There is a distinct, quiet gravity that settles into an artist when the clamour of youth yields to the clarity of age. For Piyush Mishra—the multi-hyphenate actor, writer, and lyricist whose fierce, booming verses have served as the soundtrack for campus rebellions and cinematic revolutions across South Asia—that shift is not a loss of fire, but a refinement of it.

Visiting Kathmandu for the Kathmandu iteration of Kalinga Literary Festival, Mishra cuts a reflective figure, far removed from the turbulent, restless energy that defined his early years in Delhi’s theatre circuit and his iconic, gritty film roles. The man who once gave voice to the explosive defiance of ‘Aarambh Hai Prachand’ now speaks in measured cadences about the internal theatre of the self. In an industry increasingly obsessed with curated personas and swelling entourages, Mishra remains fiercely unfiltered, leaving no question unanswered and prioritising the supremacy of the written script over the vanity of stardom.

In this candid conversation with The Post’s Biken K Dawadi, Mishra reflects on his artistic evolution, his complicated camaraderie with filmmaker Anurag Kashyap, the transcendental power of raw art, and why, at this stage in his journey, the quietude of internal revolution offers a far deeper peace than the act of creation itself. Excerpts.

To begin, what role do you think raw, untamed and independent art plays in bringing Nepal and India closer?

Art is essentially a manifestation of humanity. Whether one is engaged in politics or the creative arts, an approach rooted in our shared human experience transcends all boundaries. Even music should not be viewed through a purely technical lens. It must be saturated with human essence. Consider the song Aarambh Hai Prachand, to which you alluded. It is, at its core, a human song. Although it was subsequently categorised as a political anthem, that was never its original intent. I recall Anurag Kashyap requesting a song for a sequence involving college elections. I wrote it for that specific context, but it eventually achieved a universal status.

It was not specifically for Nepal, India, or America. It was for everyone because it contained human language, human melodies, and human emotions. Such elements resonate globally. I remember an Oscar-winning artist who choreographed a routine to ‘Aarambh Hai Prachand’ without understanding a single word of the lyrics. He was unaware of the literal meaning, yet the composition’s power moved him to create. When art captures this universal humanity, it hits its mark globally.

How have you found the local theatre culture in Kathmandu?

I had the pleasure of meeting Nepali theatre pioneer Ashesh Malla, through whom I discovered the extraordinary richness of the theatre culture here. I was informed that the culture is so vibrant that performances frequently sell out. There are approximately six or seven dedicated theatre groups and numerous auditoriums in the city. One such space was actually established by one of my juniors from the National School of Drama (NSD), which was heartening to learn.

Do you still experience that signature ‘artistic restlessness’ in your work?

To be perfectly honest, my restlessness has subsided. At this stage of my life, the urge to break things or incite a revolution has settled. It is not a matter of age, but rather one of intention. Age itself has done nothing. There are artists far older than I who are still intent on breaking and remaking the world.

In my case, that specific restlessness has simply concluded. I now feel that if one works with a steady, deliberate pace, the results will manifest naturally. If they do not, there is little one can do. We are all mortal, after all. The movement of art will continue long after we are gone. It is a continuous, unstoppable flow that one should neither attempt to halt nor, in reality, be able to.

Does the vulnerability in your autobiography, ‘Tumhari Auqat Kya Hai’, cause you any fear?

I did harbour concerns that there might be a backlash. The autobiography became exceptionally honest, and while I did not exactly fear the repercussions, there was a lingering apprehension about how it would be received. However, no such backlash occurred.

The public accepted the work with great grace and even praise. People did not take offence. They welcomed the honesty. That said, one can never truly reveal everything. No matter how honest one strives to be, there are always facets of life that remain private. I am satisfied with what I chose to disclose.

What is your philosophy regarding the writing process?

I believe the pen should never be restrained. If you write with too much premeditation, it becomes problematic. One should write without inhibition and only consider editing or cutting text later. I initially considered editing my drafts, but then I decided to let the narrative flow as it was.

Does such public vulnerability liberate your art?

I certainly felt a sense of freedom in articulating things I previously found difficult to say. However, after being invited to several events and repeatedly asked the same questions about my past, I began to feel a sense of guilt. It started to feel like an exaggeration—as if I were indulging in an excess of self-revelation. I felt it was becoming a point of extra pride, which is a state I wish to avoid. Consequently, I have now limited how much I speak about the book. I do not wish to dwell on it excessively.

Did your struggle with alcoholism provide a specific drive for your art?

At that time, yes, it did provide a certain drive. I was drinking, and although I wasn’t consciously looking for inspiration in the bottle, it was part of my reality then. That was perhaps the only positive side, if one can call it that. Negatively, however, it robbed me of my peace of mind and devastated my family life. I was not in control of my senses. My behaviour was erratic, and I was often unaware of what I was saying or doing. Eventually, I turned to Vipassana, which provided me with immense peace of mind.

Has this newfound peace altered the texture of your music?

