 announced that he added 'The' to his name, the actor has now revealed why he has also dropped the honorific, noting that it led to a "crazy amount of backlash" which wouldn't have happened to any other star.

, the actor spoke about the uproar his "title" had received from a section. "That was one whole situation," the actor reflects on how the honorific led to a meltdown.

Vijay Deverakonda Says He Dropped 'The' From His Name Due To Uproar: 'No One Else Would've Gotten This Backlash'

 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

premiered in 2019, it arrived at a cultural moment on screen that was still negotiating its comfort with women who spoke openly about desire, ambition and contradiction. For 

, the series also coincided with a period of profound personal and professional change. Over the years, as the show expanded its audience, Kulhari found herself evolving alongside it, confronting long-held ideas about her body, intimacy, fame and what it means to be truly comfortable in one’s skin.

Now, as the series bows out, Kulhari chats with 

and reflects on the arc of her journey—from early hesitation and self-doubt, her personal life helping her ease into the Prime Video series, to how years of living and growing in public have reshaped both the actor and the person she has become.

, a show that has been an anchor for you. What does it feel like now that this journey is coming to an end?

There are different moments when it really hits you that it’s over. We knew while shooting that this was the final season, but it truly sank in during the very last shot. When the announcement came—“It’s a wrap on 

”—I completely broke down. That was the moment it hit me that we wouldn’t be doing this together anymore, maybe ever, or at least not for a very long time.

Today, there’s a part of me that fully accepts that this is the final season. And then there’s another part that feels the story isn’t really over yet. But right now, I’m at peace. I believe in endings as much as I believe in beginnings. Personally, I’ve had a wonderful experience this season, and that really matters to me.

When the show first came to you in 2018,  what was your headspace like?

At that time, the OTT space was just beginning. I had only done theatrical films and had never been open to television. A part of me wondered if this was some form of television, because the screens were getting smaller and we were moving away from theatres. I questioned whether this aligned with what I had come to the industry for.

Initially, I even said no to the show because I don’t like stepping into anything with doubts. But Rangita (Pritish Nandy, producer) and Ishita (Moitra, writer) were persistent, and what excited me was how different the show felt. I hadn’t seen anything like it before. 

Yes, I had reservations about playing a mother; I worried about being boxed into that image. So yes, there was hesitation. But I think I just needed time to process everything and reach clarity on my own terms. Once I did, nothing was holding me back.

The first season also had a lot of intimacy, which was new for Indian audiences. I didn’t have a problem with it as an actor—I had grown up watching international cinema—but mentally preparing yourself and actually doing it are very different things. My then-husband, Sahil, was incredibly supportive; he reminded me that I was an actor and should be comfortable with my choices. Once I decided to do it, I went all in. The doubts never returned. And instinctively, I had a very strong feeling that the show would make noise.

I recall that when the trailer for the first season was released, the backlash from a certain segment of men was intense. Do you remember that phase?

Very clearly. Even before the full season dropped, the trailer itself rattled a lot of men. There was outrage, some said, 'How dare this show exist?' Interestingly, more men than women had a problem with it. I think it made them uncomfortable because they weren’t sure what it would stir within them. And that discomfort hasn’t really gone away.

How much have you changed as a person between season one and season four?

A lot. These last seven or eight years have brought immense personal growth. The stories we told on 

, the questions we asked, and the lives of these four women have deeply transformed me. During this period, I was also married and then separated, so there was a lot happening personally alongside my professional life. When I look back at the woman I was eight years ago, I don’t deny her... but I barely recognise her now.

Before the show, my comfort with my body, with dressing up, with putting myself out there was much lower. My roles were largely serious and performance-driven. 

brought out a different flavour in me with comedy, glamour and gave me confidence. Over time, I reached a place where glamour and no-glamour feel equally natural. Hair, makeup, intimate scenes, none of it feels loaded anymore. That mental neutrality is incredibly freeing.

I never thought of myself as “hot” or “sexy” growing up. After season one, that image suddenly stuck. Eight years later, hearing that doesn’t affect me one way or another. That neutrality—of not being swayed by praise or criticism—is something I truly value. Your life as an actor and as a person inevitably intertwines. And today, I’m in a very peaceful space—comfortable with who I am, on and off-screen.

Kirti Kulhari: 'Four More Shots Please' Still Continues to Rattle Some Men

The past year was a watershed one for Indian animation. The ambitious 

 (first in the seven-part Mahavatar Cinematic Universe, based on the 10 avatars of Vishnu) made on a budget of ₹40 crores, pulled in over ₹300 crores at the box office. It became the highest-grossing Indian animated film ever, and the sixth highest-grossing Indian film of 2025.

It uncovered an appetite for a new kind of animation, one that isn’t tied to children as the primary target audience. It also proves that in India, animation — often referred to as “cartoons” because in the public imagination it caters only to kids — is having a larger reckoning. “We knew the audience for an animation film around the world is huge, and we also knew that India as a market for animation, commercially, needs to be cracked, or needs a new perspective. We approached it from the fact that we are doing a film that happens to be animated, as opposed to doing an animation film,” says Ashwin Kumar, director of 

Both sex and violence are anathema to children’s films. Kumar’s film, which took over four years to make, with over 120 people, (“one-hundredth the size of a Disney film”), starts off with a heaving, moaning seduction scene and ends in an orgy of grisly violence. By shouldering both, Kumar made a statement: this animation film is no cartoon.

