I knew early on that I wanted to be a filmmaker. At the age of three, I would point to the TV and tell my parents I wanted to do what the people in the box were doing. As I grew, I learnt about the crew behind those images and went from wanting to be in the box to wanting to make those images. Cinematographer, editor, director, I wanted to do it all.

I was 23 and it was entirely based on my gut feeling. There was no logic to why I would leave a secure career, but I registered the company anyway. My now husband, Mahesh Karunakara, was the first person to join me. He left a secure career in banking because he believed in what I was trying to build. The day after I registered the company, we received an enquiry for a project. We won it and things began moving quickly from there.

I came across the Halakki Vokkaliga community by chance while on a road trip from Bengaluru towards Goa. I saw a group of Halakki women near Ankola, dressed in their traditional saris, covered in beads and singing as they walked to a field. It intrigued me and I wanted to learn more. We learnt that only a handful of women in their 80s still knew their culture, songs and customs. With their passing, that knowledge could disappear. Cultural disappearance suddenly stopped being an abstract idea. I could see it happening in front of me. The Halakki Vokkaligas have lived for generations in Uttara Kannada, at the foothills of the Western Ghats. Their relationship with the land runs through their agricultural practices, traditional medicine, songs and rituals — but this knowledge is rapidly eroding.

Both films began with an inability to look away. I was still in college when I read about an acid attack on a woman. Something about the violence stayed with me, so I made Scarred as my finalyear project. I researched cases across India, contacted survivors and organisations and travelled to shoot the film. I had over 24 hours of footage that became a 30-minute film. What I discovered changed how I understood violence against women. Acid attacks were often a form of punishment when women did not fit societal expectations. Scarred became less about acid and more about power. Years later, Letters to My Abusers explored child sexual abuse through survivors writing letters directly to their abusers. We used real testimony, anonymised voices and constructed visual worlds that had no direct relationship with the survivors’ identities. That distinction mattered enormously to me.

I was born in Tumkur. My father is a Malayali and my mother is Mangalorean who speaks Konkani. So I’m already an amalgamation of cultures myself and that’s probably my greatest inspiration for understanding and learning about different cultures. Bengaluru has a little part of me in it and, I think, I carry a little part of the city with me too. Despite how much it has changed, it still allows you to slow down. There is ambition and hustle here, but also room to pause, rejuvenate and just be. As an artiste, I think that space is incredibly important. A lot of my memories are tied to little corners of the city: Fatima Bakery, Fanoos, Loafers Street and Blossoms Book House. I studied at Mount Carmel College and spent many afternoons at Blossoms, before walking to Higginbothams for more books and ending the day at Corner House. All such fond memories.

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