Art: M Reddeppa Naidu ~ The magic of the Mahabharata

(1932- 1999)

(Note: I interviewed Reddeppa Naidu twice ~ once for Indian Express in 1985, then for The Independent in Mumbai in 1990. This piece is a composite of the two sessions.  I haven't been able to source visuals from his Mahabharata series so far, but promise to share them with this piece as soon as they come my way. )

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        THE MAHABHARATA is open to interpretation by each individual Indian. What does it mean to you? An ageless epic? Classic rock sculptures in ancient caves? A popular television serial? A much-discussed, internationally-cast theatrical presentation? A tale related episodically by your grandmother?

        If you were a Madras-based painter named Mopuri Reddeppa Naidu, now 57, the Mahabharata would spell a series of 18 large canvases, one for each parva or canto of the epic, executed between 1972 and 1974. It would also mean a burgeoning friendship with M Deendayal, akin to him in age and social background, who encouraged the series as an admirer, patron and art gallery owner.

       Deendayal first exhibited Reddeppa’s impressive and stylized work at the Ashoka Hotel in New Delhi in 1974, then at his own Aparna art gallery in Madras in 1983. More recently, he hosted a retrospective of Reddeppa’s work in Madras.

       How did the great epic come to be captured on canvas? Naidu, relaxing at his modest home in Madras, replies, “Around June 1972, Deendayal read me a poem from the Stree parva ~ the Samsara Grahanam ~ which was translated into Telugu from Sanskrit in the 3^rd century AD by Nanayyabhatt. He then requested me to do a painting based on it. I did one, which both he and his wife liked very much. Deendayal then suggested that I might like to do one for each parva.”

      Reddeppa is one of the most respected contemporary painters in south India, a winner of the coveted National Award in 1962, a student of D P Roy Chowdhury and K C S Panicker at the Madras College of Arts and Crafts. He is currently Deputy Director (Design) as the Weaver’s Service Centre (WSC) at Madras (now Chennai).

      Does his work in textiles draw him away from art? “There are no two ways about it. An artist remains an artist. He never goes completely into any other work,” replies Reddeppa, thoughtfully. “But the creative mind is common to both the artist and the textile designer. One complements the other. So, my primary object in taking up this job ~ besides the fact that it helps monetarily ~ is that it doesn’t affect my creative painting. It never distracts me from my canvas.”

      Does the WSC re-connect him with Indian tradition? “If I had not joined the WSC, I would not have known the greatness of our tradition because our art schools are so western-oriented. Re-doing through the mind forms done by past people helps to contact the living mind of the past,” he responds, drawing lines in the air. “Contact with such textiles greatly benefits the creative artist. He is used to free-thinking on a canvas. The same application on paper ~ a bird or a flower or a design ~ is given the same aesthetic expression and gives the same joy. No doubt, in conceiving a complete plan for a saree, an artist cannot design as he likes. He has to think of how it will go on the loom. But after years of working towards this, he can finally bring his personality into the saree ~ in its colour, border, pallav, its totality. Ultimately, he may achieve a simplification of the process, as in a painting.”

       Here are excerpts from an interview with Reddeppa, done in the context of the Mahabharata series:

     How have your techniques and idioms evolved to bring you to this point in your art?

      In the early 1970s, most south Indian painters were going through a romantic phase, greatly influenced by the French school of thought. This was reflected in my first two Mahabharata paintings. Earlier, in the Deity series which I began in the 1960s, I used dull colours, sensitive lines of modern expression and bright patches for emphasis. In their midst, I scripted relevant Sanskrit slokas. These were authenticated by a pundit, Ganesa Sastri, hired by Deendayal.

      After the Samsara Grahanam, Deendayal suggested the Sauptika Parva as the next subject. After the final destructive battle, which nobody really won, Asvatthama watches an owl entering a crow’s nest and destroying all the young ones while the other surviving Kauravas ~ Kripa and Kritavarma ~ were asleep. Inspired by this, Asvatthama steals into the Pandava camp, encounters Shiva and obtains his sword, with which he kills all the sleeping Pandava sons. Then, he accompanies Kripa and Kritavarma to tell Duryodhana of the enemy’s annihilation.

