 was never about playing a kabaddi player. It was about becoming one. Two years of training under Mari Selvaraj changed everything. “My body language is automatic now,” he tells 

 in an interview. “When I am on the court with six or seven people, I don’t think about acting. I know how to move, how to talk. It just happens.”

Dhruv Vikram on Turning Into a Real-Life Kabaddi Player for 'Bison'


 in conversation with Anushka Shah, founder of Civic Studios, for an evening that traced the emotional and cultural threads running through Chadha’s body of work. Speaking to a packed room, the 

. She reflected on how diasporic memory, identity, and the feeling of “carrying your parents with you” continue to shape her filmmaking. Chadha also revealed that her film’s contemporary Scrooge is inspired by a close friend from Uganda who arrived in the UK as a refugee — a reminder, she noted, of the lived histories that underlie her stories.

From there, the conversation broadened into the ways Civic Studios is supporting the film’s release in India, and how Chadha and Shah remain deeply connected to the creative circuits linking London and Mumbai.

What followed — as with so many gatherings at the club — was a natural extension of Soho House Mumbai’s commitment to nurturing a vibrant, collaborative film culture for its members.

At Soho House Mumbai, the members-only film programme is built on breadth, access, and thoughtful curation. Each month, members can explore around 30 distinctive titles across genres and formats — from the latest theatrical releases to world cinema, regional-language gems, documentaries, shorts, and festival favourites. Sundays bring family-friendly screenings, widening the circle of cinephiles who feel at home there.

A cornerstone of the programming is the monthly Film Club, which champions independent Indian cinema. Since launching in 2021, Film Club has brought pan-Indian indies to the fore, each screening followed by in-depth Q&As with filmmakers and crew — often flown in from across the country. Over the years, the club has featured titles such as 

 by Natesh Hegde (curated by Smriti Kiran for her Lightbox series), 

Located in the heart of Juhu, the House is naturally entwined with Bollywood’s creative community. Intimate conversations and surprise visits from industry names are woven into the fabric of the programme: Zoya Akhtar (

, Taapsee Pannu and Anubhav Sinha (for a preview of 

 in collaboration with member Ankur Pathak’s AK Talkies), and Vishal Bhardwaj (

) have all been part of the calendar. For the club’s fifth anniversary, a special series — 

 — culminated in a conversation with Anurag Kashyap and Kiran Rao, moderated by Rajeev Masand.

As a private members’ club, the screening room is free from the censorship restrictions that govern public cinemas, opening the door for exclusive access to unreleased and pre-release titles. Recent previews this year have included 

Television also plays a significant role in the programme. Members enjoy early access to series premieres, often followed by conversations with the creators. Highlights include 

Collaboration remains central to the spirit of the House. Member-led film properties frequently come to life through the programming: ALP — a celebration of short-form video spanning ads, shorts, music videos, and new media — was conceptualised by member Reema Maya and developed with the Soho House team. During Pride Month, 

, curated with Gaysi founder Sakshi Juneja, honours queer cinema. Documentary programming is strengthened through a partnership with Kriti Film Club. Additionally, the monthly “Member’s Pick” series invites a member to select and introduce a film that continues to inspire them.

All of this unfolds within a state-of-the-art screening room that rivals the best multiplexes in Mumbai. It’s a space designed for discovery especially for independent films that deserve the spotlight, and for a community that values thoughtful curation and shared experience.

At Soho House Mumbai, film is not just programming. It’s a culture built by its members.

Gurinder Chadha on Diaspora and 'Christmas Karma' — and the Film Culture That Soho House Is Building in Mumbai

Before stepping on stage in Mumbai, Kaytranada spent his day doing what he does only in cities that genuinely intrigue him: listening. “Basically, I went record shopping all day,” he says. “When it’s a city where I love the music and I embrace the culture—like India—I’ll go out.”

The musician-DJ doesn’t speak about India as a discovery, but rather as something he’s been listening to as a part of his journey as an ever-evolving music producer. His Mumbai performance marked two firsts: his first-ever show in India, and the inaugural edition of Logout, District’s new cultural IP designed as a third space for nights that resist routine. Logout is not positioned as an escape, but as a conscious step outside the algorithm, where presence replaces performance and culture is felt rather than broadcast. It was a fitting frame for an artist whose relationship with music has always been about listening.

