Seene Mein Jalan Aankhon Mein Toofan Sa Kyu Hai Is Sheher Mein Har Shaqs Pareshan Sa Kyu Hai...

THESE LINES KEEP reverberating in my mind and I can barely hear anything, even the cacophony of the autorickshaw I am in. “It’s all good,” I tell myself. “The noise will keep me distracted.” My autowalah talks of the heat; I nod in agreement. It is a hot day indeed. But at this moment, nothing matters. I am supposed to be at the Kotwara Studios by 11am; it is almost time. And I am nowhere close. I tell the autowalah that I have an interview. He wants to know if I am meeting a bada adami. I tell him, yes! I am meeting Muzaffar Ali. His blank look says it all. I ask him if he has seen Umrao Jaan. His face lights up—he has seen the movie and wanted to marry Rekha after it. We both laugh; I tell him I am meeting the man who made the film. My auto halts and we are here. I have managed to reach a little before time. As I enter the studio, pictures of Abida Parveen, Faiz Ahmad Faiz and a painting—Ali’s own creation—greet me. I am informed that “Sir is a little late.” I will have to wait for some time. I sit staring at the brown walls of the studio, thinking about the questions I want to ask, points I may have missed. Suddenly, there is a commotion. “Sir aa gaye hain,” says the man. Muzaffar Ali walks in. He is wearing a loose black shirt and grey cotton pants, his spectacles have been strategically placed on his forehead, his grey shoulder-length hair looks messy. He looks at me and smiles. At 67, he is a very attractive man. He has forgotten about the interview completely. I remind him about it and we move to the second floor, which is his film studio. Posters from Gaman, Umrao Jaan, Anjuman and Aagaman adorn its walls. From a wooden frame, Rekha stares at us; any time now we will hear her sing ‘In aankhon ki masti ke, afsaane hazaaron hain’. Moving away from the talking images, we sit in the second room, which looks like an old library. All his film scripts, storyboards and poetry books of his favourite poets Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Rumi, Shahryar and others are kept here. I have a clear list of questions in front of me yet I remain conflicted. Where do I start? His royal parentage or his films? His love for Sufi music or his paintings? Perhaps we could talk about fashion design? A similar feeling haunts me while writing the story. How do I start? I am not sure yet. I finally decide to tell his story the way a movie maker’s story should be told.

Opening Sequence...Lights...Camera... Action

SOME FORTY YEARS ago, in the green hinterlands of Uttar Pradesh, a young man of 20 sat discussing Faiz and Rumi with his friend on a high cliff—perhaps discussing these very lines. The man, a geology student who took up the subject because he thought, “No matter what, people will always use petrol,” was Muzaffar Ali. Ali is in splits while narrating tales of his naiveté. From that UP cliff to Mumbai studios, the journey has been serendipitous. After graduation, Ali went job hunting and landed up in a Kolkata advertising firm. “Early on, I realised that I was not cut out for advertising; I couldn’t work under anyone forever.” Yet he is grateful that he took up the offer. Because it gave him the chance to meet filmmakers like Satyajit Ray and Ritwik Ghatak. “I used to have long discussions with Ray. We often talked about movie-making for hours,” he tells me. And there are other points of connection; Ali, like Ray, also prefers to do his own sketches while storyboarding. “Ray used to sketch frames because it gave him clarity of thought,” he informs. An artist himself, Ali has drawn every frame of his movies. While talking about how he came to sketch sequences of Gaman (his first film) he tells me that his storyboards (well, most of them) are lying around that very room. As he talks about long-shots and mid-shots, I am lost in an image of Ali sitting on a comfortable rocking chair with his sketch book and pencil. When I am back, I find myself staring at an empty chair. I turn around to see Ali wiping the dust off some old books. Those are the storyboards of Umrao Jaan and Gaman. He hands them to me; the weight of modern cinematic history rests on my lap. But I can not flip through its pages right now. A lot needs to be asked before that, and I am running out of time.

