Somewhere in the middle of producing Avyaan, a journalist asked me a question I have
been turning over ever since: “As a businessman, what right do you have to make a film
about Indian spirituality and culture?”
It was not asked unkindly. It was a fair question, and I think it deserves a real answer rather
than a defensive one.
The honest answer is that I do not believe the right to tell a cultural story comes from a
credential. It comes from responsibility — from how seriously you take the material, how
much care you put into getting it right, and how willing you are to be accountable for what
you put into the world. That belief is the foundation of everything I do creatively now, and I
want to lay it out plainly, because I think it matters not just for how I make films, but for
how anyone approaches creative work that touches on culture, tradition, or identity.
Why Culture Cannot Be Treated as Decoration
One of the things that troubles me most when I watch contemporary media — film,
advertising, content of all kinds — is how often culture is used as decoration rather than
substance. A temple in the background. A festival referenced for colour. A spiritual phrase
used because it sounds evocative, without any real engagement with what it means.
I understand the temptation. Cultural imagery is powerful, and it is easy to borrow the
power without doing the work that earns it. But I think this approach is a quiet form of
disrespect, even when it is not intended that way. When you reduce centuries of meaning to
an aesthetic choice, you are taking something that belongs to a living tradition and treating
it as a prop.
My philosophy is the opposite of this. If a story is going to engage with Indian culture —
with Sanatan values, with sacred geography like Varanasi, with the inner lives of people
shaped by these traditions — then that engagement has to be earned through depth, not
borrowed through reference.
This is why Avyaan took the time it did to develop. This is why we began production with a
traditional puja ceremony on the banks of the Ganga, conducted by Pandit Sourav Banerjee,
rather than treating that moment as a publicity opportunity. The ritual was not performed
for the cameras. It was performed because it was the right way to begin something that
claims to be rooted in these values.
Depth Over Spectacle
There is a particular kind of pressure in contemporary content creation — film, social
media, marketing, all of it — toward spectacle. Bigger moments, faster pacing, more
dramatic stakes, more immediate gratification. I understand why this pressure exists.
Attention is scarce, and spectacle captures it efficiently.
But I have made a deliberate choice, both in Avyaan and in how I think about creative work
generally, to prioritise depth over spectacle. This does not mean the work should be slow or
inaccessible. It means that the emotional and thematic substance of the work should come
from real human experience and real cultural grounding, rather than from manufactured
intensity.
When I think about the characters in Avyaan — young people searching for identity and
purpose through music, movement, and art — their journeys are not built around dramatic
plot twists. They are built around the genuine, often quiet, struggle of figuring out who you
are and what you value in a world that constantly pulls you toward noise. I believe that
struggle, told honestly, is more powerful than almost anything spectacle can offer.
Audiences recognise truth even when — especially when — it is delivered quietly.
This is a discipline, not just a preference. It would have been easier, in some respects, to
make a louder film. I chose not to because I believe depth is what actually stays with
people.
Responsibility to the Communities Whose Stories You Tell
This is, for me, the most important part of my creative philosophy, and the part I think
about most carefully.
When you make creative work that draws on a specific culture, a specific place, a specific
set of traditions, you are not working in a vacuum. You are working with material that
belongs, in a real sense, to the people who have lived and carried that culture for
generations. That creates an obligation.
I take that obligation seriously in a few specific ways.
First, by working with people who genuinely understand the material, not just people who
can replicate its surface. Director Gaurav Khati and cinematographer Chandan Kowli were
chosen not only for their technical skill but for their sensitivity to what Avyaan needed to
be. The same is true of Nivaan Sen and Neelu M. Sen at Urban Boat Films, whose
commitment to cultural integrity shaped the entire production process.
Second, by choosing accuracy and respect over convenience. It would have been simpler,
logistically and financially, to shoot Avyaan in a studio recreation of Varanasi rather than in
the city itself. We chose Varanasi because the story demanded the real place, the real river,
the real rhythm of life along the ghats. Convenience is rarely the right standard when you
are handling something that matters to millions of people.
Third, by remembering that the people whose lives and traditions inspire a story are not an
audience to please — they are participants whose dignity must be protected in the telling.
This shapes decisions large and small: how characters are written, how rituals are depicted,
how the camera chooses to look at a place and the people in it.
I do not claim to get every decision right. No creative project achieves that. But the
standard I hold myself to is whether I have engaged with genuine respect and care, not
whether the result is commercially convenient.
Why Business Discipline Belongs in Creative Work
People sometimes assume that the values that guide good business — discipline,
accountability, long-term thinking — are somehow at odds with creative integrity. I have
found the opposite to be true.
The same principle that has guided my business career for four decades — that the
businesses and relationships that last are the ones built on trust, not extraction — applies
directly to creative work. A film made purely to extract maximum commercial value, with
no regard for the cultural material it is built on, is no different from a business that
prioritises short-term profit over the people it serves. Both eventually erode the trust they
depend on.
I bring the same long-term thinking to Avyaan that I have brought to every venture in my
career. That means accepting that depth takes longer to build than spectacle. It means
accepting that a culturally serious film may not have the immediate commercial upside of
something more formulaic. And it means being comfortable with that trade-off, because I
am not measuring success purely in short-term terms.
What I Believe Creative Work Owes Its Audience
If I had to summarise my philosophy in a single principle, it would be this: creative work
that engages with culture owes its audience honesty, and it owes the culture itself respect.
Honesty means not pretending complexity is simpler than it is. It means trusting an
audience to sit with ambiguity, with quiet moments, with stories that do not resolve into
easy lessons. It means resisting the temptation to flatten a rich tradition into something
easily marketable.
Respect means doing the work — the research, the consultation, the genuine collaboration
with people who carry the tradition you are drawing from — rather than assuming that
good intentions are sufficient on their own.
These are not abstract ideals to me. They are operating principles I apply every day, in
every decision involved in bringing Avyaan to audiences. They are also, I believe,
principles that apply well beyond filmmaking — to any creative or business endeavour that
touches on culture, identity, or tradition.
A Closing Thought
I did not enter filmmaking to prove a point. I entered it because I believed there was a gap
— a need for stories that treat Indian culture with the depth and seriousness it deserves —
and because I had spent enough years building things responsibly that I felt equipped to try
building this, too.
Whether Avyaan succeeds by conventional commercial measures is, in some ways, less
important to me than whether it succeeds by the standard I actually care about: did it treat
its subject with honesty, did it treat its audience with respect, and did it honour the culture it
draws from.
That is the philosophy behind this work. I hope it shows in the film itself.
To learn more about the values that guide my work — in business, philanthropy, and now
film — visit the About page of this site.