      (Pausing to gather his thoughts) These first two paintings in the series continued in the style of my Deity series. The artist has to find a vocabulary and colours of his own for the characters, and a philosophy for each parva. The question of the entire Mahabharata doesn’t arise. I had to choose an interesting poem from each parva and decide how to depict it.

    In the third painting of the series ~ the Sabha Parva ~ I needed to depict Duryodhana, Arjuna and Bhima pictorially. At this stage, I moved away from my earlier romantic paintings and my colours became brighter. While doing the Sabha Parva, I had to search within for a way of portraying the attempted disrobing of Draupadi. I drew her praying to Krishna, and then a thought came to me. I drew Krishna’s Sri Chakra around her sari to protect her. It’s not very cinematic, but it’s very satisfying to have found such a solution. 

    You’d studied Telugu and Sanskrit when you were young in Andhra Pradesh. Have you always been familiar with the Mahabharata?

    Not really, although I had read it in bits and pieces since my schooldays, seen it on stage and in films. Which edition did I finally use for the paintings? One I borrowed from Deendayal ~ a Telugu translation of the Mahabharata by Sri Mantri Lakshminarayanan Sastri.

    The Mahabharata elevates and takes the mind to great heights. When you read all that philosophy, it is reflected in your lines, your colours. My challenge was to read the epic, yet to be free of the epic. Only then could I do a creative painting.

      Look, I didn’t merely read the Mahabharata. I lived in it. In recreating it in a different medium, I lived through it. Today, I can talk consciously about the line, the colour and composition of the paintings. But, while I was working on them, it was all  unclear in my mind. I was trying to bring the unknown to reality. (Silent for a minute) Normally, one begins a venture with some expectations. The mind always works with a purpose, but I had to set myself free. I wasn’t painting for an award, or even for a customer. I could rise to the creative challenge because my mind was free of all preoccupations.

      Was Deendayal responsible for setting your mind free?

       He gave me absolute freedom. I was totally responsible for giving of my best. For each parva, I chose the incidents or episodes to be depicted. He didn’t interfere, not even to check on the progress of each painting, though I did show him a drawing on paper before I began each canvas.

     After each of the 18 paintings was completed, he’d send a vehicle for it. Then, we’d sit together and discuss it.

     How did you first meet Deendayal, an unusual patron in our competitive world?

      In 1979, Deendayal came to see a mural I had done for the industrialist T. T. Vasu, in Madras. He appreciated it so much that he began to share with me his joy in Tanjore paintings and other art objects from his private collection.  We became friends. His faith in my talent saw me through the Mahabharata series. There was no commercial aspect to this, but total mind-to-mind communication, such as there is when you like a person very much.

    Strangely enough, both Deendayal and I were about 40 when the Mahabharata paintings began in 1972. I feel that was the right age to get to know the great epic. By then, we already have some experience of life. Like me, he holds the conviction that the series should remain intact. He will never give away the series or break it up.

From his 'Musician' series

     What were your first encounters with religion-based paintings?

      The inspiration first came from a Muslim friend, Wazir Rahman, my classmate at the Kakinada High School. He wrote Telugu poetry.  One day in 1962, he said to me, “Look, Reddeppa, Balaji at Thirumala draws millions of devotees every year. I’m surprised that he does not seem to mean a thing to you.”

     I began to paint Lord Venkateswara with the sankhu, chakram and naamam… I realised that there was immense material in Hindu iconography, waiting to be exploited by a serious and responsible artist.

(This piece is included in my 2004 book, 'Articulations: Voices from Contemporary Indian Visual Art, published by Rupa & Co.)

Family: It's tough to be tiny

With my niece Goolli when she was a baby, 1992

(I wrote this as a 'middle' in 1998)

          It’s tough to be six, and to be treated as a child. Especially when she’s got a questing mind buried in a tiny frame, topped by enormous eyes and a silky mane ~ giving her the overall appearance of a lemur. And she is as endearing as an untamed creature of the wild.

            That’s my cousin’s daughter, my niece Goolli (because of her round eyes) ~ and we’ve been friends for six years.”Doesn’t matter if Didi-Akka is older than me,” she insists, referring to her sibling, who’s ten. “I have to be your favourite ~ because you came to see me when I was just born.”

            She’s always disliked being ‘small and cute.’ In an argument with Dimi, her grandmother, Goolli at three once shrugged off these despised labels.

