Another Spring

India’s journey through modernity has been anything but gradual. Unlike the West, where societal shifts unfolded over centuries, India underwent abrupt transformations within decades, accelerated by colonialism. We were thrust into modernization without experiencing industrialization or the philosophical depth of modernity. In just a few decades, we moved from feudalism to colonialism, from nationalism to post-colonialism, and now into globalization. These rapid shifts created a layered society where travelling a few hundred kilometres can feel like traversing centuries.

Yet cultural and social progress has not kept pace with economic growth. Today, financial freedom may be more attainable, but individual liberty—freedom from caste, religion, and other societal hierarchies—remains elusive in a conservative culture that is conservative in every way except consumerism.

Over the past two decades, the nation has split into two dominant forces: consumerism and pseudo-nationalism. Amidst this divide, I grapple with a question: How can one return to the roots of culture while embracing modernity without falling into the trap of nationalism, which equates culture with caste superiority and religion with exclusion?

My hometown, Thanjavur, is a testament to cycles and rhythms. Once a cultural hub of South India, enriched by dynasties over millennia, it embodies the cycles of nature: birth, growth, decay, death, and rebirth. These traditions, steeped in art, architecture, and ritual, resonate deeply with Indian philosophy, linking life to cosmic rhythms. Yet even here, the vibrancy of those traditions has faded. Feudal values persist alongside the relentless greed of consumerism, turning this once-sacred space into a postmodern pastiche.

In contrast, the city where I now live feels like an unending race. Work culture here is a vicious cycle: toil to earn, then spend to escape the pressures of toiling. Advertisements prey on feelings of incompleteness, offering consumption as the antidote to despair. People rush to meet these ideals, leaving no space to pause. Those who dare to stop are swept aside by a crowd eager to take their place.

This relentless competition, fueled by an oversupply of labour and a hunger for societal validation, breeds psychological pressure. People who once celebrated life now work endlessly for entertainment, mistaking exhaustion for fulfilment. The horizon of contentment recedes endlessly, no matter how far or fast one runs.

Adapting to urban life after the cyclical aesthetics of my hometown was a jarring experience. But this discomfort forced me to question the deeper layers of consumer culture, uncovering the historical and cultural currents that brought us here. A society deprived for centuries now indulges in consumerism with fervour, mirroring the excesses of its long-gone rulers. It feels inevitable, even understandable.

Yet, for someone who refuses to run endlessly toward an unreachable horizon, the question remains: How do we turn the straight line of progress into a circle again? How can we reconnect with the natural rhythms of life, following his quests, pushing back against the currents of societal pressure?

This inquiry shapes my work. It is a meditation on cycles in a world obsessed with straight lines, a search for balance and connection. Through my practice, I strive to rediscover life as a circle—a return to where I truly feel and exist, not as a consumer, but as myself.