India, he admitted, had long existed on his personal map. “It’s always a place I wanted to visit,” he said. “Being in Mumbai — I wanted to see the other cities too, how they look. But yeah, it’s a pleasure to be here.” And that mirrored his set. There was no dramatic entry. No forced crescendo. Instead, Kaytranada let rhythm unfurl gradually. Tracks like 

were grooves the body recognised instinctively.

It’s telling that his relationship with India is not a newfound love. That love, he insists, is inseparable from cinema. “I listen to a lot of old stuff,” he said. “In general, Indian music for me is mostly Bollywood—’70s and ’80s.” Soundtracks, album sleeves, the films themselves are his reference points. “I love soundtracks. I like the covers, the movies. I’m very curious about those. “Singers like Asha Bhosle — she’s on every soundtrack,” he said, smiling. 

“Sometimes I don’t even know how to spell the names properly, but I see a name like Lata Mangeshkar and I already know it’s going to be a good record, a good album.” Over time, listening turned into appreciation. “There’s a lot of percussion, drum-driven music. I love it.”

When the conversation turned to collaboration, Kaytranada was characteristically candid. “It’s weird,” he said. “It’s really about who’s willing to collaborate with me. Behind the scenes, it’s not always easy. That’s why I prefer working with people who genuinely want to work together rather than chasing something.” Recently, that openness led him into sessions with SZA. “The funny thing is, during that session she was talking about India,” he recalled. “She was telling me about a school she went to here.”

Asked which Indian artists or sounds he keeps returning to, his answer circled back to the archive. Old Bollywood. Film music. Legacy. And when pressed for a favourite, he didn’t hesitate. “Oh my God,” he laughed. “There’s one — it’s a soundtrack actually. The Burning Train. I really like the sitar on that. I love that.”

And as the night progressed, phones dipped and time loosened its grip, thanks to Logout by District. For a few hours, the city wasn’t racing toward the next thing. It was exactly where it nee

Kaytranada on Lata Mangeshkar, Asha Bhosle and Bollywood’s Golden Era: 'Those Names Always Meant Quality to Me'

It’s been a busy few months for filmmaker-producer Mira Nair. Her son, Zohran Mamdani, a 34-year-old Democrat, recently made history as the first Muslim mayor of New York City, and the youngest one since 1892. Nair hasn’t had a moment to catch her breath — especially since she has already dived headfirst into her next project only days after the poll results were announced. But she isn’t complaining.

for a conversation on Zoom in the early hours of a weekday from New York, beaming in a bright yellow kurta, raring to go. “I agreed to do this interview because you said it is on 

 25 years, not Zohran,” she says with an impish laugh, and immediately follows it up with, “No no, I’d be happy to talk about him.”

Her sunny disposition tries very hard but fails to contain her restlessness to go forth and tell another story that matters to her — one that she invests in so deeply that it consumes her like a fever dream.

There are stories Nair believes only she can tell, and perhaps, she’s right. On this day, Nair starts 24 years ago, recounting how she arguably changed the ways in which Indian weddings were captured in the popular imagination. She journeys all the way to the present, to end the story with her son, who, in her words, “has brought the world the gift of hope”.

But of course, it’s just as much her story too — she is, after all, “the producer of the candidate” who has won and captured the popular imagination of today.

 is going to turn 25 next year. It made it to 

 list of the 25 best films of the 21st century. How do you look back at the film and its legacy?

 I mean, the Bhagavad Gita says, beware the fruits of action, and I certainly had no idea that when I set out to make what I thought of as an intimate family flick, it would, 25 years later, become one of the most heralded films. I make films to entertain, to get under your skin, but also to help us see the world anew — or to see it in ways people would rather you didn’t, to see the unseen.

 came from that impulse. I remember watching 

 with my whole family in Delhi. I adored the 

, the 21 songs, but it was utterly unreal — nothing like our 

(weddings at home). That sparked the desire to do a reality check on a wedding. And when you do that, the secrets inevitably emerge: the family dynamics, who is who, what has happened to whom, the history of wounds. That was the idea.

I worked with the wonderful Sabrina Dhawan, who was my student at Columbia University, where I was teaching film. She was a generation younger than me, also from Delhi, and we were two Punjabi chicks wanting to tell this tale with grit, humour and reality. Before it was even written, I pitched it — quite literally made elevator pitches at the Cannes Film Festival — as a $1 million film. Eighteen people said yes, and I chose the best player. I made it with complete creative freedom, which is always my mantra: the smaller the budget, the greater the freedom.