            “Dimi, when I was a big girl, I used to switch the lights on and off. I used to press the lift button. I could even climb up that tall ladder,” she announced.

            “If you were a big girl then, what happened?” asked Dimi.

            Goolli replies, “Then, Didi-Akka was born… and I became a baby.”

            Refute that, if you can. I didn’t try. I continued to answer her questions, come when they might. The latest torrent arrived when I was babysitting her and her Didi-Akka overnight.

The dialogue lasted a half-hour. Here’s an excerpt:

“Are you coming to stay with us again tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Why not? We can make up some more stories…”

“I’m going to watch the Football World Cup.”

“”Where? You don’t have a TV at home…”

“At a friend’s house.”

“If the World Cup wasn’t on, what would you do?”

“I’d read a book or listen to music.”

“And if there’s no electricity?”

“I’d go to sleep.”

“If you’re not feeling sleepy?”

“I’ll walk up and down till I feel sleepy.”

“For how long?”

“Maybe until my legs begin to ache.”

“If your legs ache, you won’t be able to sleep. Then, what will you do?”

“I’ll take some medicine.”

“Suppose you don’t have any medicine at home?”

“I’ll go to a pharmacy and buy some.”

“What if you don’t have any money?”

“I’ll borrow some from my friends.”

“And if all your friends are out of Bangalore?”

“Then, I’ll ask my cousin for some money.”

“Which cousin? Mamma?”

With Goolli at the Chennai beach, 1998

“Yes.”

“And if she’s also out of town?”

“I’ll probably ask you if you can lend me some pocket money,” I tease.

“I might be away in Canada.” She is solemn.

That’s where her cousins live, but she hasn’t been there yet.

“If nobody you know is in Bangalore, what will you do?”

“I’ll go away to Chennai.”

Goolli has always wanted to travel to Chennai with me ~ without her parents or her sister.

“How will you go?”

“By train.”

“If all the trains from Bangalore are not allowed to go?”

“Then I’ll take a bus.”

“But if none of the buses can go, either. If they have a… strike!”

“In that case, I’ll fly to Chennai.”

“What if all the planes in the world… crashland!”

“I don’t know…”

“How silly, can’t you walk to Chennai? And take me with you?”

As usual Goolli had the last word. Even at six!

(Deccan Herald, 1998) 

Art: Thota Tharani ~ A symphony of strokes

Tharani: a time to take stock

(This article appeared in 2002)


THOTA THARANI means many things to many people. Some know him best as the artist who has held an exhibition of his work every year, a promise he had made to himself after college. Some admire him as the Swarna Kamal-winning art director for films such as Nayagan, Mouna Raagam, Sathya, and Anjali. 

Some are smitten by the naturalistic colour drawings that resulted from his stint at the Banasthali Vidyapith in Rajasthan in 1971. Others were moved by the spontaneous colour sketches on black that he executed over sleepless nights in response to the early strife in northern Sri Lanka, briefly on view at the Sakshi Gallery in Chennai. Some think of him as shy, retreating and introverted, while others try to puzzle out his secret life. Yet, he was credited with the décor for the wedding of Jayalalitha's "adopted" son years ago.

Symphony of Life, an ongoing exhibition of Chennai-based Tharani's paintings at the Lakshana Art Gallery at Race Course Road from September 5 to October 3, proves to be equally puzzling. A display of works done in the year 2000, selected from the gallery's acquisitions, it captures the artist in a time warp of his own making, unusually for a spirit as creative as Tharani.

For each of the paintings at the gallery link back to series by Tharani that are familiar to the eye from the 1980s or 1990s - Force or Symphony or Symphony of Life. Explaining the impetus behind the music-inspired series, the late Chennai-based art critic Josef James wrote: "Tharani moves to the intuitive sense of harmony, rhythm, and continuity to integrate his urges for freedom and refinement. Music generally and symphonic western music particularly have been his inspiration for these spirited excursions. It gives out much colour, in bold harmonies, flashed out in each instance, over strong linear rhythms."

The acrylic colours on canvas spring with gay abandon through the multi-hued borders holding them in, as if seeking to intermingle in free-spirited exultation. Colours so joyous and all-pervasive can seldom be contained by a title, but Tharani tries. The Symphony series began while Tharani was travelling in France in 1976.

