 in his next, an untitled project starring Silambarasan TR, popularly known as Simbu. In an exclusive interview with 

, the filmmaker opened up about the roots of this intriguing follow-up. 

, it’s a very long story,” he said. The idea goes back to 2003, when a friend’s lost bike led him into Chennai’s underworld. “Slowly he got to know the mafia, and I wanted to know more. I started meeting people and talking to them.” One of those encounters, he recalls, was transformative: “The person I spoke told me he had lived a world I had never seen in films. He started writing it down for me. He himself could have been a scriptwriter if life had been different.” That material became the seed for 

Will Dhanush Be Part Of Silambarasan TR Film Set In 'Vada Chennai' Universe? Vetrimaaran Answers 

, George Clooney plays a movie star who quietly admits that decades of performing for the camera have left him feeling disconnected from reality. "My life doesn’t really feel real," he says. It’s a line that lingers, especially for someone like 

, who has spent over four decades in front of the camera and remains one of Hindi cinema’s most enduring stars.

For Dixit, however, the secret to staying authentic, she tells 

, lies in never carrying stardom home. “For me, the key has always been staying real as a person. I don’t carry the baggage of my popularity or my films. When I walk into my house, all the fame stays outside. It’s just me who walks in,” she says, crediting her parents—especially her mother—for keeping her grounded throughout her journey.

"So, I see myself like any other professional; You’re a journalist, I’m an actor, someone else is a director or a businessman. I’ve never carried the baggage with me.”

Dixit’s film career is marked by remarkable numbers. She has spent over four decades in the industry, made her debut in her mid-teens, appeared in more than 90 films, and began dancing at the age of three. So when she is asked what cinema truly means to her, she pauses, smiles, and lets out an instinctive, “Oh my God...”

"It is something very deep for me. Cinema is a way of emoting. I feel extremely comfortable in front of the camera; it is my friend, and I love telling stories. I love stepping into different characters.”

, in which she plays a "dark", unconventional role. Dixit reflects on her ever-expanding screen legacy, which has been shaped by instinct as much as by evolution. As someone who has worked across radically different eras of Hindi cinema, the actor notes how dramatically the filmmaking process itself has changed. 

"There was far more intuition among directors back then. Often, dialogues were being written on set. We’d be waiting while the writer finished, then we’d quickly memorise our lines, the director would decide the shot division on the spot and we’d just perform.”

The pace was relentless. Actors routinely worked on multiple films at the same time, often shooting two shifts a day. “We were doing three or four films a year, sometimes more. One film in the morning, another in the evening. It was a completely different way of making movies! It was all very instinctive, very in-the-moment. There were only a handful of productions that were truly organised like Yash Chopra, BR Chopra, Rajshri Productions or Mukta Arts. Even then, we never shot an entire film at once! We’d shoot in ten-day schedules, watch the rushes, and then move forward. We were thriving in chaos!" she laughs.

Today, Dixit observes, filmmaking is far more structured and methodical. “Everything is prepared in advance now, from the prep for roles, look tests, to workshops. It’s a far more educated way of working,” she says, acknowledging that the industry’s evolution has brought both discipline and depth to the craft.

That evolution is perhaps most visible in the way women are written and positioned on screen today. According to Dixit, contemporary filmmakers are increasingly moving away from one-dimensional portrayals. “Women are now being looked at in a more layered way, not in black-and-white terms."

OTT platforms, she feels, have accelerated this shift significantly. 

, in which she plays a serial killer, is a case in point. “If this had been a theatrical film, I don’t think people would have immediately said, ‘Yes, let’s cast a big actress in this role. But OTT makes that possible because you’re not constrained by target audiences or box-office formulas. You’re free to tell the story the way you want to.”

and directed by Nagesh Kukunoor, the series also stars Siddharth Chandekar and Priyanshu Chatterjee. The six-episode psychological thriller is produced by Applause Entertainment in association with Kukunoor Movies.

