Month: October 2026

Actress Akriti Singh’s directorial debut, Eight Down Toofan Mail, is about a woman who claims to be the Queen of Awadh. She arrives in New Delhi in 1974 and seeks a meeting with the then Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi, to reclaim her heritage. Akriti says the film is a fictional take on this story. In this interview, she talks about her new roles and the coming together of acting, scriptwriting and direction.

A multiple award-winning filmmaker, writer and meditation facilitator, Akanksha Damini Joshi has been witnessing India in its social, political, ecological, cultural and spiritual dimensions. It is the “Indian people's connection with the Sacred – in all diverse forms and colours – that has been the anchor, through and beyond their crises,” believes Akanksha.

On the occasion of Shivaratri, CSP, in conversation with Akanksha, explores the possible union between the internal and external worlds of Indian consciousness.

One of your storytellers says there is a way of viewing India: as an outsider and as an insider. In your view, how many of us city dwellers can be counted among the outsiders? Do we know the people who inhabit your films?

What I hear you asking is whether there is a disconnect between modern metropolitan Indians and indigenous religious-spiritual India. There is no simple way to answer this, but I will try. In one word, the answer would be yes. There is a huge disconnect. Most of us modern Indians – not all, but many – carry the baggage of inheritance, a mental conditioning of servility.

For almost a thousand years, India was ruled, first under the Central Asian dynasties and then by the European powers. In both cases, while there have been beautiful creative learnings, there is no denying that there has also been incredible destruction – of both tangible and intangible indigenous heritage.

The loss of intangible heritage includes that of socio-economic structures, cultural practices, value systems and a worldview. When I see your question, I see that loss staring at me. Silently. It is so far gone that it is impossible to imagine what we – diversely – were before a thousand years, except through bits and pieces, like the many indigenous folk religious cultures, scriptures, stories and songs.

Modern India, as reflected in mainstream metropolitan culture, does not have the time to look back. Neither the patience nor the intention to carve out an empathetic story, however broken, of India's past.

As far as the latter is concerned, there is a perceptible fear – instilled by modern education based on a Western, masculinist understanding of science and technology – of anything to do with religions. And if you can't creatively engage with religions, you can't engage with India.

For India is, most of all, a land that belongs to seekers. Those who can be seen in my film on spiritual seeking, Hindu Nectar: Spiritual Wanderings in India, or my film on climate change, Earth Witness, where each of the protagonists holds a deeply religious view of life and nature. Yet many modern Indians would not even have the language to say... umm... hello to them.

The non-Indians you feature appear to be the insiders, privy to a world of wonder and secrets. How do they gain access and ease of being?

How do scientists gain access to truths about the various phenomena in this world? By experimenting. What are the essential prerequisites for experimentation? An attitude of openness and learning.

That is what in India we call shishyatva – an emotive tuning to learn, to be a disciple. That, combined with the courage to experiment in the inner laboratory, makes us privy to the world of wonder and secrets, this mother-womb of seeking that is India.

India has always had people from other lands and cultures coming as seekers. Buddhism and its meditative practices spread along the Silk Road, far into Southeast Asia and all the way to Japan as Zen, all thanks to these seekers who came to India with that essential openness of being disciples.

It is the same ancient current of seeking that you witness in the Spanish, Russian, American and Australian protagonists of Hindu Nectar.

As a filmmaker, are you on the inside or outside? Do you take a stance?

I am a modern filmmaker who uses all the ease and delight that 21st-century technology offers as tools to create. At the same time, I trace my artistic lineage back to the ancient traditions of storytelling in India, such as Pattachitra, Natya, Itihaasa and Puranas.

Were these artists, authors and rishis ever outside? Was there ever a difference between the teller and the told in the indigenous narrative traditions of India?

This inside-outside dichotomy comes from a materialistic worldview. In both the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, the rishi-authors Vyasa and Valmiki are integral parts of the narrative, as characters. The teller merges into the told. That is my inheritance.

My style of filmmaking is feminine and poetic. I do not begin with a set idea. I venture to explore and absorb. I am also a cinematographer. I don't subscribe to a vocabulary of “shooting”, the semiotics of which come from the sport of killing. I wait. I watch. I absorb. In the absorbing is the learning.

So, in short, I don't take a stance; but with the words, images and sounds in my stories, I attempt a dance.

Does the media need to go deeper and explore this world?

Recovery can begin only after a recognition of loss. In other words, you wake up only when you know you have been dreaming thus far.

The modern world, rushing towards a global future and continually inventing new dreams and desires, barely has the time to pause, look back, assimilate and digest. To take ahead what needs to be taken and leave behind what is of no use anymore.

Media is a part of that modernity which has no desire or space to look back. It is in a mechanical rut, moving ahead: fast, faster, fastest. Time is limited, deadlines are tight. There is constant, factory-like pressure to produce.

