Imagine the smell of petrichor when the first monsoon showers touch the earth after a scorching summer. A primitive, deeply rooted scent—one that conjures up a joy that can only come from something at once profound and simple. If that sensory experience could be expressed through a visual language, it would probably look like the art of Haren Thakur. Because for over five decades, artist Haren Thakur has drawn from the landscapes, people and rhythms of tribal life in India to create an aesthetic where indigenous motifs meet modernist techniques.
A graduate of Kala Bhavana, Santiniketan—where he studied under stalwarts like Ramkinkar Baij and Binod Bihari Mukherjee—Mr Thakur has remained deeply attuned to nature and indigenous ways of life, although his visual language has evolved with time. City-based Gallery Time & Space recently inaugurated the exhibition, The Haren Thakur Show, curated by art historian Dr Alka Pande. In an hours-long conversation with Haren, we try to decode what makes his desire for creation going and growing even after so many years.
The exhibition brings together works that date back to the 2000s to paintings made as recently as 2026. One notices change in the choice of motifs or colour palette, but there seems to be one element that remains the same throughout all these works. And what is that? “The ethos,” begins the artist, “my philosophy of life, of the very thing that inspires me to create, has remained unchanged throughout these years.”
That ethos probably has a lot to do with how tethered to the Indian grassroot was his artistic upbringing. Haren grew up in Bengal’s Purulia, where his first stint in art education was learning to make Durga idols from the patuas. His schooling in Santiniketan, too, was more about getting the hands dirtier than what conventional art schools mandate of.
“No one there taught us by instructing techniques. We have learnt more by watching masters like Binod Behari Mukherjee making murals. I remember we used to have these addas at Kala Bhavana, where our teachers used to share stories of their lives and their ideologies over tea. What we inherited from those sessions later became the bane of our creative existence more than any lectures,” said Mr Thakur.
When he graduated and started working as an art teacher at JVM, Ranchi, it was this philosophy that he brought there, eventually making the art curriculum and practice at the school a prestigious affair. What also followed him from Santiniketan was his fascination with the world of the tribal Santhals—from the alponas drawn outside their homes to their practice of talking to animals and nature.
“Finding joy in expression is a pivotal part of tribal life. Like every other community, they too face obstacles. However, they do not make crossing those hurdles the central part of their lives. Despite everything, they sing, dance and externalise their minds—which is what feeds their artistic selves,” Haren tells us.
The most prominent element where this fascination can be noticed is in his choice of motifs. The figures in his paintings are often deliberately stylised rather than anatomically correct—elongated bodies and simplified faces. At the same time, they depict very recognisable human relationships: such as a mother and child. What happens to a human being when the body gets reduced to a few essential lines and forms? Is he then trying to make the figure more universal or more rooted in a particular way of life?
“I believe that be it in Africa, Jharkhand or Nagaland, the essence of tribal life is the same across the world. That becomes very visible in their rituals and customs: from the way they dance in groups to the way they celebrate their festivals,” the artist tells us. “For example, if you look at Egyptian art, elongated forms bring visual dimension to a piece. Globally, in art inspired by mythologies, you can notice elongation in the figures of epic heroes such as Krishna or Jesus Christ—because that is what distinguishes them from ordinary people.”
Haren Thakur’s influences are then remarkably wide—from Santiniketan and Warli art to Egyptian wall paintings and Western Cubism. One can’t help but wonder: how does he prevent these influences from becoming a mere collection of borrowed visual motifs? At what point do they stop being ‘references’ and become part of his own visual language?
“Visual language is something you receive through your art, not impose into itself. It must align with your character,” Mr Thakur explains, “you see, when an established singer performs in a playback, you recognise their voices despite not seeing their faces because of their vocal signature. That happens only when they are not trying to become something: they have just understood themselves as artistes and built their craft on it by imbuing elements that align with who they already are. That’s how I built my visual language as well.”
However, the artist is also aware of the dangers of getting stuck in his own signature, a hole a lot of creative minds fall into. “I will change my visual language going forward if that comes from within—I will never forcibly retain it. That repetition creates a form but has no life in it. If you have originality, it will come out spontaneously,” the veteran remarks.
And one of the things that helps him stay true to his art is settling in a small city like Ranchi, away from the glitterati of metropolitan cities. In an earlier interview, Haren had mentioned that if he left Jharkhand for a metro, his art would no longer “speak of the soil.” Yet this exhibition is now being presented in Bengaluru. What does it then mean for art that is so geographically rooted to enter art spaces in a Tier 1 city? Does the meaning of the work change when the landscape that produced it is no longer immediately available to the viewer?
“The Jharkhand I came to as a young art teacher is very different from the Jharkhand I live in now. In the name of urbanisation and development, trees are being cut down and hills are being replaced by concrete jungles. Climate change seminars are not enough. Unless we make the next generation feel the life within trees, they will not stop cutting them. Every time we cut a tree, we are killing a cosmic process. I hope my art helps the audience in metro cities—some of whom may be governments officials or policy makers—to understand the real impact of practices such as deforestation,” Mr Thakur says.
“A tree is not just a tree. Its character is eternal: it does not change itself. It just stands and quietly observes the world pass by, enduring every atrocity human beings send its way,” says the artist, whose artworks now prominently features trees coloured in black, not green.
We could not let go of a veteran artist without asking him a worn-out but favourite question, could we? After more than 50 years of making art, does he still begin a work without knowing exactly what it will become? And what tells him that a painting is finished—not technically finished—but that its internal rhythm has finally resolved itself?
“Of course, a piece of art always has to be finished technically but the moment you realise that its internal rhythm has come to an end, you probably have died as an artist,” Haren smiles. “At some point in the creation of every piece of work, an artist begins to have a dialogue with the canvas; and then the canvas dictates where each colour must be applied, not the artist. This dialogue does not stop with the end of an artwork: it is what inspires the beginning of the next artwork, and so on,” the artist concludes, though the faith in his voice promises us newer art we can look forward to in the coming days.
Entry free. Till October 11, 10.30 onwards. Gallery Time and Space, Lavelle Road.