Madhuri Dixit on 'Mrs. Deshpande' and 40 Years of Cinema: 'When I Walk Into My House, the Fame Stays Outside'

 has long occupied an intriguing position in Indian cinema, not as an outsider exactly, but as a presence that refuses to fully assimilate. While mainstream stardom tends to reward certainty and volume, Koechlin’s career has been built on curiosity and a willingness to sit inside contradiction. It makes her an unusually apt fit for 

, a Franco-American film that moves between past and present, history and invention, exile and inheritance.

The film, which follows a writer tracing her grandmother’s wartime displacement while living through the early days of the pandemic, is steeped in repetition and cycles. It is interested in how history replays itself with minor alterations, and how identity is shaped as much by what is concealed as by what is remembered. For Koechlin, the appeal lay not only in the material but in its method. The screenplay insists on precision, rhythm and fidelity to language, an approach that runs counter to the prevailing improvisatory culture of Indian filmmaking.

, Koechlin is candid about an industry that increasingly privileges spectacle, speed and aggression over texture.

, but beyond the elevator pitch there was very little out there. Can you tell us what the film is and why you were compelled to be a part of it?

 Briefly, the story is about an American writer who goes back to the village her grandmother belonged to because she wants to write about her grandmother’s life. There was something called 'The Exodus' from Paris — when the Nazis came in and everyone fled Paris to different parts of the south of France. Her grandmother ended up in this particular village, and she goes there to write this book based on her grandmother’s experiences. As she’s writing, the COVID-19 pandemic hits. And suddenly the same cycle repeats itself: people start fleeing Paris again because they’re hearing rumours about how bad it’s getting in Italy, and everyone runs off to the countryside. There’s this strange repetition. It’s a quirky comedy where she’s playing with her fiction, and the fiction seems to be happening around her.

It’s also about many other things like belonging. Where do we belong? Is the place we think we’re from really where we’re from? Because she uncovers secrets, lies, affairs and other things going on in the family. It’s done in a very light, comic way, but also quite poetic. We become aware of ourselves through the past.

Q: Cycles are fascinating to explore. Which part of the cycle do you think the current streaming landscape is in?

 I think streaming has reached a kind of peak. It was this thing that just took over the world — there was so much content, everyone was excited, and it gave incredible employment and opportunity to so many people. But now it feels like it’s plateaued. There’s too much content and nobody knows what to watch. I have that problem — I go on Netflix and I’m just scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. I actually miss the old times when you had to wait for something. When you watched a series on TV and waited a week for the next episode. That instant gratification has really affected attention spans.

People aren’t watching as much, the business model isn’t working as well, subscriptions aren’t what they hoped for, and content is being made less. So it’s hard to say where it goes from here. But I think it’s another creative cycle. When belief in formulas plateaus, people have to go back to the drawing board, go back to creativity, to original formats that can once again capture attention. I’m hoping for a renewal of creativity.

 allow you to explore as an actor that Indian cinema hasn’t quite given you space for?

 One thing that really stood out was the absolute respect for the script. To the point where a script supervisor would come and say, “I noticed in this take you didn’t say 

,” or you missed a word or even a comma. Every single detail was noted.

I’ve experienced that in theatre, especially with texts that are considered sacred, like Shakespeare. But I’ve never really experienced that in cinema. In India we’re very good at improvising and tweaking dialogue on the spot. Here, sticking to the text was important, especially because with comedy, pauses and timing are written very deliberately.

That was very exciting for me. Also, comedy isn’t something I’ve done a lot of. Otherwise, filmmaking is the same everywhere — the rush to finish before the sun sets, stopping shoot because a plane flies overhead. That part is universal.

Q: Radhika Apte recently spoke about being tired of shoddy scripts and being expected to “bring her A-game” to fix inconsistencies. Has that been your experience too?