Bombay Talkies - The Continuity Sketches

IT IS A BUSY Bombay morning. A car halts near the traffic signal, its glasses roll down; two men sitting inside the car are deep in conversation. The street beggar knocks at the window, recognises the face and shouts his name. “Amitabh Bachchan!” he says. The signal turns green and the car speeds ahead, leaving an overwhelmed spectator behind. Aeons back, a job with Air India brought Ali to the city of dreams. He was allegedly living a “life of poverty”, where his “house rent was almost as much as the salary” and where he had to sell his father’s “vintage car in order to make a living”. In those days of struggle Amitabh Bachchan used to give Ali a lift to his workplace. It was also the time when Ali was contemplating the idea of making Gaman. He told Bachchan about his plan and asked him if he would be interested in hearing out the script. And he expressed a desire to work with him. “He kept on giving me vague answers and after some good three months, he came up to me and said,’ I can’t work in your film. My image of an action hero (read Angry Young Man) might get ruined if I do this character’,” says Ali. Bachchan perhaps missed an opportunity to work with one of the finest directors of our time, but as they say, one man’s loss is another man’s gain. When Bachchan refused, Ali approached Farooq Sheikh, who later became the protagonist of every film that he made. If Bachchan was the quintessential hero who could sing songs, woo the girl, beat the villains and save the lives of hundreds in one go, Sheikh was the charming guy-next-door; his dilemmas were often existential, he looked real and believable on screen. Perhaps this was the reason why Ali chose to cast Sheikh in Gaman. “He had the vulnerability which was much needed in my films. He didn’t just look the character in front of the camera, he became the character,” says Ali. After the critical success of Gaman, he started working on his masterpiece Umrao Jaan which was based on Mirza Hadi Ruswa’s novel Umrao Jaan Ada. The film had a poetic value to it, and a lyrical flow which appealed to the audio-visual senses. That is why it is considered to be the most aesthetically pleasing film ever made. It is an Indian classic to say the least, and a piece of cinematic genius. Rekha, who played a Lucknow courtesan in the Mughal Era, was grace and elegance personified. And the music was enchanting, layered and haunting. This film won Rekha, and music director Khayyam, their first and only National Awards. It is needless to say that the film is still universally lauded. I am itching to know what he feels about the recent attempt at remaking the classic. In answer, he laughs. Naturally, he has been asked this question before “but it never gets old,” he says. I wait patiently, while he seeks the right words. “Why remake a classic anyway?” is his first response. “They couldn’t recreate the magic of Umrao Jaan. They couldn’t understand the essence of the film, its poetry was lost in the new version; Aishwarya couldn’t carry the film on her shoulders the way Rekha did,” he adds. His disappointment doesn’t end there; it is not just the fact that someone made a “version” of his film. He talks candidly about the current spate of films and expresses his disdain for most of them. “In the 80s, cinema had a social connect with its immediate surroundings. That connect is missing today”. Films like Peepli Live, which he considers to be a bold attempt, do not appeal to him as a viewer. “I can’t see myself in any of the characters. I just can’t relate to them”. Though he is all praise for some of the younger directors like Anurag Kashyap, he doesn’t necessarily like the themes of his films, but he does “enjoy the way they are made.” But he is all praises for one peculiar man called ‘Tiggu’. “Tiggu is doing some great work,” he says. At my puzzled look, he informs me: “I was talking about Tigmanshu Dhulia. He is a friend of Shaad (his son Shaad Ali) and keeps visiting us often; I think he is doing a tremendous job.” Shaad is Muzaffar Ali’s son from his previous marriage with Subhashini Ali. Having made commercially successful films like Saathiya and Bunty aur Bubbly, the junior Ali has earned quite a name for himself. But Ali is very modest while doling out praise for his son and the films he has made. “I think he has a great understanding of commercial cinema, and I would never burden him with my ideology. He is a person with different sensibilities and is doing well for himself” says the father. He adds later, “But his best is yet to come.” Ali has been working on a film called Zooni since the late 80s. Based on the life of the 16th century Kashmiri poetess Habba Khatun, Zooni was supposed to be released in the early 90s, yet is still stuck in the pre-production stage. “I started shooting for Zooni on January 5, 1989; I can remember the exact date.” His face looks poignant and grim while he talks about this film. He wanted to make the film divided into four seasons of the poetess’ life. “It was something that producers couldn’t understand and so the movie kept getting stuck,” he sighs. I ask him if he still plans on making this film and he says he does. But he doesn’t know when.