It was always, for me, an equal story between the Dubeys and the Vermas, the served and those who serve. Also, the catharsis it brought to the prison of silence that most people who have suffered any kind of sexual abuse live in, especially within the family — it just blew that lid off 25 years ago. And this, I didn’t expect — but of course I wanted. And one of the core reasons for making 

It also became one of the first portraits of a globalising India. And now, 12 years after creating the Broadway-bound stage musical, I still see those waves of embrace — the story’s power continues to travel.

You mention how bigger budgets mean lesser freedom and the opposite is true too. But with 

, you saw major commercial success. How hard is it to balance commercial pressures with principles?

, a sort of $50 million epic that Focus Features wanted me to direct. And I did, because I’d loved that novel growing up — it was about the first badass chick, Becky Sharp, which I adored reading at Loreto Convent (Shimla). But what fascinated me, despite so many adaptations, was that no one had looked at how William Makepeace Thackeray had actually written it: that the empire raping the colonies led to the creation of a possible Becky Sharp, someone who could ascend the very rigid hierarchy of English society. That colonial-empire axis had been completely ignored, and for me it was essential to making 

So, yes, the opportunity to make bigger films came very quickly after 

. But even before that, I’d had several studio movies. And I don’t change what I want to make in my life; I’ve always been pretty ruthless about that. It’s never about being on an A-list of directors — it’s about doing what I want to do, doing what other people do not do. My criterion is simple: if other people can make this film, let them make it. But if I know I can make it with a point of view I will never otherwise see, then I make it.

And honestly, the struggle is the same. When I was making 

, no one came — they didn’t want to touch a political film that said the unsayable, which is precisely why I wanted to make it. It all depends on what you choose to do. Even with my next film on Amrita Sher-Gil — it’s taken four to five years to get it financed. Success doesn’t mean you can always do what you want; it depends on how your mind works — and your heart.

 Has having your own production company (Mirabai Films) helped you keep your creative freedom and autonomy?

Absolutely. I’ve produced my own work since before 

 (1988), and I’ve been deeply fuelled by the independent filmmaker movement, which taught us early on to try and retain one’s copyright. Giving up copyright is something I really try to resist, because that’s my work. And it’s not always possible with Hollywood; with studio movies you can’t own your copyright. But for me, retaining it is essential because it’s my pulse. It’s not only about the money — it’s about claiming your work.

, and you said no. Instead, you chose to make Jhumpa Lahiri’s 

 Yeah. What was happening then was that I had just finished 

. Warner Bros. had seen it, and they loved it. And they’d also had success with Alfonso Cuarón’s third 

, so they put two and two together and thought a “nice foreign sensibility” could do something exciting. So, we began a very long round of discussions. It wasn’t an offer on the table — it doesn’t work like that — but these discussions went on for months.

At the same time, I was already adapting what became

, and I’d just spent a whole year in England with 

. I didn’t want to rush back there to make another film, but I kept doing both sets of meetings because Zohran had loved and learned to read with 

. That’s why I was even considering it.

But a moment came when my heart was divided. I wanted to work on 

. So, I talked to Zoru — he was 14 then, I remember — and I asked him what I should do. And he said, “Mama, many good directors can make 

.” He said exactly that line. And I just looked at him — it was like a light came on. I was liberated from the struggle of thinking I should please him. He saw right through it, as he always has. I didn’t have to set anything up. I just asked, and that’s what he said.

Recently, actor Namit Das posted a photo of him with Zohran during the 

musical’s rehearsals in 2017, where they’re dancing. Has Zohran been involved in the musical in any capacity?

 Well, he has been involved. In the earlier years, when we were workshopping for the musical — before we knew Namit, before we found someone who could sing, dance and be comic — we had a week-long workshop, and in that, Zohran played P.K. Dubey.

The workshop is to sell to investors, so you have the orchestra, the singers, the actors — everyone at microphones. Zohran performed P.K. Dubey, and (singer) Ali Sethi — who is like a son to me — did the singing.

I remember that morning: Zohran came home with a really cool haircut. I said, “

 (Where did this come from)?” And he said, “

, we have to do the workshop.” He picked up a polka-dotted shirt — I don’t know where from — and dressed himself a little chalu (naughty), like P.K..

We started in this simple room with microphones on stands, no sets or props. Suddenly he’s performing P.K. — leaping on tables, doing the whole thing. When it ended, it was superb, this dual act with Ali. And one of the producing investors said, “Who is that boy? We’re not going on Broadway without that boy.” I reminded her recently that that boy is now our mayor.