Certainly. The songs I performed, such as ‘Whisky’, belong to this later phase of my life. My work with my band has been conducted with a much more balanced and disciplined mind. Interestingly, the desire to constantly create is gradually fading. I now find that things like meditation provide a far deeper peace than the act of creation itself. Meditation helps dilute one’s past transgressions. To find such serenity is a great blessing. Vipassana has been instrumental in that.

Let’s talk about your acting. Do you prefer a structured script or the freedom to improvise?

I actually prefer the structure of a set script. When working with Imtiaz Ali or Vishal Bhardwaj, the script is the foundation. In my view, no actor can rise above the script. While Anurag Kashyap tends to offer a great deal of latitude, which occasionally proves disadvantageous, as I find it difficult to improvise to such an extent. The written word is ultimate. I found immense satisfaction in projects like ‘Maqbool’, ‘Tamasha’, and ‘Rockstar’, where the writing was definitive and required no improvisation.

Since you’ve mentioned Kashyap twice now. How do you maintain your bond with him despite political differences?

It is difficult to define. I simply like the man, and he likes me. It is a peculiar relationship that defies easy categorisation. I do not share this specific type of bond with Imtiaz, Vishal, or Shoojit Sircar. He can be an incredibly uncouth and wild individual, and I often take exception to things he says, yet the connection remains. It is akin to a relationship with a younger family member who might be outspoken but remains dear to you.

What are your views on the entourage culture in the Indian film industry?

In the world of entertainment, I wonder how many people one truly needs. I travel with only two people—a makeup artist and a spotlight assistant—and my work never suffers. The excessive entourages common today place unnecessary financial pressure on producers. To me, it appears to be nothing more than forced and futile extravagance.

Between love and anger, which emotion drives your poetry today?

Anger is no longer a primary driver for me. My current work is more of a reaction to my surroundings. I would describe myself as a commentator. My modern songs are not reactionary in a political sense. I observe, and I comment. I have been labelled a ‘revolutionary poet’, but I do not believe I fit that description. I am not like Bhikhari Thakur. I prefer to speak with love. Even if one is pursuing a revolution, it should be done with love.

How do you feel about Gen Z adopting your work as modern anthems?

Again, I believe that if an idea is expressed truthfully and passionately, it becomes universal and applicable across all eras. There are very few things—the Bhagavad Gita, the works of Vivekananda or Bhagat Singh—that remain relevant a century later, but they do so because they touch upon fundamental truths. I have great affection for the Gen Z. They have embraced my songs and imbibed their spirit, so I have no cause for complaint.

If you speak from the heart, your words will be read and sung long after you are gone, much like Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s Madhushala, Sahir Ludhianvi’s ‘Parchaiyan’, or Ramdhari Singh Dinkar’s ‘Rashmirathi’. The reason these works endure is their humanity. When you entangle yourself in labels like ‘Left-wing’ or ‘Right-wing’, you limit yourself. I may have written for the Left, but the songs themselves are not bound by that ideology.

Has your shift away from Leftist ideology influenced your artistic output?

Indeed. In my youth, being a Leftist provided a tremendous drive. At twenty or thirty, one needs an ideology or an institution to react against. It provides the fuel to move forward. I did a great deal of theatre under that influence.

However, there comes a point where that journey must evolve. After the cries of ‘Inquilab Zindabad’, one must seek a different path. Eventually, the revolution must become internal—a refinement of one’s own consciousness. I now practice meditation, but I feel no need to broadcast it. It is a personal change that brings peace and reduces the urge to engage in unhealthy competition. While many people never change their ideologies throughout their lives, I believe that once you have tried to bring about change and it has reached its conclusion, you must move on.

Could you tell us about your upcoming novel, ‘Sarfira’?

I am considering a novel inspired by Erich Segal’s ‘The Class’. It would focus on the NSD batch of 1983—my own batch—and how the lives of five individuals diverged and changed by the time of their 25th anniversary in 2010. I may change the title, but that is the current draft in my mind.

Which artistic medium do you find most fulfilling?

It depends on the time. Theatre once felt like everything, and while it is a medium of immense possibility for an actor—where one is the king of the empty space—it would be wrong to dismiss cinema. Cinema is a massive and powerful medium. I have perhaps not given it its due in the past, but it is equally significant. (At this point, Mishra’s phone rings, and he mentions a discussion regarding ‘Aarambh Hai Prachand’ potentially being included in the CBSE curriculum).

What advice would you give to young artists facing ‘dark phases’?

I cannot offer a simple tip. Those phases do consume you. I survived, but I attribute that more to good fortune than anything else. It is a very real danger. Interestingly, I was just offered a role in a Nepali film by a director. We shall see what happens there. But as for the dark phases, one must simply find one's own way through. At sixty-four, I look back and realise my journey through various art forms was driven by a desire to ‘experience’ everything—to consume every experience until it was finished. Now, I am gradually limiting my activities. I may soon focus entirely on peace of mind. I will continue to create art, but only for that purpose.