the theme of causality (a topic that he keeps on revisiting) for the first time. The shot travelled to Tribeca and Syracuse, and in Syracuse it won an award. Though films are resource intensive, the time was right for Gandhi’s move. The digital filmmaking scene was slowly developing in India and his Right Here, Right Now was one of the first few films which was shot digitally.

We promised a bit more about the Ship of Theseus. Here it is. Like every baby, this one, too, took its time to arrive. After Right Here, Right Now there was an idea of Jhini which producers “loved” but none were ready to produce. The love it-but-can’t fund it-charade became so mundane that Gandhi opted out, shelving the project. “I decided that my next project, any project that that I ever do, will be self funded. Not to say, I did not understand the producers’ constraints.” Then, twin tragedies struck. The director’s grandparents both underwent major surgeries and he spend a year looking after the invalids. “That one year gave a lot of time for reflection and introspection and the idea of Ship of Theseus was formed,” says Gandhi after a pause. By then he had met some key players for the project. One of them was cinematographer Pankaj Kumar who’s lenses gave a fairy-tale-like quality to the busy Mumbai cityscape. In Kumar, also recovering from a debilitating accident (there’s a serendipitous connection here somewhere) Gandhi found a soul mate.

Together they embarked on a journey, no less important than that of the Greek King Theseus for Indian cinema.