 How much do you think all the art, cinema, literature and poetry he’s grown up around has shaped Zohran’s political career? We’ve all enjoyed the times he posed like Shah Rukh Khan, referenced (Amitabh) Bachchan, and then did his victory walk to Dhoom Machale — how much of that is you in him?

 It’s a portrait of our lives, really. What I love about Zohran’s campaign is that he completely embraces the multiplicity of our lives, as we do — certainly his parents do. We live actively between three continents and cities: New York, Kampala and Delhi. At home we’ve always spoken Hindustani. I was raised with the poems of (Faiz Ahmad) Faiz, with ghazals — so was (husband) Mahmood (Mamdani) — and our home has always been filled with music. It’s fuel for us: classical, Hindustani, African music playing all the time.

Films were what I did, but the core that makes me make movies is the same core that propels Mahmood to write his books. We’re always about showing the world what it is, holding a mirror with a certain amount of chalu-giri — by which I mean 

(fun). And Zohran grew up very secure in this intergenerational home, with multiple aspects of who he is and who we are. That includes culture, music, poetry, naach-gaana, and the warmth of a family life where, though an only child, he never felt like one. Our home was open and porous. He loved meeting and discovering cousins — we used to joke he was “collecting cousins”.

As for the Bollywood aspect of his videos, that was entirely his idea. People think it’s mine, but it wasn’t. He’s grown up on it, he knows it works; he enjoys it. The only thing I helped him with was pronunciation — like 

humne dus-hazaar darwaze khat-khataaye hain

 (I’ve knocked on 10,000 doors) — some words were tricky. But he’s a natural performer and always himself. He doesn’t put on personas. And growing up in New York, hearing Arabic, Spanish, Chinese — living in that — he absorbed everything.

So, were there any movies that you made Zohran watch as a kid?

 The movie he watched 16 times with his grandfather and with us — I didn’t watch it that many times — was 

 That is the number one movie for Zohran growing up. The other movie he absolutely loves is Zoya’s (Akhtar) 

On the more personal front, he somehow didn’t bring himself to watch 

until he was a young teenager. And when he finally watched it, he just went to the moon. He loved it so much — not only because it’s shot and made in the home he was born in, in Kampala, but also because, again, it’s about our lives in a very direct way for him. He couldn’t believe he had waited so long to see it. And then he kept watching it.

My husband wants me to tell you that he watched and loved 

, but I don’t really remember that so much — meaning he didn’t relate to it. But oh — a big movie, a huge favourite of his, is Govind Nihalani’s 

. He saw it as a very young person and then kept seeing it. He loves that movie. Please write about that movie because young people do not know about it. Mostly, we only watched Indian films at home.

If Arnold Schwarzenegger could juggle acting with being Governor of California, do you think you could ever convince the Mayor of NYC to act in one of your films?

(Laughs) No, no. I mean, I literally offered him the role of the suitable boy — the main role in 

. And again, like with many of my things, if I need an actor to read opposite an actress or something, and if he’s home, he’s always been willing. But for 

 — I really wanted him to play that role. And he didn’t. He said, “A lot of people die to be offered these things, but I don’t.”

He was the most reluctant actor. He never wanted it, and I had to accept that. And I was also grateful, because he knew he didn’t need it — that need people have to be an actor — he didn’t have that. But he’s got the goods. I always saw the charisma and the ability he has to actually make joy — to connect with people on a very direct and unfettered level. I’ve always loved that.

But I’ve got no chance of getting him into a movie. We threw a shirt on him for 

 — besides the music he did — but yes, there is a shot where he plays a kid in that film, briefly. Otherwise, no. Now there’s no chance. He never wanted to, but I’d love it if he did. I’d love it. 

To read more exclusive stories from The Hollywood Reporter India's December 2025 print issue, pick up a copy of the magazine from your nearest book store or newspaper stand.

Mira Nair: I Really Wanted Zohran In 'A Suitable Boy,' But He's The Most Reluctant Actor

 landed in Mumbai this week, the conversation around her visit was expected to orbit her music. The Grammy-winning artist has spent the past year in a global spotlight, her sound and style evolving with a confidence only breakout stars possess. But the moment that ultimately defined her India visit didn’t unfold onstage. It happened in a quiet fitting room, where Tyla stepped into her first-ever saree; a mint, hand-stitched drape created by a self-taught Indian designer.

, whose rise from a modest sewing table to Cannes, red carpets, and now global pop royalty has become one of fashion’s newest feel-good narratives. “Indian technique carries a deep emotional history, a sense of artistry, and I wanted that lineage to sit naturally beside Tyla’s bold, modern, self-assured style. The structure, the drape, and the detailing were all crafted by hand, built from the idea that culture needs no translation and it can simply be embraced. This piece is meant to hold both identities with equal respect… that’s where the garment truly came alive.” 