Flashback-Life in Technicolour

ON A HARSH winter morning, a group of women have assembled in the sangeet ghar (music room). Singing paeans in the lord’s praise, the women are too immersed to notice a lad of eight who has sneaked in, and is listening to them with rapt attention. Ali’s first brush with Sufi music was through zanana sangeet. His mother and her friends would gather at one place and sing to their hearts’ content. And there, little Ali would hear them sing and be moved. It was this early exposure to music that helped him develop an astounding audiovisual sense. There is music and poetry in every corner of that chaotic and comfortable room where he is sitting. A lot of Ali’s artwork—paintings and photographs—grace the walls of this room. Beyond the ornamental value, these paintings don’t just embellish; they bear witness to an artist’s love for his craft. These are paintings made by Ali which were not up for sale. There is a picture of a Rolls Royce in monochrome, the very same one he sold to survive in expensive Mumbai. As is with any artist, his affair with his brush and pencil is ethereal. One can also spot a heavy influence of Sufism in his life—whether we look at his movies, music or paintings. Ali talks about Sufism with an infective zeal. It is Sufism’s closeness to human predicament that attracts him to it. He informs me that through his films he has tried to understand the dilemmas of the human mind, especially women. Perhaps that is why his films have always had strong female protagonists. “Such is the nature of Sufi music that the pangs and conflicting emotions of a woman are sung and expressed by a man,” he says hinting at a wonderful union of the two genders in a single strain. It is this love that compels him to talk about Faiz Ahmad Faiz—who was also an inspiration behind his first movie—again and again. While talking about the layers of poetry that Gaman had, he starts fiddling with his phone. He is looking for something; he finds it, he passes the phone. It is a message from Faiz himself; a message he sent Ali after seeing Gaman. Though he waits patiently for me to finish reading the note, his eyes give him away; they have the glint of a child who has just met his hero. But if his life could be written in couplets, it would be written by Shahryar. The great poet wrote all the lyrics of Ali’s films. Shahryar and Ali shared a deep bond; the duo were friends since their Aligharh Muslim University days. “Shahryar often complained that before meeting me he used to be a man (think like one), but since he has met me he has turned into a woman,” he breaks into a smile that reaches his eyes.

Behind the Scenes

TODAY, MUZAFFAR ALI spends his time flitting between Lucknow and Delhi. He is yet to cut the umbilical cord that ties him to his hometown. The mention of Lucknow brings back memories of a childhood spent gallivanting in the dusty lanes of the ancestral village. Ali was born into the Royal Muslim Rajput Family of Kotwara. His father, the Raja of Kotwara was also a member of the Communist Party of Scotland and for him “being a raja meant working for the benefit of people and not ruling them.” When Ali admits of harbouring Leftist sympathies, you realise it is a legacy that he has inherited from his father, who returned to his country right when it was days away from Independence. It was a time when the ‘royals of India’ were living in the shadow of a glorious past. “What I saw was a skeleton of something spectacular” says Ali. But his father remained unfazed by the days long past. Instead, he marched right ahead and started a party for the local farmers, Haljutta Party that fought for their rights. The birth of the party couldn’t have been better timed. It was almost as if Ali’s father had foreseen the eventual exploitation of farmers that became a reality in freshly Independent India. Like father, Ali too believes in working for the welfare of the people. Today, he is trying to generate employment for the people in his hometown and reviving the ‘local culture and tradition of the City of Nawabs’. He talks about his current project Jhadi se Saree with great fervour. It is a project involving nine yards of silk where his and his teams’ involvement starts right at the beginning; from the time a tree is planted, to the breeding of the silk worms. It is a peculiar project, but Ali is nothing if not unconventional. “My motive was to provide as much scope for employment as possible. It was imperative that we had all the stages of production happening right here so as to include as many people as possible in the project and maintain a strict eye on the quality,” he says. His studio in Delhi—named after his ancestral village, Kotwara—doubles up as his film, music and design studio. He takes care of it along with his wife Meera Ali. Here he teaches his craft to aspiring young designers. His customers are well-known faces such as the talented Irrfan Khan and fashionista Sonam Kapoor. In a bid to keep the traditional weaves and textiles alive, he focuses his attention on creating high-end Indian attires. Ali appears to be displeased about the increasing ‘western’ influence on society. And this displeasure isn’t limited to clothes. “The fact that you and I are having a conversation in English rather than Hindi is proof of how much we like everything foreign,” he says. By now the clock hands tell me that I have gone beyond the designated hour that I had for the interview. It is time to leave. As I gather my things, Ali gets up and takes out a thick notebook and hands it over. It is a yellowed, much thumbed booklet. I realise it is the script for Zooni. “This is the 23rd one,” he admits with a rueful smile. He puts it back gently and neatly. On my way back, I ruminate over the day but am interrupted by a song. “Ye kya jageh hai doston, ye kaunsa dayar hai Had-e-nigah tak jaha gubar hi gubar hai” I smile to myself. We steer forward leaving a cloud of dust behind.

