The Palette of Humanity

 IT WAS ONE of those evenings that remind you why Delhi still has the power to bring remarkable people together. At Shashi Tharoor’s home, amid the laughter, the books, the food, and the easy conversation, there was a woman whose presence stayed with me long after the evening ended. She wasn’t painting, she wasn’t performing—she was simply being. Draped in a gorgeous sari, her smile carried the composure of someone who has lived fully, seen deeply, and felt profoundly. That woman was the artist Deepa Nath.

It takes only a few moments in Deepa’s company

to sense her rare grounding. When she speaks, there is no need to raise her voice; the calm in her tone commands the room. She shares stories without adornment, her words threaded with compassion and clarity. You listen not just to what she says, but to what she emanates—a deep sense of belonging, of someone who has made peace with her path. It is no wonder that Shashi respected her enough to have her at that table, and that my friend Sundaram Tagore, the New York gallerist I’ve known for decades, has long admired her work and her spirit.

That evening, I understood why. Deepa’s art mirrors her being: modest yet magnetic, intimate yet expansive. Her colours don’t compete; they converse. Her lines don’t divide; they dissolve boundaries. Each painting feels like an offering—a gesture of seeing and being seen. There is grace in her restraint, generosity in her detail, and emotion in her silences.

This week, Delhi will get to experience this at the India Art Festival 2025, opening November 7, at the Constitution Club of India. The festival, now in its 10th Delhi edition, gathers artists and galleries from across the country in one vibrant chorus of creativity. Yet amid its scale—450 artists, 25 galleries, over 3,500 works—what I hope Delhi will discover is the stillness within it: the booth where Deepa’s art quietly invites you to pause.

Her journey began in Hyderabad, shaped by early exhibitions, tireless practice, and mentorship from masters like Laxma Goud and Anant Bhide. Over the years she’s worked across mediums—painting, print, sculpture, ceramics—and across continents. But beyond geography or technique, what defines her is intention. Deepa paints from empathy. Her brush remembers.

In her series Collective Conscience, inspired by her volunteering with orphaned and underprivileged children, you can feel the ache of awareness and the balm of compassion. Sankranti captures the festive swirl of her childhood, the Haridasu and his bull visiting each home—a memory reborn in pigment and pattern. Navadurga reflects a spiritual turn, where the goddess enters her canvas uninvited but entirely welcome—a symbol of the artist’s own awakening. And then Raasa, her meditations on couples, where love finds its sanctity and where a god often appears, quietly watching over human tenderness.

What moves me most is how her work transcends category. It is neither purely devotional nor purely social—it is human. You see in it the continuum of life: from the laughter of children to the patience of women to the quiet courage of the divine. Her palette— ochres, vermillions, indigos, and golds—feels like memory set to rhythm.

Delhi often rushes through its art, as it does through its days. But some artists invite you not to look, but to listen. Deepa is one of them. Her canvases don’t shout for attention; they hold it. They ask you to breathe, to feel, to remember what gentleness looks like.

So if you find yourself near Rafi Marg this weekend, step into the India Art Festival. Wander through the noise, and then let silence find you—in the form of Deepa’s colours. You may walk away with nothing tangible, or perhaps everything that matters: the lingering echo of art that speaks softly but stays.