 Absolutely. There are two issues. One is language. A lot of people write in English and then translate into Hindi. Something gets lost in translation, and suddenly the dialogue sounds more formal and less spoken. You read one script in English, and then two weeks before the shoot you get a Hindi version that sounds nothing like it. Then you’re trying to make it sound natural again.

The second thing is the rush. Often there aren’t enough drafts. Everyone is improvising because they want to go on the floor very quickly. There are exceptions — 

 was very text-based and very specific about language — but those writers are few and far between.

Q: Do you think language itself is becoming a hurdle in mainstream Hindi cinema?

 Yes, I do. Of course there are writers who are deeply rooted in Hindi, like Varun Grover, and actors who are comfortable with that language. But a lot of urban-based cinema does have this issue. There’s a lot of translation back and forth, and something gets diluted.

Q: Do you sense a shift in which narratives are being greenlit right now?

 There’s definitely a shift towards action-heavy films, big budget, CGI-driven spectacle. Horror is another genre that’s really popping up. I’m actually doing a horror series right now, and I’ve also done a paranormal series that’s releasing soon.

But subtler comedies, dramas, indie cinema — they’re few and far between. It’s been a double whammy. COVID pushed everyone onto screens, and the only thing that seems to pull people back into cinemas is big blockbusters. Add to that our shrinking attention spans because of social media. If something is slow or takes time to build, there’s a lack of faith from producers and makers that audiences will stick with it.

I really miss slow-moving films. I’m looking for stories that give me a slower version of things. That space feels missing right now.

Q: Streamers now often require a theatrical release before acquiring a film, which can be devastating for indie filmmakers. What’s the plan for 

 It’s doing the festival circuit right now. We’ve been unofficially confirmed for a couple of festivals, and hopefully we’ll find distributors in different regions. It’s a very text-heavy screenplay and about 70 per cent French and 30 per cent English, so it’s hard to market. Releasing it in India feels particularly difficult. Ultimately, platforms are where it can find a more universal audience that’s comfortable with subtitles.

Right now, it’s incredibly difficult for indie filmmakers in India. It’s a miracle to get a film made and released. You look at films that get rave reviews at festivals and then disappear theatrically because of show timings and lack of screens. It’s disheartening. My hope is that audiences are also getting tired of spectacle. People aren’t enjoying big blockbusters as much as expected. Maybe that dissatisfaction will push a renewed respect for creativity and original content.

Q: You mentioned horror. What draws you to the genre, especially given how it often treats women’s bodies

 The project I’m currently doing is written by a woman, and that really changes the gaze. The women lead the story, they’re the ones figuring things out, fighting back, finding a way through vulnerability. That’s very exciting for me.

Kalki Koechlin: 'Streaming Has Plateaued; There's Too Much Content and Nobody Knows What To Watch'

The thing about stories of apocalypse, ironically, is that they are inherently infused with hope. For what it’s worth, 2025 may just have been the vision of a wasteland for someone in the 1800s, much like how Amazon Prime Video’s wildly successful show 

 imagines a post-nuke world two centuries later. But what propels it like in the real world, is resolution and ultimately...hope.

Based on the eponymous hit video game, season one of

 season (2024) clocked in over a 100 million views and then was unsurprisingly renewed for a second outing that is premiering in December 2025.

Set in the badlands of what once used to be the United States of America, 

is a retro futuristic drama where the survivors of the nuclear bombing that wiped out the planet two centuries ago were cooped up in underground Vaults. Over the years and decades, they are then forced to wriggle out of their bunkers to encounter a barbaric new dog-eat-dog world that’s fuelled by violence, greed and dark humour. The series follows Lucy MacLean (Ella Purnell), one of the more privileged and idealistic Vault dwellers; Maximus (Aaron Moten), a morally fraught soldier of the militaristic Brotherhood of Steel; and The Ghoul (Walton Goggins), a dubious bounty hunter defaced by radiation. In the wilderness, their paths cross to reveal the human and moral cost of survival, exposing cracks in the social order that literally — and metaphorically — leads to a dustbowl of nothingness.