“Our film targeted (an audience between) 10-year-olds to 80-year-olds, with three generations; kids also enjoyed it, given the violence they see on video games and television anyway. The seduction scene in the beginning breaks the stereotype in the minds of people, that this is a serious film; it is no ordinary kid’s film. Besides, when you look through the prism of dharma (righteousness) on why sex and violence are conducted, then the audience knows it is appropriate, because at its heart, 

 is a film about devotion and faith,” Kumar says.

, which launched on Netflix — the first mythological anime series from Netflix India — and 

, made using only artificial intelligence (AI), on JioHotstar. 

 was also announced with a ₹120 crore budget, making it one of the most expensive animated films.

Structurally, these films won’t need to follow the demands of cartoons, where non-linear storytelling is gospel, because of children’s attention spans, and their proclivity for repeating episodes. “Children don’t want to be hooked to a story from start to end,” Ashish Thapar, chief executive officer of HiTech Animation Studios, the studio behind 

“This is the coming-of-age era for animation in India,” says Arjun Madhavan, chief executive officer, Assemblage Entertainment, which is India’s premier CGI (computer-generated imagery) Animation house. They’ve worked on projects such as Netflix’s 

 “It’s arrived at by a self-made, self-taught, self-inspired ecosystem that has learned on the job, by trying, failing, and watching over their shoulder. Now we are just about beginning to understand the artistry behind animation, and from the back-office, becoming the backbone of animation for the world.”

According to Crunchyroll president Rahul Purini, today, India has the second-largest anime market and fandom in the world. But animation first came to India in the late 1990s, and by the mid-2000s there was a rumble. Percept Picture Company was doling out Hanuman films — one even directed by Anurag Kashyap, who later bemoaned his experience, vowing to never return to animation. Big production houses and studios like Yash Raj Films and Dharma Productions were also pouring in money. While the former made 

 (2008), which didn’t fare well, the latter made

, which, though completed, was never released. The doors to animation in commercial cinema seemed firmly shut.

 “We were too early to tell an animation story. First, the technology was not there. There was no audience. Today, the age group of people from one to 35 years of age have all grown up watching animation. But for the 40 to 45 plus, when we were growing up, animation was limited,” says Thapar.

“So, today you have a wider audience than 10 years ago. You need to have your audience first, then think beyond the pond. Also, perhaps, the story was not correct for an Indian audience. To kickstart animation, we need homegrown Indian stories — mythology,” he notes.

Madhavan, too, notes that an appetite for animation must be created among audiences. “It is like food. Five years ago, you wouldn’t have that many Japanese or Mexican restaurants. With exposure, the palette changes, and now there is an appetite, and hence, access.”

The vicious loop of bad quality animation, because of low budgets, a lacking audience, or bad quality animation, has been broken by the success of 

, which showed that there is an audience for animation films, buoying producers to put their money on the line.

But it is important to make the distinction between what one is willing to watch versus what one is willing to pay for. Not all stories have the industrial strength to weather a theatrical release. “Even 

, despite being a huge success on television, was not able to translate it into theatrical footfalls when it was released as films. We should know what needs to go where,” Thapar says.

A common thread through all the animation films and shows this year is the use of mythology. Even 

 tied to local myth, is spinning off its own animation film, 

, an animation film untethered to mythology or already existing intellectual properties?

“Mythology has a lot of potential. We have to evolve as storytellers but first we need to feed the audience and once they get used to it, then we can start experimenting,” says Thapar.

Mythology, even historical epics, will de-risk a lot of the animation projects being rolled out, since these are, according to Madhavan, “low hanging fruits. We are priming the audience for deeper, darker, and more original stories.”

What about the quality of the films? Can Indian animation aspire to Hayao Miyazaki’s hand-drawn empire of beauty? “Good storytelling and average animation will always work here,” Thapar says. Right now, the animation industry needs to work — beauty might not be on their horizon of thought.

In this vein, AI has taken over the conversation, with the recently released and widely critiqued 

. Is it too early to have an entire animation series made on AI?

“AI is going to be an integral part of animation. Right now, we use AI in our systems, conceptualisation, and storyboarding. But we are still far away from using AI to make an entire show. Right now, you will not get a loyal audience for a show made completely on AI,” says Thapar. Kumar agrees, “Currently, I don’t think you can use AI to prompt something you can watch and weep.”

What is clear, however, is that there is now clear evidence for demand, and a rush to supply this demand for animation with stories, mediocrity notwithstanding. “You should not be surprised if within the next three to five years you see 100 to 200 animated films, which will help our indigenous animation industry, which it lacked,” says Kumar. We are, as it were, staring at the future of animation being scripted. 

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.

'Mahavatar Narasimha' to 'Kurukshetra': Indian Animation's Coming of Age in 2025

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. 

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 

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