The collaboration itself unfolded with a certain cinematic spontaneity. “It started very organically,” Tyagi reveals. “Tyla has always been open to working with young artists, and that was reflected in this collaboration. She chose to work with me with the same motive, reviewed the designs I sent and selected the one she felt most drawn to."

Nancy conceptualised a clean, modern silhouette that still carried the emotional essence of Indian heritage. The saree itself reflects duality in every layer. Constructed in a soft mint tone, the drape was cut on an engineered bias to allow controlled fluidity, a modern interpretation of the saree’s traditional architecture. Tyagi added subtle textural dimension through hand-applied detailing, while the pleats were shaped to fall with sculptural clarity rather than weight. The final effect was an elegant but unmistakably contemporary piece, designed to move with the wearer. 

The payoff was immediate. “When she arrived in India the next day and the saree draped over her so effortlessly, it felt like everything came together the way it was supposed to,” Tyagi recalls. “Working with her was smooth, natural, and very special.” Tyla embraced the saree with traditional bindi, looking every bit natural.  

The collaboration also marks another milestone in Tyagi’s ascent, one that began with humble beginnings, long before Cannes turned her into a fashion phenomenon. For Tyagi, this moment threads into a larger narrative that has unfolded since Cannes 2024. 

“From that day to now, December 2025, everything has felt like a dream unfolding,” she says. “People from all over the world discovered my work, and this girl who used to stitch outfits in her small room suddenly received global love and recognition.” The past two years have brought collaborations with magazines, Bollywood actors, and international creators, yet her process remains grounded. “Every outfit still has the same effort, the same sound of my sewing machine, and the same dedication I started with. This journey has been a rollercoaster, but a beautifully meaningful one.” 

In an industry often shaped by hierarchy and legacy, this moment stands apart: a global sensation placing her trust in a young, self-taught designer; a designer honouring tradition without compromising her own vocabulary; and a saree that became the most memorable cultural image of Tyla’s India debut. 

Nancy Tyagi’s Saree for Tyla Proves that Viral Fashion Moments Don’t Need Big Houses

There is a gentle ache that runs through 

, an undercurrent of tension, of release. Tisca Chopra, in her first feature as director (and co-writer), seems drawn to these submerged emotional landscapes. Chopra’s filmmaking has the texture of lived experience: patient, observant, almost conspiratorially tender. And in Smita (played by Radhika Apte) — the seemingly ordinary woman at the centre of 

 — she finds a vessel for the contradictions she has spent years watching closely, whether from the back seat of a car in Noida or on a train slipping past forgotten stations.

The result is a work steeped in interiority, shaped equally by what is said and what is withheld.

, Chopra speaks with the same clarity and curiosity that animate her film, as she reveals the artistic logic behind 

 and the stories that continue to keep her awake at night.

You’ve said you’re drawn to the unseen power struggles inside relationships. How did you find Smita’s story, and why did she become your vessel for exploring these tensions?

I was a little kid who’d come here from Afghanistan. I’d grown up in Kabul, and India was supposed to be the place where I’d finally meet everyone in my family. Instead, my dad got posted in Noida and there was no one for miles. Every 15 days we’d drive to Connaught Place and I’d look at people around me and wonder, what is this person’s story? That curiosity stayed with me through train journeys, watching strangers blur past and imagining their lives.

Over time, I also became interested in the way the world today is so filtered, so blinged out, and yet there are people with no outward projection at all. What about their lives? Are they any less vibrant? That’s where Smita emerged from — someone rooted, natural, deeply fond of her plants. Her life, I felt, might be far more exciting than any of ours. So don’t judge a book by its cover.

Radhika Apte told me she and you initially disagreed on Smita’s intentions and her eventual actions. How did you navigate that difference, especially when you’re both actor and director?

To give Radhika full credit, she came in with her own notions of how to play the character, as any talented actor would. Everyone gets into certain patterns. My only note was: don’t play the character. Be under the script. Let it guide you.

The first few days were recalibration. Once she got it, we were completely on the same page. There wasn’t any real disagreement except early communication. She understood that if Smita 

 the character, you wouldn’t feel anything for her. You’d feel for her only when she stayed poker-faced and internal.