, Purnell, Moten and Goggins explore the emotional landscape occupied by their characters as the unlikely saviours and custodians of a species that has annihilated its own.

THR India: The show's journey is not just about survival, it's also about identity and who you turn out to be in the face of a catastrophe. What part of your character's identity do you think you could not carry forward from season one into season two?

 There's this weird thing that I always had a conversation about with our brilliant writers Graham (Wagner), Geneva (Robertson-Dworet) and Jonathan Nolan — it's about how there's not that many rites of passage for young men these days. Through history, we used to join the military or go to war or have a child or, you know, there's usually something, but for a lot of young men today, that rite of passage is a real difficult thing to identify.

It’s a “When am I a man?” type of thing. It is a question we were asking with Maximus in our first season. And because of this chance encounter (with Lucy and the Ghoul) and the circumstances of the first season, we're moving and developing the character in a way where he's having to push past knowing whether he's ready and knowing that he has to make choices. He's done being used by other people.

That's good. I was really taken by that one. I think for me, her sense of wholeness and sense of innocence and optimism is the thing that makes Lucy who she is. It's her defining core pillar. You know, but how do you maintain that after discovering what she discovers at the end of season one ? It's so painful for me to actually think about what she went through at the end of season one, learning who her father really is and what he's done (he is responsible for the nuclear bombing).

If she is that wrong about him, and everything she thought she knew and everything she thought she was, then every fibre of her being is completely disintegrating in front of her. That pillar that she built her entire life upon is gone — it's crumbling and she's faced with choices.

Who is she going to turn into? Is it this ghoul and this murderer in the wayside? Is she going to rebel? Is she going to go back to the vault, and go home? I think that was something that I spoke to Geneva and Graham about — is how much optimism does she really have left at this point? And how much of it is just fronting?

 I think it's a very good question. For me, it was about seeing another person as a human being. Where we leave off in season one or during season one, the Ghoul never saw Lucy as a human. He wasn't torturing her, in my mind, he was just using her as bait, if you will.

Then we get to the end of season one, and he invites her on this journey because he sees what she needs. He has a very specific reason for doing it. But over the course of season two and this walk that we had, I just really tried to imagine, well, how would that really go? Who would speak first? Chances are it was definitely going to be Lucy.

When does the Ghoul answer a question and when does he answer it with more than a “huh”? But the thing that I kept coming back to is when does he ask her a question about herself? When does he instigate a conversation? That's a very human trait. And I think that his journey in season two, while he is resisting the whole way, is to become more human. And that's incremental, and it happens against his will.

THR India: You have said that you had to understand Cooper Howard (the Ghoul) better to be able to play the Ghoul more convincingly. What change in your character's arc in this season actually helps you play two parts of the same person better? Because right now Cooper is more than just a tragic backstory.

 Well, that's also a very good question. You get to spend a lot more time with Cooper Howard this season than you did in season one. And what I didn't anticipate until I watched the first five episodes of the show this year, is that everything that Cooper is going through, the Ghoul doesn't need to say anything. Whenever you cut back to him, you understand him in a way that you couldn't have otherwise. And Cooper's journey is one of really grappling with the fact that his wife may be the principal architect of the ending of the world.

And moreover, really understanding that he doesn't understand anything. And it happened, the rug was pulled out from underneath him in a moment. And in some ways it reflects how I feel about the world that we live in, or how I think a lot of us feel. A lot of us feel out of control. And that's what he's experiencing.

THR India: To all three of you, what's the most questionable decision your character makes in this entire journey so far, which confirms the fact that maybe humanity deserves the apocalypse?

 A decision she makes in episode four. Largely swayed by this one (points at Goggins). And we see a new side of Lucy we didn't see before.

 I'm not at liberty to talk about it, but something happens in episode 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. It fundamentally changed him.

'Fallout' Season 2: Ella Purnell, Aaron Moten and Walton Goggins Decode The Show's Apocalypse

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”.

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