Sociologists are increasingly looking at the web world for collective action and information cascade

Tahrir and #Guwahati, #OccupyWall- Street and #Kony2102. Four different continents, one common theme. Of masses rising up against crimes—crimes of governance, gender discrimination, economic and at worst, against humanity. And that each of these movements for justice played out at a social network near you, with millions of armchair activists expressing their digital solidarity by “liking” or retweeting their support. But does “liking” or retweeting messages of solidarity mean that you care? And what is the difference between liking a status update about latest Batman movie and one that condemns the atrocities committed by a corrupt Ugandan leader against children? I mean, it sure looks the same when you’re doing it, doesn’t it? And that’s the criticism “clicktivists” or “slacktivists” tend to get—that they take easy actions in support of a cause, such as signing an online petition, liking a Facebook page or adding a flag or a ribbon to their online avatar, and that’s pretty much where their involvement ends. Or that they lack real commitment, care only about momentary self-satisfaction and polishing up their digital avatars, and don’t really contribute to any meaningful change. The question that it really boils down to is–can a click make a difference in the real world. By itself, and in isolation, probably not, but when combined with thousands and even millions of other clicks, it builds social momentum. This support, even if it is part-time, brings a lot more into the fold than would previously have been possible, even if it is just online. Drawing a line of distinction between online activity and real-world behavior is becoming increasingly less relevant, when for many of us, our online lives are becoming inextricably linked with our offline ones. Look at Guwahati, for instance. The seemingly simple (and for cynics effectively meaningless) act of forwarding messages of support for the harassed teenager took the video viral and made mainstream national news sit up and take notice of what could have remained a stray regional event. The widespread support and ensuing coverage forced the hand of the administration to doggedly pursue and eventually nab the culprits. Did Facebook and Twitter do this all by themselves? Hardly. But experts, such as sociologist Zeynep Tufekci, argues that such events clearly play a crucial role in creating what she terms a “collective action/information cascade” that drive the protests out of the online world and into the “real” one. Or Egypt for that matter. With thousands of people joining and expressing solidarity for Facebook pages focused on the revolution, not only did this create a larger sense of community around such issues, but with Facebook’s real name policies which allow the authorities to track dissidents through these networks, it showed movement leaders that there is a very “real” outpouring of support, one that could help tip things over from simple online communities to real world activism. Ditto for the Occupy Wall Street protests or the support for Anna Hazare— online expressions of political anger channeled into a cause help build a visible momentum, which itself is one of the condition of success. So what’s the bottom line? That just because people are doing something easy on social media doesn’t mean that’s all they are doing. In fact, a study conducted by Georgetown University’s Center for Social Impact Communication in late 2010 and 2011 showed that “slacktivists” (or “social champions” are they are referred to) are twice as likely to volunteer their real world time to causes, whether it is by way of demonstrations, donations or soliciting donations on behalf of their cause, and often do so in a manner that has the highest potential to influence others. And what if you’re looking for good folks to advance your cause online? Katya Andresen, Chief Strategy Officer for Network for Good, a leading donation platform for cause support has some recommendations. She suggests that folks fronting the digital front for a movement should understand slacktivists rather than stereotype them—just because they are willing to quickly click on a link to show their support doesn’t mean they aren’t willing to do more for the cause (or already doing so, for that matter). And just like the rest of us, slacktivists show stronger support for some causes closer to them than others, and it is only by strong engagement that you can ascertain their level of interest. Net, do not slack off when it comes to engaging with slacktivists— they may be far more enthusiastic and interested than you think. The only word of caution—keep a check on expectations. For many folks, a simple message such as “If you care enough to show this visible sign of support and donate a meager amount of money, trust us and we will go and fix this world issue for you” is enough to goad them into action and donate. Instead, one should outline a list of measurable actions that can actually be achieved. Remember, the world isn’t that easy to fix, and all social media has done is flatten the traditional setting for conversations to allow many more unknowns to finally have a voice that can be heard.