Both Radhika and Divyenndu said what they appreciated most was that you never “showed” them how to act. They also told me you originally intended to play Smita. How did your experience as an actor influence the way you wrote and directed this film? Did it help in bring interiority?

I love the word “interiority.” Acting and directing are two poles of a spectrum. Acting is inward, non-observational, digging into yourself. Directing is entirely observational — watching, contemplating, managing energies and guiding people to their true north.

Once you have the right ensemble, you let them do their thing. Then you just nudge, tweak, pull a little longer or shorter. That’s it. You don’t need to tell them what to do. That’s not the job.

Radhika told me she feels there’s hardly any space for silence in today’s theatrical and streaming landscape, and that she wouldn’t want to be in most of what’s being made. How do you feel about the current moment — is the space for quieter stories shrinking?

It’s a large question. I have a different view. It takes solid gumption to make a controlled-budget film without the extravagance of multi-crore budgets. Those need huge opening weekends and big streamer sales.

What’s really needed are people confident in their stories and with a rhino hide. Not every film is meant for theatres. I don’t think 

 is a theatrical film. It’s a quiet film you watch with your family, your partner, or even alone. It calls for attention.

My next is a supernatural film — modest budget but strong VFX. If you make it well, recovery is almost guaranteed. Look at 

. It was made on ₹16 crore and look where it went. There’s room for Rajamouli-scale films and room for dangerously good stories, quiet or not. If the telling has truth, audiences will seek it.

Tisca Chopra on 'Saali Mohobbat': Acting is Inward, Directing is Observational

 speaks with a clarity and volatility that rarely coexist in the same breath, one moment clinically precise, the next brimming with combustible frustration.

, Tisca Chopra’s directorial debut, a film that leans into the unruly sentiment and tangled intimacy of classic melodrama. Yet almost instantly the conversation widens and spills into a far more urgent terrain, touching on the precarious state of Indian theatres, the suffocating churn of the content economy, and her disquieting suspicion that the industry she has belonged to for years may no longer know how to hold an actor like her.

What begins on relatively steady ground shifts rapidly. Apte starts by explaining that she agreed to the film because, “Tisca is mad in the best possible way and the script had this unhinged emotionality I’ve been craving. You know Tisca and I didn't agree on Smita's character? Our rationales were very different and that was very exciting,” she says.

Apte speaks of Chopra’s intuitive sensitivity as a performer who has now stepped behind the camera, of a narrative world designed to accommodate a wide range of feelings and colours, and of the relief of stepping into characters whose emotions are not engineered into neat arcs. Her attention pivots sharply to what she sees as the increasingly distorted theatrical landscape. “Honestly, have you seen what’s happening in theatres today? It’s chaos, it’s noise, it’s like the only films that survive are the ones screaming the loudest," she says.

There is irony and fatigue in her tone, softened by the faintest trace of amusement. “I finally found time to sit down and watch something on streaming; I saw the Top 10 list and suddenly it hit me that there is no room for me anymore, not in that Top 10 at least. Not that they would ever be offered to me, but even if they were... I would not do them,” says Apte. 

She defends the film she has made precisely because it sidesteps the sensory overload that has come to dominate the mainstream. “There’s no gimmick, no unnecessary gore, it’s just messy, human, layered...which apparently is too much to ask for these days,” she says, the remark sharpened by a level gaze that suggests the frustration is long-standing.

Apte also addresses the near disappearance of mid-budget dramas, the erosion of nuanced romances, the retreat of politically daring comedies, the sidelining of distinctive auteur voices.

Even within this critique, her return to 

introduces a different register. The earlier agitation softens into something more contemplative. “At the heart of it, 

reaffirms that there's place for the kind of stories I want to tell. They are complex, they are nuanced but they are not violent and gory,” she said. Especially at a time where so much of the industry appears uncertain of its own future, Apte’s voice remains startlingly sure.

Radhika Apte on 'Saali Mohabbat' and the State of Indian Theatres Today: 'It’s Chaos And It’s Noise'

 were the star attractions at a big-ticket real estate shebang in Dubai, UAE, on Tuesday night.

The semi-ticketed event, which witnessed a turnout of 7,000 attendees, most of them South Asian expats, marked a new milestone for its headliner: the launch of Shahrukhz by Danube, a 55-storey commercial business tower named after the Indian superstar. It is the first tower in the world to bear Khan’s name. The 60-year-old actor has, for the first time, granted his exclusive naming rights to a brand.