And if there is a looking back, it is through judgmental glasses coloured by modern morality, with no empathetic understanding of the past. That requires the luxury of both physical time and mental space. It requires deep immersion.

Judging one's own past and rejecting it is like cutting one's own roots. Like a flower in a vase, one can look pretty, but one will last only a few days. If we need to sustain ourselves, we need roots. That is essential for any culture or person.

How do we interpret narratives whose language we can no longer speak?

By not being 21st-century time-centric and by not believing that we are the best humans who have ever graced this earth. By realising that we are here because of millions of innovations and adaptations made by our ancestors. They laid the foundation for the good that we have today. With humility.

There are many ancient knowledges and experiences that continue unbroken to this day, including our rich culinary traditions.

I would say we need a feminine approach to relearning. A daughter learns from her mother the family's culinary skills, adapting them over time to her own tastes and needs. It is the same here. Learn the tools and skills the ancients offered. Adapt them to ever-changing times. That alone is the method that keeps India Sanatan, eternal.

In your opinion, are we any closer as a nation to discovering our inner selves than we were before we were colonised?

What we were before we were colonised is, honestly, like a jigsaw puzzle that many of us try to put together in different ways, depending on our ideology or area of expertise. Each presents a different picture.

So, what we were, I can't say for sure. What we are, I can perhaps attempt to say. India is in a process. A churning. And through this churning is gradually emerging a sense of our many selves, rooted in the eternal sacred calling of India.

How has not knowing or not engaging with this core caused harm to our land and water?

I have been researching a film on Varanasi for a few years. One of my protagonists once told me that there was a time when, before entering the river Ganga, people had to first bathe and cleanse their bodies at home. Only then would they step into the river, for she was the sacred mother who would cleanse their souls.

As the understanding of that sacredness got diluted with time, so did people's attitude towards the river. Sure, she is still called “Ma Ganga”, but how one is supposed to behave with this sacred mother has been forgotten.

I have made award-winning films on ecology – Chilika Bank$ and Earth Witness. Spending nearly eight years deeply engaging with stories about nature, I realised that the outer ecology can only be saved when we know how to preserve the inner ecology – through meditation and worship. That realisation resulted in my film on spiritual wanderings in India, Hindu Nectar – https://youtu.be/pwJntmsMAT4.

Sustainability and environmental awareness were ingrained in our indigenous sacred traditions. Losing them, we lost the lived sutra that linked us to the rivers, the mountains and the earth.

Thankfully, in different cultures and regions of India, these sutras still survive as sacred memory that can perhaps still be revived.

Does meditation help to centre our being and facilitate this exploration?

Dhyana is India's original export to the world. In older times, it travelled eastwards, as far as Japan. In recent times, it has travelled westwards, as far as America. India has literally embraced the world with the sutras of meditation, allowing each land to weave the sutra in its own special way.

This has been India's unique civilisational calling: to offer those who search various tools and techniques of realisation – a realisation of our inherent limitlessness and inherent freedom.

Exploring India without an insight into this is like a blind man looking at a source of light – of no use at all, an effort wasted.

The feminine filmmaking I speak of is grounded in this tradition of meditative exploration. My crew will vouch for this: each of my filming schedules is an intense meditation process. On a boat in the Sundarbans, in a jeep in Chhattisgarh, in the ancient Himalayan forests. To listen, we first need to be empty of ourselves. Meditation does that. It is an essential tool to be a via-media.

It must be exciting to witness so much of our country. Are there any stories that are dearer to you than others?

India is my Guru. She reveals to me stories, people and experiences through which I need to learn. The stories dearest to me are the ones that can never be told. The ones that reside softly in the heart of the storyteller, beating ever so tenderly in the sacred moments of solitude.

What stories have caused anguish, and which ones have helped you rejoice that India's ancient wisdom is safe?

I see this as a phase of churning for most ancient cultures around the world. It has come as a response to a dream we had of a global village, which ended up manifesting as a global factory – mass-producing ideas, culture and things.

How the wisdom of our ancestors – in material, creative, emotive and spiritual processes – survives this flat factory world is the greatest challenge of our times. I don't doubt that it will survive. How it will survive will be fun to watch.

The stories that disrupt the standardised mode of ideas and processes – the uniform, one-size-fits-all variety – are heartening to listen to and watch.

How do we break away from the shackles with which English binds us?

There is already a disruption of those shackles, paradoxically, thanks to the global market.

The proliferation of Hindi news channels in the early 2000s, for example, splintered the notion held by many in the Hindi-speaking states that Hindi was inferior to English. Rural markets were now lucrative. Advertisements started being made for them in their languages. The notion of the inferiority of indigenous languages to English began to dilute.