Recommended Reading:

Refreshing the Revolution: Social media and Activism (http://bit.ly/DW-SocActivism) and The Best Activism in Social Media (http://bit.ly/DW-BestActivism)

Set up commissions to help unravel the real problems

IN A COUNTRY as large and diverse as India, its democratic culture is tested relentlessly. Things are further complicated by the fact that India is in the throes of a structural transition from its post-colonial Licence-Raj culture to its status as a free market ‘breakout nation’, to use Ruchir Sharma’s phrase. The fact that this transition is being attempted even as the global economic recovery continues to remain listless, basically indicates that the country’s democratic ethos is being challenged to its hilt. Over the past month or so, three seemingly unrelated events have occurred in quick succession which would allow me to punctuate the argument of this essay—how in the middle of a cacophonous, jingoistic and often-manipulative narrative shaping India’s democratic culture, there is an urgent need to create a space for truth and reconciliation, demystification and honesty. Without such a space, one fears that the country may continue to stumble from crisis to crisis. To elucidate my concern, I could talk of three events: the first occurred between June 28 and June 29 when an armed encounter took place in Bastar between a group of ‘Naxalites’ and CRPF officers leading to 18 deaths. Early reports stated that the deceased were all Maoist insurgents. As the story unfolded, it came to the fore that the dead may have included civilians some of them barely teenagers. In the weeks that followed, the previously hailed ‘successful counter-insurgency operation’, led by the CRPF in collaboration with the state government, turned into a target of condemnation. To compound matters, a committee report by the Chhattisgarh Congress Committee also alleged that the ‘rebels’ shot did include villagers. In their defence, top CRPF officers went on to describe how murky things really were on the ground. Without in any way discounting the difficulties of policing Left-wing extremism, especially of the sort which has been growing in the triumvirate states of Orissa, Chhattisgarh and Jharkhand, events like the one mentioned raise uncomfortable questions about the degree to which our country’s internal security apparatus is in touch with the local realities they are trying to improve. Given the long and difficult history of the Indian government’s relationship with tribal lands—as designated within the framework of the Constitution’s Scheduled Lists—events like these are likely to exacerbate the trust deficit between the state and citizens in these areas. The second event occurred on July 7, 2012, when RTI activist Ramesh Agrawal (56) was shot by unknown assailants in Chhattisgarh. Over the past few years, Agrawal has been in the news because of his attempts to uncover the processes associated with the grant of land for coalmining projects in northern Chhattisgarh and earlier land grants for the iron and steel industries. Within days of the attack on Agrawal, two other green activists—Akhil Gogoi (Assam) and Bharat Jhunjhunwala (Uttarakhand)—also using the RTI to raise questions about environmental exploitation, were also targeted. These attacks are worrying for at least two reasons. First, they reveal the growing intolerance in quarters towards citizens’ political engagement as a First Principle Right granted to them by the state. Second of all, they create an impression that those who actively participate in the democratic space described as the civil society can come under attack when they threaten the powerful. The third event relates to the ongoing dispute over the grant of land to POSCO, the third-largest producer of steel in the world. POSCO has been trying to set up its operations in Orissa for years now. This initiative has a checkered past and it continues to insinuate itself into the lives of Orissa’s rural communities. The initiative has resurfaced because the Posco Pratirodh Sangram Samiti— leading the anti-POSCO agitation has—organised a rally at Gobindpur, Orissa, to reiterate its opposition to land acquisition for the mega steel project. Not surprisingly, a number of petitions are also circulating in cyberspace, strengthening PPSS’ mobilisation on the ground. Such mobilisations should not be viewed as passing gestures. They are signs of a growing restlessness among groups, who find themselves struggling to get their voices heard in the legitimate forums of India. They are also symptomatic of a sense of hurt and resentment among those who, despite the land laws such as Panchayat (Extension to Scheduled Areas) Act (PESA) and Forests Rights Act (FRA), feel bulldozed by imperatives of India’s growth story. These three randomly selected events (one can identify more) help punctuate the growing strain on the country’s democratic polity which to a large extent is a result of growing (class, ideological and cultural) rifts within the civil society. Each constituency chooses to see things from its partial vantage point with little empathy for the other. For all intents and purposes, the Indian government continues to treat Naxalism purely as a law-and-order problem, and not a political one—even as tribal groups resent attacks on their lands as an assault on indigenous livelihoods and culture. RTI activists are perceived as a rag-tag bunch of troublemakers. Those opposing big industries, such as the Gobindpur community, are described as antigrowth and by extension anti-India; leading them to question the motives of private capital and state. In the middle of these divergent viewpoints, facts often slip through cracks. In these circumstances, what is the way forward from the perceived sense of injustice felt on all sides? The answer lies in truth. Any attempt at reconciliation and justice must be preceded by a commitment to the truthful demystification of past wrongs as experienced and narrated by the principle actors. This must be done in ways that are, and are perceived as, legitimate by all parties. An instrument that has had some success in this regard is the truth commission, like those set up in countries since the 1970s. Like any instrument, the commission’s success is contingent on intentions of those using it. Indeed, the success of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, established in 1995 after the abolition of Apartheid, came on the heels of 20 truth commissions that preceded it. History shows us that such processes are never easy. And South Africa is not India. While by no means perfect, such initiatives are critical building blocks in pursuit of justice and democratic goals. Quite simply, preserving democratic values requires work and a spirit of humility. With sense of betrayal and resentment growing among so many constituencies in India, initiatives such as this need to be pursued with a sense of urgency. Honestly, there is no moment to lose.