"This is my response to the orchestration of music, mainly western classical instrumental. I hear music and I love music, but I don't know anything about music, so don't ask me for details," Tharani had explained during a 1988 encounter. "In Indian music, see, there is either one sitar or veena or tabla; it is a solo thing. Whereas, a western classical orchestra has 60 to 100 violins, about 10 to 20 cellos, and guitars and pianos. There is a lovely break-up of sound that I was interested in. You listen to the music, pick out the notes you need, and make of drawing of it. Then, playing the music, put on the colours. I can identify certain pieces which are influenced by Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite or The Four Seasons by Vivaldi."

To Tharani, technical innovation has always mattered as much as execution. In his Delhi-born Force series, for instance, inspired by a tornado that hit Delhi in 1978-79, different strokes were initially etched on a metal plate, which was broken up - as if from the impact of a cyclone - before the final print was made. Later, in 1987, he chanced upon the Chinese Tangram, the square cut into six triangles, a rhomboid and a square, which fed into the series as patterns in water colour.

The border has always been a crucial element in Tharani's paintings and drawings. It suggests a work that is larger than its actual size, he says, especially when strokes break out of its boundary. This device is much in evidence in the current series, with its patches of colour broken through by lines of contrast that catapult through the often rainbow-like frame. Perhaps offering variants on perspective. Or celebrating the moods inherent in symphonic evocations of a score.

While Tharani's work in cinema has won him accolades and recognition, including the Padmashri, he has always been at pains to keep his art direction distinct from his art. While the former is characterized by extraordinary realism, his paintings are decidedly abstract by choice, defining the borderlines with clarity.

Perhaps the Symphony of Life series does not represent Tharani at his best. Perhaps it is just an interlude between creative phases. Perhaps the artist needed to re-assess the familiar before he ventured into unknown terrain. Perhaps the 2002-launched gallery was limited by its access to Tharani's more creative oeuvre.

No matter what the reason, when the viewer leaves Lakshana, he or she carries with her an unresolved puzzle.

"An artist is free. I don't want to be trapped by one subject or a single style," Tharani once declared. "The best thing is to do what you want to do when you want to. I give myself gaps between subjects, often returning to one every two or three years, to avoid boredom and to prevent myself from getting stale."

What has Thota Tharani done in his artistic life since the year 2000? That's an answer Bangaloreans look forward to with anticipation.

(The Hindu Metroplus Bangalore 2002)

Art: S G Vasudev ~ A celebration of life

Portrait by Mallikarjun Katakol

 (This interview took place in March 1992)

HIS EARLIEST artistic memories are of his mother, who painted cutouts and figures for a family Dussehra in the old-world city of Mysore, where life flows at a timeless pace. Her colours and brushes, amidst the festive bustle, fascinated him. But there were other moments, other icons. The child would watch agog as his uncle worked with his stretched canvases, and he would tune in to tales of how his great-grandfather ~ an ayurvedic doctor ~ had sculpted in stone.

Inevitably, despite parental opposition, the boy defied the family to study art.  The passage of time has  moulded him into an artist named S G Vasudev. A founder-member of the Cholamandal artists’ village, outside Madras, he presents his recent drawings ~ titled The Line ~ at the Pundole Art Gallery in Bombay till March 21, 1992.

What is special about Vasudev’s line drawings? Unrestricted expression imbues their flow and play. Momentary ideas, like stray strands, intertwine, then veer apart. Moods beckon, then disperse, summoning up colours through fluid, circuitous lines.

Thematically, both integration and individualism come to the fore. Man and beast, tree, reptile, earth, sky and fruit, evoke a celebration of life through their inherent contradictions and alliances. In Vasudev’s world, each element is placed within its special orbit, both at ease with itself and with each other. Communing with this imaginary natural universe, the artist is immersed in belonging, never an outsider.

Vasudev’s work has meandered through many themes and media down the years. His mastery of oils, copper reliefs and the line have traversed Fantasies of real and unreal forms, Maithuna or the act of love, the Vriksha series that flowered for years, and the more recent drawings of He and She.

His is a multi-faceted talent. His paintings have been exhibited all over India, in addition to Havana, Paris, Brussels, Vienna, Prague, and New York. He was the art director for the award-winning Kannada films Samskara and Vamsa Vriksha. He has designed book jackets for writers like A K Ramanujam, U R Ananthamurthi and Girish Karnad.