We are not fully there yet – we need higher science education in indigenous languages, for instance – but I am certain that, not too far in the future, there will be a time when English will be seen as just another useful link language of India, for use nationally and internationally.

YouTube channel: www.youtube.com/prabhudamini

In the stunningly verdant landscapes of Arunachal Pradesh, director Abo Arangham captured a lost tradition of salt-making in the award-winning documentary The Lost Art of Seasoning, an art of ovens and salt wells. Drawn to simple stories from his hometown that are yet to be told, Abo collaborated with his friend Pongro Wangsu, who had approached him to direct the project.

Having begun his academic journey with journalism, Abo filmed The Lost Art of Seasoning while still in film school, obtaining permission for longer shoots. He says there is no one in his age group from his community who hasn't heard a folk story about salt wells from their elders as a child. Back then, there were only fragmented stories, but since childhood, he has had a burning curiosity. He found filmmaking to be a refuge through which he could express himself and reconnect with the past. Visual elements and techniques add their own ‘seasoning’ to any narrative.

Arunachal Pradesh, being at a very nascent stage of filmmaking, presented its own set of challenges, he says. Apart from the unforgiving terrain and the rainforest during the monsoon, there were also budget constraints and the difficulty of convincing people to come in front of the camera. The lack of awareness among the masses and the absence of a government support system, Abo points out, add to the challenges. Most importantly, there is also an absence of senior filmmakers from the region to speak with and look up to. Abo says that, apart from one or two people, most filmmakers in Arunachal are at the same level, all trying to help one another.

There was also difficulty in finding multiple people from the same community to act, owing to linguistic differences. In Arunachal, the nuances of language can vary even within a single tribe. Although he hasn't yet had the opportunity to work with multiple communities on a single project, Abo considers the authentic use of language crucial to storytelling.

The art of storytelling runs deep among these tribes, most of which have an oral tradition of passing down narratives through stories, proverbs and songs. Knowledge, traditions and safeguards were transmitted through these forms. Storytelling has helped their community survive through the toughest of times and will continue to do so. While he considers himself a learner, Abo is proud to take up the mantle of storyteller and continue the tradition.

Recalling a memorable moment during the filming, Abo is still in awe of the surreal experience of lighting a fire in those same ovens after generations. Until then, he had been unsure about the outcome of the project. But the first fire moved the cast and crew emotionally and rekindled their connection with their ancestors.

The best way to retain authenticity and cultural sensitivity while telling the stories of indigenous people, Abo believes, is to speak with the elders of the community. Spending time with them brings a richness to the narration, born of their own experiences or those passed down to them by their elders.

Filmmaking in Arunachal is an untapped reservoir of possibilities. The film industry has always been crucial in promoting and preserving the culture and heritage of a region. While talented people are making films and telling important stories, there are not many takers, even within Arunachal, for the state's own film productions, says Abo. YouTube remains the last available option for many upcoming filmmakers. However, there is hope. They are learning and improving with every project, and with the wealth of stories that Arunachal has to offer, it is only a matter of time before they find a wider audience.

Abo Arangham, a filmmaker from Arunachal Pradesh, ventured into his own territory for new explorations. He wanted to reveal the many layers of a tradition cradled by his own community. For that, he had to turn ‘listener’ to his own people. ‘The Lost Art of Seasoning’, his documentary film, was born. ‘The Lost Art of Seasoning’ won the Best Documentary – Jury Award Special Mention at the Indic Film Utsav 2021. He tells Indica Pictures more about his passion for storytelling on cultural, traditional and community aspects nestled in his community and state.

What prompted you to go for a visual documentation of the traditional art of salt-making in ‘The Lost Art of Seasoning’?

A small number of people have seen or have knowledge on the process of traditional salt making. Documenting it for the next generation and sharing the knowledge through a film, we felt, would be more impactful and appropriate.

The rituals associated with the salt-making process make it an arduous task, yet the villagers carried out the sacred practice for generations. What does it tell you about the ancestors in the community?

Sometimes I wonder how difficult it must have been for them to continue the process despite the continuous danger looming around salt-making – from warring villages around. It was a difficult world they lived in which I can’t even comprehend. It was their grit to survive, desire to pass on the knowledge to next generation and respect for the spirit that they could continue.

Have you shown the film to the residents of the village? How was the reaction/appreciation?

Yes and I could feel the heartwarming connection between the villagers and their ancestors. They started to discuss and narrate their own personal version of the past folk history about salt making and the importance of its preservation. I will never forget their eyes brimming with nostalgia and pride, their regards for their past when they saw the place and the process in the film for the first time.

What were your expectations from the film before you entered the village to shoot it?

Being a younger generation from the tribe, it was necessary for us to have participated and involved ourselves with the elders and learned the process ourselves. Our expectation from the film was to actually bring alive what most of us had only known in the stories.