Khan, turned out in his trademark black, made a dramatic entrance onstage to the theme of Don, observing that the gathering felt “like a rock concert and not a building launch.” The launch event was held at the sprawling Dubai Exhibition Centre and was moderated by 

, who joined SRK in felicitating members of Dubai’s real estate fraternity.

During the on-stage proceedings, Shah Rukh Khan exchanged light-hearted banter with Rizwan Sajan, Founder and Chairman of the Danube Group. Sajan’s wife, Sameera Sajan — an ardent SRK devotee — briefly joined them on stage. 

The evening concluded with a head-turning tribute’ performance by Malaika Arora, who presented an extended dance set with brightly costumed backup dancers. The medley was built around Shah Rukh Khan’s chartbusters, most notably “Chaiyya Chaiyya” from Dil Se, an iconic song they co-featured in nearly thirty years ago. 

Khan further delighted guests with an impromptu performance of the title track of 

The event coincided with the formal announcement that Shahrukhz, valued at AED 2.1 billion (over ₹5,000 crore) and spread over 1 million square feet, had sold out on launch day. The tower, located on Dubai’s prime Sheikh Zayed Road, will house 488 commercial units and feature over 40 amenities, including a sky pool, executive lounges, and a helipad. 

“To see a project of this scale in Dubai carry my name is both an honour and a reminder of how generosity and vision can come together,” SRK said. “Dubai has always embraced me with warmth; it’s a city built on courage, imagination, and the belief that nothing is impossible. ‘SHAHRUKHZ by Danube’ reflects that very spirit.”

He dedicated the moment to the memory of his parents, adding that their influence continues to inspire him “to conquer new heights.”

Indian-origin real estate mogul Rizwan Sajan, whose company Danube has collaborated with Khan for the past one year, added that both he and Khan “started modestly over three decades ago,” and described the tower as a shared testament to their journeys.

‘Shahrukhz by Danube’: Shah Rukh Khan Launches 55-Storey Eponymous Tower in Dubai

The first thing Preetisheel Singh clarifies is that she prefers calling her work “character designing” instead of merely “prosthetics”, for it is a combination of hair, makeup, and prosthetics that is done in her “lab” in Versova.

Singh begins working on a film by sitting with the script and director, charting the characters and their graphs—across both the wide sweep of time and the smaller durations, as wounds fester on their body and scars deepen. She, then, makes digital designs, which are shown to the director before bringing the actors in. Live casts—3-D scans—of the actors are then made, for her team to begin working on. This relieves actors from not having to sit for all the trials—it can be done on these casts.

Over the past decade and a half, Singh has worked in films like 

, elevating prosthetics to an art form. From small detailing like ageing wounds and sculpting scars, to larger questions around a character’s hair and hairlessness, she co-created the characters that stain public memory. In Aditya Dhar’s 

, her official credit is “Character and Prosthetic Designer”.

Despite its importance in the storytelling process and outcome, Singh notes, prosthetics is not considered worthy of an awards category, “Except for the National Awards, it is barely acknowledged.” Prosthetics is still considered a slapdash thing, “only meant to turn people into an old or fat person. It is high time we—and I include the casting director in this—get the recognition that is due.”

In this conversation, edited for length and clarity, she speaks of the various conversations that went into making the characters:

We should begin by speaking of Ranveer Singh’s hair. 

Cracking the hair was important, we had to strike the balance between making it cinematic but not distracting because he is not a front and center character in the first part.

 expands over a certain time period, and I wanted to track that journey from getting into the “spy look” , where he doesn’t have access to money, doesn’t even have a house to stay in, being on the streets, to entering the gang. I wanted to show the initial rugged rawness, where he is not grooming himself every day, with unkempt grungy hair, tied into a ponytail sometimes. You see that greasiness in the texture coming across. Texture is very important to me. I even gave him freckles on his face, and tanned his skin tone. This builds character.

Everyone was initially apprehensive that he had long hair and brown eyes like Khilji, [his character in 

] and we didn’t want him to repeat that look. I told them not to worry, because I also did his Khilji look, so why would I repeat myself? 

How long would it take to get Singh into this look?

Roughly, it would take 1.5 hours to prepare. If there was bloodwork, with scars and bruising, maybe two hours. But time was always of essence.

Over the years, in the film, his character grows his beard, and does not cut his hair, so I used a lot of extensions and wigs—for both beard and hair—because we were going back and forth between the looks while shooting. 