How does the world view Vasudev? As one of the most popular and hospitable people at Cholamandal. As a tender and devoted husband to fellow-artist Arnawaz before cancer took her life in 1988. As an individual who cares passionately about art in a technology-centric world. 

In conversation, Vasudev couches his strong views in a gentle voice that seldom rises to a shrill treble of protest or defiance or anger. His spatulate fingers shape nuances in the air as he elaborates on an answer. He seems to be poised in mid-career, all set to take wing.

Here’s a pen portrait of the artist as a gentleman, not yet engulfed by the call of commerce:

Was the painter K C S Paniker, your principal at the Madras Government College of Arts and Crafts, a major influence on you?

When I got a national scholarship for painting in 1964, I joined directly under Paniker. (Wistfully) He never made us feel he was a teacher; he was a friend, philosopher and guide to me. His studio was always open, and I could talk to him about anything. It was good to discuss our work every day with a teacher of his standing. He’d talk about his own painting, and how the arrangement in my painting was helping him with his! It was as if both of us were learning at the same time. He gave us the freedom to work as and when we wanted to.

He gave a very good direction to those who were his best students ~ Viswanadhan, Adimoolam, Bhaskaran, I ~ because he felt we could build a very good centre in Madras. He’d even help us out with personal problems that we could not discuss with our parents. Gradually, that’s how the idea of Cholamandal came about…

Now that Cholamandal is 25 years old, what do you feel has gone wrong between the dream that was and what exists now?

Look, in the 1960s, there was no financial or media support available for us in Madras.  We were in our twenties and willing to work very hard to build up Cholamandal. But as we grew older and as some of us became successful, problems like jealousies and friction were bound to arise. And, in a small place, everything tends to get magnified. (Thoughtfully) But I feel Cholamandal has succeeded in what Paniker set out to do. He felt if 30 to 40 painters, living together, could produce five or six artists of some calibre over the next 20 years, Cholamandal would have served its purpose. It has.

You know, people always think of Cholamandal as a school. They’ve never understood that it is a community in which every artist is an individual.

Did it make a difference to Cholamandal to have a woman artist like Arnawaz in its midst?

If Arnawaz hadn’t been there, Cholamandal would have been totally different. One strong, outspoken woman like that changed the basic attitudes and concepts of people around. Otherwise, most of the other artist’s wives were very timid.

Now, I’m glad a strong person like painter Subha De lives in Cholamandal. I know most of the artists are not very comfortable when Subha talks to them because she has such strong opinions. But it’s good for them. They should argue things out.

Is something major happening in the world of Indian women painters today?

Well, it’s great to see artists like Rekha Rodwittiya, Vasudha Thozhur, Nalini Malani, Arpana Kaur, Arpita Singh and Jayashree Chakravarthy, confident and proud of their work. I admire their strong personalities, their statements, their involvement.

I don’t know how their husbands have taken their success, though. For instance, Arpita’s husband, Paramjit Singh, is a very popular painter. But Arpita is better known than him now…

What childhood experiences shaped you?

My earliest impressions are of my mother in Mysore, where I was born in 1941. She was an amateur painter of realistic, impressionistic subjects, including landscapes and fairly good copies of masterpieces. Most of her work was done before we were born. By then, she had already won some major awards in Mysore. After her marriage, she settled in Bangalore. She probably inherited her talent from her grandfather, an ayurvedic physician, who painted and sculpted in soapstone.

What were your initial yearnings towards art like?

I drew a little when I was very young, but nothing very special. I attended a college in Bangalore to do my B.Sc. because my parents wanted me to, but I never completed the course. In college I often did caricatures and cartoons of political and cricket personalities. I loved the game and drew G S Ramchand, Polly Umrigar, Hazare, Vijay Merchant…

I was influenced by the famous British cartoonist David Low and copied his style. My pen sketches were published in prominent publications of those times, like Samyukta Karnataka, Prajamata and Thainadu.

What brought you to arts college?

The well-known art critic in Bangalore, G Venkatachalam, helped me to go to arts college. He persuaded my parents to send me to the Government College of Arts and Crafts in Madras in 1960 and gave me a letter of introduction to Paniker.

My father used to send me some money, but it wasn’t sufficient. I didn’t want to ask him for more, so I earned extra money by drawing and doing stylized headlines for the Kannada edition of Soviet Land.

