Sudip Sharma at Idea Exchange: ‘There’s too much emphasis on economics today and not enough on the quality of storytelling’

Alaka Sahani: It was striking to see Mona Singh leading the investigation in Kohrra 2, especially at a time when fewer OTT series seem to put women at the centre. How did you choose her, and what interested you about placing a woman cop in a non-urban setting?

It may be true that people assume there are more working women in urban spaces than rural ones but even in rural areas police stations do have women officers, and I found their lives interesting to explore. They are doing a difficult job in settings that are often less conducive to women operating with ease. After the first season, where we had two male investigators, I wanted to change that dynamic and see what distinct challenges a female investigator would face.

Mona was the first name that came to mind. She has a certain strength on screen, and I wanted that to be central to the character. At the same time, because she is otherwise very much an urban person, it was important that she do the groundwork — visiting police stations, spending time with women officers in those regions, going through workshops, absorbing the rhythms of the character’s life. She was completely up for the challenge.

Devyani Onial: Your films and shows are deeply rooted in place —Udta Punjab, Sonchiriya, Paatal Lok, NH10. How much has your own upbringing across different parts of India shaped that?

I don’t think I would be half the writer or filmmaker I am without that exposure to the land and its people. A lot of it has probably been subconscious. I spent my early years in Assam, some time in Delhi, quite a bit in Rajasthan, and I have been exposed to many parts of North and East India. Later, even my corporate job took me across the country. All of that helps when you’re trying to write stories rooted in a particular milieu.

For me, geography is extremely important. If you can lift a story out of one place and drop it into another without losing anything essential, then perhaps the story is not fully engaging with its setting. The place should not be cosmetic or interchangeable. What interests me are the socio-political and cultural nuances of a geography, and how people’s lives are shaped by them. I have always had a curiosity that goes beyond surface-level travel — the sort of ‘Instagram travel’ we see now. What really drives me is meeting people, talking to them, understanding how they live and sharing some part of life with them.

On whether polarisation is affecting storytelling | What we see in films now reflects both politics and society. For a filmmaker, the challenge is not to fall into that obvious trap. It is to retain empathy in your work and not preach to the choir

Sunanda Mehta: You had an MBA from IIM Ahmedabad and a stable career ahead. How hard was it to walk away and enter films?

Very hard, though perhaps I didn’t fully understand how hard it would be at the time. When you’re young you make reckless decisions more easily because you don’t always grasp the consequences. I jumped into it thinking this was just another career in another industry — how different could it be? I was in for a surprise. It was humbling. The industry was far more chaotic then than it is now. But beyond that, I don’t think I understood what it really meant to be a screenwriter of any worth. It’s very easy to call yourself a screenwriter — there’s no formal degree required. But it took me years to understand the difference between good and bad writing, to hone my craft, and to write something I was reasonably happy with. It took six or seven years before I could produce a screenplay that I felt deserved to be made. That journey was difficult, but it was necessary. It was my baptism by fire.

Do I regret the switch? No. I wouldn’t recommend it casually to anyone but I love what I do.

Sriram Veera: You often return to police characters. What makes them so compelling for you? And would you ever write a full comedy?

I love police characters because they stand at the intersection of chaos and civilisation. They are tasked with guarding that thin line and that gives them a fascinating vantage point. Through them you can explore victims, criminals, politicians, power structures — an entire society. There are all kinds of policemen: good, bad, corrupt, honest. That variety really interests me.

And yes, I would absolutely be interested in writing a comedy. In fact, I am working on one right now. The police are a part of it. I also enjoy humour in dark settings. There is something deeply rewarding about it. It lightens things but also allows you to go deeper into the darkness underneath.

Alaka Sahani: Your work shows enormous attention to characterisation. Why is that central to your process?

Because I’m not interested in cardboard stories built only around plot. For me, good storytelling requires plot and character to move together. A development in plot should affect a character, force a choice and that choice should have consequences for the plot. That dynamic is what makes stories interesting. If you look at most good cinema, that balance is there. Otherwise, you end up with films where a lot happens, the plot moves quickly but by the end there’s nothing left with you. You forget them almost immediately. If I spend two years making something, I want it to be more than just fleeting entertainment.

On portraying violence on screen | Violence becomes problematic when it is portrayed as cartoonish, heroic or larger-than-life — when it is celebrated through slow motion, stripped of consequence and made to look cool

Sriram Veera: You once said you write to make sense of this country. After all this work, does India make more sense to you now, or less?

I do think I understand a little more about why things are the way they are. There are still many things that baffle me, exasperate me, keep me awake at night. I may not be at peace with them but through my work I’m able to explore them — structurally, historically, socio-politically — and search for answers. The questions still trouble me but the inquiry itself becomes part of the work.

Shubhra Gupta: You’ve said you are not especially interested in working with big stars. Is that because stars dilute the kind of storytelling you do? And more broadly, what is the hardest part of being a storyteller today?

What I meant was that I have never been driven by the desire to work with stars for its own sake. I have always been driven by the desire to tell my stories. What matters is whether the right actor is in the part. Of course, stars bring advantages — they make a project more accessible, increase visibility. But I’m not interested in reach for the sake of reach.

Stars also bring many other considerations. Budgets and the pressure to recover that money become larger and the creative process becomes much more market-driven. Over the last few years, there has been too much emphasis on economics and not enough on quality storytelling. Earlier, there was more balance. Even stars were sometimes willing to reduce their price if they believed in a film and wanted to help it be made. Now stars have their fixed remunerations, studios have their markups and the stories have to bear the burden of all of that.