Akshaye Khanna’s character, and hair, particularly, has made quite an impression online. What were the kinds of conversations around his hairpiece? 

 as well, turning him into Aurangzeb. Of course, he has a lot of experience working with wigs. I wanted to refrain from how he has already been shown and wanted his charisma to come across. There is a suaveness in his character, where his mere presence commands attention. He doesn’t need to say much. I gave him soft waves, and we showed the receding hairline. It is not a full head of hair. I remember doing the trial, he was looking at himself in the mirror, telling me he was reminded of his late father, Vinod Khanna.

What about Arjun Rampal’s character? At what point do you stop yourself from making such a handsome man look grotesque?

To make him look not attractive was difficult. I wanted his face to be layered under a lot of character streaks, and gave him a nice scar across his face. I wanted the menace and viciousness to come across. We did the gold plating for two teeth on top and the lower set as well. On the first day of shooting, he had asked if we could take another shot, with a closeup of his face, and he did this side smirk, and suddenly you realised, the teeth are what completed his character, Major Iqbal.

It is very important to me that even when they are not speaking, the character comes through strongly. 

And Madhavan’s character? Was he always supposed to be lacking hair?

Yes, he was. I wanted his head structure to change. Madhavan has an elongated face. I wanted to make it round-ish. It is not very noticeable. You can see R Madhavan in the character, but a transformed version. 

Talk to me about the prosthetics of torture—skin being pulled by hooks, brains being smashed, bodies by flung into iron nails. What are you using to make these scenes come alive, and how do we appreciate something you keep wanting us to look away from? 

Haha, I suppose that is a job well done, then. Aditya was very clear that he wanted to show the brutality people go through and how actually, in gang wars, people torture each other in novel ways, to set an example as a warning. We would sit with Aditya and the action directors [Aejaz Gulab, Sea Young Oh, Yannick Ben, Ramazan Bulut] and would think of new ways we haven’t seen, of killing, of torturing. We would then sculpt those scenes. 

Major Iqbal, for example, has hooked up a guy with fish hooks to extract information, and he is pulling the skin. So I made small folds of flesh and put the hooks in those pieces, so it gives the illusion of skin. I mostly work with silicon which has this lovely quality of imitating skin, when you colour it properly with good blood work. It is important for us to get the anatomy, the muscle structure right—nothing should give away that this is fake.

I know I have done this work and it is fake, but the execution was so good, that when we were shooting this scene, with the loud cries of the guy getting tortured, it made me cringe, and I walked off the set, because this brutality is a lot to take. 

For the brain smashing sequence we deconstructed the body and brain parts—made from a mix of silicon and foam—to see what parts to smush off. We got an exact replica of the actor, so what you see is a dummy being smashed. The guy being flung into the iron nails is actually a person, though I made the iron nails out of foam, by coordinating with the production designer [Saini S Johray].

What was the most challenging look to crack or moment of violence to stage? 

is that I had fifteen days to prep for this film. Besides, we shot a lot for this film. Usually a movie covers 80 to 90 locations. For 

Hair and Torture in 'Dhurandhar': Decoding the Prosthetics and Character Designing in Ranveer Singh's Spy-Thriller

 has long worked in that liminal space where cultures overlap and stories acquire the texture of lived migration. With 

, she returns to that crossroads with a gentler, more ruminative gaze. The familiar preoccupations are all here: the pull of memory, the ache of belonging, the persistent negotiations of identity. But they surface with the unforced clarity of a filmmaker who knows that politics sometimes arise from the simple act of insisting on presence.

, Chadha reflects on why Dickens and Capra continue to speak across eras, and how one navigates an industry where the indie theatrical window grows ever narrower.

 — both stories steeped in redemption, generosity and second chances. Growing up South Asian in the diaspora, what resonated with you in those stories, and why reinterpret them through a desi lens?

I grew up in England, and Christmas was a big deal for us. It’s my favourite time of year. We all came together — the whole nation did, really. As a kid I wrote letters to Santa Claus. My dad used to leave out whisky for him, and in the morning he’d say, “Santa’s drunk all my whisky!” We’d have lunch, then watch the Queen’s speech, then everyone came round and we ate together. We still do that; my kids love a good traditional Christmas Day.

. I make my kids watch it. At first they’d complain it was black and white, but I insist because that film teaches you everything about how to conduct your life. I’ve loved it for years. A while back, I felt I wanted to make my own Capra-esque Christmas film. That film was inspired by Dickens, so I went back to the source. I went to Dickens House in Clerkenwell, walked around and thought: if Dickens were alive today, and if he were me with my upbringing, what story would he tell? Dickens was writing about Victorian England, with huge disparities between rich and poor. Not so different from now. 

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