I was surprised when the national scholarship for painting was awarded to me. For the next two years, I had to choose someone as my mentor, I chose Paniker. We worked till late at night. We talked for hours. It was Paniker who taught me about the creative removal of colours. He’d say, “You can have any number of colours on a canvas. What is important is how to restrict or remove them…”

When I returned to college after a two-year scholarship, my new class included a young Parsi girl, Arnawaz, whom I later married. 

She and Tree, 61 x 61cm, 2006

Would you be able to trace phases that your work has traversed?

At college and just after, I did a series called Fantasies, which were thick impastos with lines scooped into the surface. I created fantasies from real and unreal human forms, birds, mountains, shells…

Around 1969, I began a series on Maithuna or the act of love. Yes, it is an old theme in painting. Perhaps I started on it because I had met Arnawaz. (Dreamily) To me, maithuna is not just about man and woman, but also about the sun and the moon, the earth and the sky, the stars and the clouds. My world is animistic. In it, bird and reptile, fish and fowl, seed and fruit, man and woman, live together in undulating hills and peaks seething with life.

Once in Dharwar, I came across the Kalpa Vriksha Vrindavana, a work by the modern Kannada poet D R Bendre. The kalpavriksha or Tree of Life soon grew to take centre-stage in my work. It was drawn from Indian myth. Later, at an exhibition in Delhi in the 1970s, someone asked me if I had read Roger Cook’s book, The Tree of Life. When I read it, I realized that all religions and most artists and craftsmen have used the tree as a motif at some time or the other. Take Mondrian, Miro, Klee… In Indian mythology, we have the Bodhi tree.

All these elements went into the making of the series and later copper reliefs, after I learnt repousse from Kuppuswamy, a traditional craftsman who came to stay in Cholamandal after retiring from the art college.

In 1983, when Arnawaz fell very ill, my tree took in the cycle of life, death and rebirth. Though I never consciously thought about it, it grew to become the Tree of life and death. Then, for nearly four years, I didn’t have any exhibitions in India.

But over 1989-90, many things I’d already done over the past 10 to 15 years came back to me. I found I wanted to paint. I wanted to get things out of my system. In some of my recent work, you can find influences of my earlier work.

For instance, I was always fascinated by portraits while in college. In trying to break away from the tree motif some years ago, I brought in a human element. The tree is still there, but the head is now becoming more prominent in my work. The heads grew into two new series of drawings ~ He and She.

In late 1989, I’d designed the sets for B V Karanth’s production of Girish Karnad’s Hayavadana in New Delhi. That set me off on a series of drawings with the same title. Do you remember how the main character in the play sets out in search of a human head?

Theatre of Life, 91 x 91 cm, 2001

Why is it important for a south Indian artist to exhibit in Bombay and Delhi?

If I’d exhibited my work in Bombay or Delhi more often, it would have made a difference to my career. I would have been better known because that’s where one gets maximum publicity and commercial success. Because there’s so much of all-India publicity generated from these cities, it’s not important for a north Indian artist to come south, though.

I felt this when, after three or four successful shows in Bombay between 1967 and 1974, I didn’t exhibit there for a while. When I went back to visit after shifting to Bangalore, I found everything had changed in Bombay ~ attitudes to art as an investment, prices for work by my contemporaries had rocketed…

I’d always fixed my prices according to lifestyles in Madras, and then Bangalore. I realised that artists who’d come five or ten years after me were selling more than I was. It’s not that they were better artists; it’s just that they were in the market. That’s why I want to exhibit in Bombay and Delhi more often.

Given the current worldwide recession and the state of the Indian economy, is the current system of pricing art justified?

In India, Bombay decides the prices. Pricing a painting high in India doesn’t make sense because you’re not really helping work to get into many homes. You’re confining it to industrial houses or the homes of the very rich.

If an artist like Tyeb Mehta does only four or five works a year, I can understand him pricing each very high. But what about others, who paint 20 to 30 works every month? (Excitedly) Why should each of their paintings sell for one lakh? Is it necessary? Will they be able to sustain their prices?

This places an artist like me in a dilemma. I can’t have one price for Bombay, another for Madras. I’d like even the average middle-class person to buy my work. So, where should I place myself?

(The Independent, Bombay/ Mumbai, 1992)