Tell us about your inclination for storytelling and the contribution of your elders to your interest in storytelling, culture and tradition.

I am from an indigenous community, where everything is passed down from one generation to the other in the form of a story. Almost whatever I knew about my people from the past was all in fragmented (stories) I had heard as a kid from the elders. This included the process of salt- making. Wanting to know more about our people and a zeal to finish those stories had me inclined towards storytelling in the form of audio-visual mediums.

The documentary connects past and present. Amid present day life in the village, you look at the process of salt-making prevalent in the past. What does the concept of past and present mean to you and to the people in the village in the context of salt-making.

Salt pretty much controlled everything in the past. Local economy and power revolved around salt. Our previous generations are witness to salt being in the center of its wellbeing inside of deep jungle. If you are to survive and move ahead, learning about the past is a must and salt is an ingredient which shaped our past and history, will, our future.

How did village elders and other residents react when you shared with them the idea of making a film on the subject?

Their first reaction was of being scared and confused. But they were happy that someone from the younger generation had shown interest in reviving the past process of salt making. They were skeptical about the series of rituals required to perform before the process of salt-making starts as they didn’t want to upset the Queen of salt.

Learning about salt production was a lifetime opportunity for you. What does it tell you about the villagers’ belief in tradition and their history?

Villagers still have deep-rooted connection and belief in their tradition and history, which is a positive sign. The fact that they were reluctant about pre-process rituals which might offend the Queen of salt itself is a proof of how much they still believe and highly regard their history and tradition. Willingness of the older generation to pass on whatever they knew to us young people was quite encouraging and praiseworthy.

You met one of the last salt makers left in the village. Tell us about the resolve of the villagers in keeping a tradition alive.

People are keen to continue the process of salt making again occasionally at least. Most of them thought it was impossible to start again but since it succeeded, it has ignited the flame of interest in looking back at their past again.

In the film, the village elders tell your team that younger generations must get involved in reviving the art. How can younger generations reciprocate hope and appreciation?

The only way younger generation can reciprocate the hope and appreciation is by continuing the process of salt making and passing it on to the next generation. While not forgetting the rituals, prayers for offerings, to the spirit of Salt Queen. Creating awareness among the younger generation regarding the salt-making process and its importance is also necessary.

What were the difficulties you faced in shooting the film?

Apart from the technical difficulties, problems were many to count. Villagers being superstitious regarding salt making which might offend the Salt Queen (folklore), to what if they made a mistake in the pre-process rituals necessary to start salt making. Some even started talking of us being there only to start a salt producing factory for personal gains. Salt well was located at a difficult distance – enough to break our will. We had to cross a few hills covered in dense forest every day to and fro from the village to salt well. Shooting in the month of monsoon in dense forest made it all the way more challenging and it was a learning experience. One unique challenge was to start and go on with the process of salt making with the help of fragmented memories elders had – memories of more than 30 – 35 years. Being from Arunachal, where film-making is a new concept, one doesn’t get support from a few quarters. So, it was always going to be a tough and arduous journey.

Your team has stood out as a patient listener; it collected memories of the villagers and conducted interviews. What were the challenges in putting together so much material within the time limit?

Compiling every important detail while keeping in mind its coherent story was a challenge since you want the viewers to dive in the moment along with the film. We wanted our viewers to have the same experience we had while shooting and making the film. Duration of the film is something which we did not decide before the postproduction stage. Idea was to keep it as short as possible at the same time not missing any single connecting dots of the salt making process.

What other aspects of culture in the Northeast interest you in filmmaking?

I would definitely want to expand my research through films mostly related to my tribe and Arunachal in particular. It is a huge task, since most of the tribes don’t have any written history for any sort of reference. Stories heard from the elders are first priority because there is vast knowledge hidden in those simple stories which need to be shared. I hope I can contribute in any way possible to help preserve our forgotten stories through films.

Tell us about the stories and films that you like and appreciate.

The kinds of films which bring out the best in us and our environment that we are living in, which tell us the story about the past and the present from faraway lands; which ignite our eagerness to know more about this beautiful and diverse world.

How did showcasing the film at the Indic Film Utsav help you and your team?

Getting screenings at film festivals is always welcome and morale-boosting for young filmmakers like us. Getting recognition from the organizers was a cherry on the top. Glad that the Indic Film Utsav gave us a stage to show our humble lifestyle.

What are you currently working on?

I am currently working on more of such content from the far-flung corners of our indigenous tribal culture to be preserved and available for the world to see.

What are the advantages of telling stories of your own region via films?

One gets to learn and see many new things. One feels a sense of responsibility towards it. The whole process becomes a learning experience in itself. And this is our own story. No one can tell your story better than yourself.