V. Sanjay Kumar on his serendipitous tryst with the art world and on arts impact on the ordinary

In my growing up years had someone asked me for my opinion on art or the business of art, I would have guffawed and moved on. Today I am an ‘insider’ in this world. Thus how someone like me, who majored in finance and left his city Chennai to set up a finance services outfit business in Mumbai, ended up in this trade, is quite a story. The connection was serendipitous, if I may say so. Just like the protagonist of my novel, I never knew that I would be so enchanted. It all started on my wedding day, when an acquaintance gifted me a Hussain. I was amazed and embarrassed by the magnanimous gesture and had no clue to the piece’s value. To find out, I began visiting art galleries and within my first few visits, I ended up buying a work by Jogen Chowdhury. I did not know who Chowdhury was or what made his (or any other artistes’ art for that matter) so expensive. But I was curious and wished to fathom how the process worked—who decided the prices, how were the pieces sold or what kept the market afloat. Once I started researching, I got hooked. Thus began my wonderful journey with Sakshi Art Gallery. We started the gallery in 1988, at a time when the Indian art scene was not thriving. Our biggest challenge was that it was not a firm that we inherited from our parents. It was something that we were setting up on our own. And as participants we were but amateurs. However, we were sure that this is where we wanted to be—so my business partner Geetha and I rented out a place and started exhibiting art. I have been into the art business for 24 years now. Yet, the curiosity to discover this beautiful world never ceases. My book Artist, Undone is my way of exploring the Indian art scene and its impact upon strangers ignorant of the existence of this parallel universe. I have been blessed by the company of so many artistes. Their lives have caught my fancy and inspired me. I know their side of the story to an extent; and it was these stories from the other side of the fence that I wished to share with the world as well. Also there was a curiosity to delve into the issue of human frailty—to see how someone in his forties, after reaching a stage in life where the way forth is foggy, would react to an irrational decision. Thus my protagonist Harsh Sinha ends up buying a painting which costs as much a BMW on an impulse. This is the premise for my novel—a vulnerable man (Harsh) enters the art world because of an impulsive decision. And it goes on to change his entire life—as art does. I have tried to explore the tremendous possibilities of the art world through my book. I say tried because writing is something I am yet to come to terms with. When I decided to enter the art business, my family reconciled with my decision; after all it was just a ‘business’ at the end of the day. But when I decided to write a book, I think I took them by surprise. Heck, I think I took myself by surprise. I am not someone who holds a degree in literature nor can I call myself well read. I have been a finance guy and am comfortable with numbers. The feeling, the sense of achievement, is still sinking in. I am still in a transitional stage—moving on to the next chapter of my life, hopefully, as a writer. I guess this journey of self-actualisation is a central theme in my book. Almost all my characters have shades of me and experience self-exploratory journies of their own. With Harsh Sinha I share his existential dilemmas, his curiosity for the art world and what it could do to him; with Manoj Tyagi (the Naami Chor) I share experiences of the business world and the challenges it holds for its players. Having said that, there are several recurring, secondary themes in this book. It deals with the dilemmas that individuals face in stages of their lives. Hopefully what the book would manage to do is to de-elitise the Indian art world for the middle-class. We do not promote a culture that takes pride in our visual arts; our energies are focused on performing arts. But, I am hopeful because over the past years the scene has been changing. What gave me my peg was a painting by Natraj Sharma called Fat, F**ked and Forty. The moment I saw the piece, I knew that I had my beginning. Before you judge me as the most 'sorted-out writer', know that I am an indisciplined one. Perhaps because the process is new; I am hopeful that someday (when I have an ‘enviable’ body of work) I will be able to streamline my thoughts in a more organised fashion.

Looking Back

I have never looked too far ahead into the future nor too much into the past—I have gone ‘with the flow’. Though I have tried various things in life and explored varied fields, I have never planned anything. I do not believe in looking back or second guessing my choices.