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.

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