I say this with humility: I don’t think I’m the right filmmaker for the kind of cinema built around gigantic stars and their image. I grew up watching Shah Rukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan and admiring them but I’m not sure my stories support that kind of presence. I would not know how to serve the paraphernalia that comes with such immense stardom.

Shubhra Gupta: Has the industry become more risk-averse overall?

Very much so. In the West, stars still mix it up. They may do a superhero film and then an indie or middle-of-the-road film with an interesting director. Here, that has largely gone away.

Roughly 10 to 15 years ago, the conversation around films shifted. We started talking more about box office numbers than whether a film was good. I often say, ‘McDonald’s may be the highest-selling burger brand but that doesn’t make it the best.’ Yet with films, once a movie becomes a Rs 1,000-crore film, we assume it must also be the best. That distinction has been lost and it is damaging the industry. Now there is a clear divide. You either have giant tentpole films or the struggling indie fighting to survive. The middle has almost vanished, except for the occasional breakthrough.

Alaka Sahani: When OTT first took off, it seemed to open up a lot of space for edgy, experimental storytelling. Has that changed too?

Yes, definitely. In the early years of OTT in India, it felt like a free-for-all medium. No one really knew what would work, so all kinds of shows were being made. Some succeeded, some failed but there was a willingness to experiment. In the last few years, that has changed. Budgets have come down, fewer shows are being greenlit and there is far more caution. Platforms are leaning towards safer genres. There is also now pressure to cast stars. That too points towards a more conservative ecosystem.

Suanshu Khurana: Punjab in popular culture is often shown through prosperity, music and diaspora. What interested you in looking beyond those familiar markers?

When I first spent a substantial amount of time in Punjab during Udta Punjab, I was struck by how different it was from how it had been portrayed onscreen. And that wasn’t only true of Bollywood — even Punjabi cinema often falls back on familiar clichés.

As real as bhangra, agriculture and prosperity are, there is also another reality of Punjab. Why weren’t we talking about that? Those stories were simply waiting to be told. Punjab is a fascinating place. It is an outlier in many ways: it has its own language, religion, a long diasporic history predating Independence and a particular social texture. All of that makes it rich for storytelling. I still don’t feel I’ve exhausted it.

Shalini Langer: Was there any apprehension about using so much Punjabi in Kohrra?

Not from my side. We don’t give audiences enough credit. Often filmmakers blame them for their own failures by saying, ‘The audience wasn’t ready.’ I don’t buy that.

Audiences today are already consuming stories from all over the world in different languages. When Netflix came to India, Narcos, Money Heist, Squid Game became huge. Those are all signs that audiences are more than willing to engage with unfamiliar languages if the storytelling is compelling.

OTT gives you the option of dubbing if you don’t want to watch in the original language. That is not my preferred mode but the option exists. I think audiences are more put off by inauthentic language. A watered-down version — just sprinkling in a few words of Punjabi — throws off Punjabi-speaking viewers as well. It doesn’t ring true. If your storytelling is strong and your budgets are right, language is not a barrier.

Unni Rajen Shanker: Are you conscious of political pressures, censorship and the broader climate in which stories are being told today?

Unfortunately, yes. Earlier, when we were only dealing with films, there was at least a visible Censor Board. We knew what barrier we were up against, however absurd. Now there are many layers of unspoken pressure and some of it has seeped into all of us. Even while writing, you find yourself thinking, ‘That won’t fly, so why even try it?’ The only way forward is to be clever and subversive. You can’t stop writing because of pressure. You have to find ways of saying the same things without being caught. It gives me immense satisfaction when something slips through and reaches the screen.

P Vaidyanathan Iyer: Does the polarisation of society also affect your storytelling?

Very much so. The polarisation we see in films now reflects not only politics but society. And for a writer or filmmaker, the challenge is not to fall into that obvious trap. It is to retain empathy in your work and not preach to the choir.

When I look back at some of my earlier work, I can see moments where there may have been a tendency to draw hard lines between right and wrong. Today, I think moral fluidity is important. You need to open up the work so that it can travel beyond one ideological camp and generate a more complex discussion.

Devyani Onial: What is your relationship with violence on screen? Are you careful not to cross a line?

Of course, there is such a thing as too much violence and I think filmmakers have a responsibility in how they portray it. When OTT began, many of us felt like animals let out of the zoo after years of censorship. There was a sense that there were no restrictions anymore and we could do anything. I think we all went too far at times.

Personally, I now prefer not to show violence too explicitly if I can help it. I often find what is left unsaid is more effective. But more important than the quantity of violence is the context around it. Violence becomes problematic when it is portrayed as cartoonish, heroic or larger-than-life — when it is celebrated through slow motion, stripped of consequence and made to look cool.

If a film offers insight into violence — what drives people to it, what it does to victims, what it does to perpetrators — then even a violent work can be meaningful. Every filmmaker is entitled to an aesthetic but violence without causality is dangerous. That is what concerns me most.

Suanshu Khurana: In Kohrra, you also explored taboo relationships and the remnants of feudal structures within Punjabi families. Was that a conscious way of talking about politics through the family?

Absolutely. Family is the most basic unit of politics anywhere in the world. If you cannot speak about politics at the macro level, then one route left to filmmakers like me is to examine politics at the micro level, through the family.

Punjab is especially interesting in this regard because it holds together very traditional, even patriarchal structures and a strong modern influence shaped by diaspora, mobility and global exposure. That tension between tradition and modernity is fascinating. It would have been a missed opportunity to set a story in Punjab and not engage with that.

Even those seemingly taboo or unconventional relationships are not simply sensational material. They have roots in the region’s feudal histories, migration patterns and social practices. We wanted to bring those strands into a story that otherwise feels contemporary and explore the friction between what appears modern and what is actually inherited from older structures.