Grief has a sound. It cracks. It whispers. It screams when you least expect it. For 25-year-old rapper-producer Arindam, that sound became Atmaram — an album born not out of ambition, but necessity. After the sudden passing of his father in August 2024, Arindam didn’t just mourn — he rewrote his entire creative identity. He scrapped a nearly finished album, wrote over 60 new songs, and crafted a deeply personal body of work that traverses rage, guilt, spiritual disillusionment, and, eventually, fragile hope. But Atmaram isn’t your standard “sad boy rap” record. It’s cinematic, mythic, tender, furious — stitched together with sonic influences ranging from Kendrick Lamar and MF DOOM to Bengali folk and Coke Studio. It blends Sanskrit shlokas with bass drops, heartbreak with philosophy, silence with scream. In this exclusive conversation with News18 Showsha, Arindam doesn’t hold back. He talks about the pain behind the poetry, the rage behind God Complex, the quiet surrender of Do What You Gotta Do, and why grief — when processed honestly — becomes not just catharsis, but compass. View this post on Instagram A post shared by Arindam (@atript.arindam) Here are the excerpts: So happy to be chatting with you, especially on this amazing album. But before we dive into Atmaram, I want to take it back a bit. What initially drew you to music? Was rap always your outlet, or did that evolve over time? Rap has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. And I’m not talking about the usual Eminem kind of rap—though that’s cool too. I mean Bhool Bhulaiyaa (2007), the title track. I was 8 years old when I heard that “searching for my shorty” line, and something about it just clicked. It stuck with me. Over time, I realised that I was composing my life to the rhythm of rap music, if that makes sense. But yeah, it evolved. Growing up in Ghaziabad, as a Bengali kid, I was exposed to two very different sonic worlds. At home, it was Rabindra Sangeet; step outside, and it was Honey Singh blasting on the streets. That cultural fusion shaped me. It gave birth to whatever style I have today. I’m just carrying that forward and seeing where it takes me. That’s such a vivid mix of influences. Who were some of the artists—Indian or international—who shaped your creative lens early on? From the start, Kendrick Lamar has been a massive influence. The way he plays with syllables, how he flows—it’s like he’s not just rapping, he’s architecting every word. Studying his work taught me a lot. MF DOOM was another big one. What I loved about him was that he didn’t do the stereotypical gangster rap. He rapped about comic books, about weird, nerdy stuff—and that really connected with me. Because growing up in a place like Ghaziabad, you’re expected to be a certain way. You’re supposed to be the product of your environment, right? Work a 9-to-5, maybe get into fights, follow that script. But I didn’t want that to define me. So I pulled from everything—comic books, life around me, and emotions I couldn’t always express in regular conversations. A lot of my friends lost their fathers early in life. Watching them change, grow, or sometimes not grow—that left a mark on me. I think I’ve been lucky to have the vocabulary to process and express all of that through music. A lot of people around me didn’t. In the Indian scene, I’d say EPR was also a huge influence. The way he performs, the way he uses language—it pushed me to explore Desi hip hop more seriously. There are a lot of influences, honestly. Too many to name without going down a rabbit hole. But I think it’s that mix—of street reality, homegrown culture, and artistic ambition—that shaped what I do now. Right, so let’s talk about Atmaram. When did it start becoming more than scattered thoughts or fleeting emotions? Was there a specific moment that made you realise this needed to become an album? And from that point, how long did it take to write, record, and bring it all together? Funny story, actually. Before my dad passed away—on 3rd August—I had almost completed an entirely different album. It was basically ready to go. But after he died, I couldn’t connect with it anymore. That album didn’t reflect who I was anymore, and I didn’t feel honest putting it out. So I scrapped it completely and started writing again—literally from 4th August. Over the next few months, I wrote around 60 songs. Most of them were honestly not great, just raw outpourings. But writing became my survival mechanism. I was also managing my master’s in design here in Bangalore and juggling coursework at the time. So music became this anchor, the only thing keeping me emotionally in check. On 19th October—my dad’s birthday—I put out a track on Instagram. It was full of anger, bitterness, and grief. And people really connected with it. That’s when it hit me—this isn’t just personal expression anymore. It’s becoming a milestone in my grieving process. A way for me to trace how I was feeling and, eventually, how I was healing. So I kept writing, kept refining. By December, I had a very clear idea of the album’s direction. And by the end of January, the full record was written. Mixing and mastering took another month or so. It was tough to juggle all of it—music, academics, even part-time work—but like my father used to say, “No matter how heavy your grief is, you still have to pay the bills.” Life doesn’t stop. That’s incredibly powerful. And that idea—of music as a container for grief—flows beautifully into the album’s title, Atmaram. Can you talk about how the name came to you? Yeah, so “Atmaram” came from something I observed during my father’s funeral. In Hindu cremation rites, there’s this final bone that remains after the pyre burns—it’s often referred to as the Atmaram. It’s symbolic of the soul’s endurance and transition. At the same time, in mythology, “Atmaram” is also someone who has attained a higher sense of spiritual awareness or detachment. That dual meaning stuck with me. I realised that this journey, from my anger to my eventual acceptance of his death, was reflected in that word. It just felt right. Let’s talk about God Complex, the opening track. It’s such a visceral blend—temple ambience, damru, and those mythological references, especially to Kalki. Your rap delivery is electric—it sets the tone for everything that follows. What did you want to convey through that track? Was it rage? Divine chaos? Or something else? That track came from a very specific emotional state—pure, undiluted rage. One day, I was just furious. Not just at the world, but at the sheer unfairness of it all. Like, why do good people have to go while others who’ve done nothing but harm are still around? That emotion just spilled over, and the phrase “God Complex” came to mind. I was reading about Kalki—the destroyer avatar—and how he arrives at the end of the age to reset the world. That really resonated. The first verse is from Kalki’s perspective, calling out not just sinners but those who stayed silent in the face of wrongdoing: Paapi Ka Ahinsa Dhaari, Saathi Bhi Papi Swaroop—meaning even those who stood beside evil are equally culpable. But then the track shifts. It becomes more personal. I call out God for taking my dad away, and in that moment, I’m not just questioning divine justice—I’m rejecting it. I say outright: “I believe in my father more than I believe in any god right now.” And at the end, there’s an alarm clock ringing—that’s deliberate. The whole track is a dream sequence. It represents that inner storm I was carrying, playing out in my subconscious. So yeah, God Complex is rage, it’s chaos, it’s grief in its most primal form—but it’s also a warning. That unchecked silence and pain can become something explosive, something divine and destructive. After that powerful opening track comes “Heart Disease,” and the emotional landscape of the album shifts dramatically. Suddenly, we’re in a space of softness, heartbreak, and vulnerability. How does this song fit into the larger narrative arc of Atmaram? And tell me about collaborating with Lavanya — her voice is stunning. Absolutely, Lavanya has an angelic voice — I have to start with that. She fit into the track so beautifully. We’re actually classmates and had been talking about collaborating for a long time. She’s also an amazing drummer, by the way! The shift in tone was very intentional. “Heart Disease” is a metaphor on multiple levels. On the surface, it refers to the actual heart attack that took my father’s life — but more deeply, it explores how emotional suppression becomes a kind of generational illness. In many of our homes, especially in Indian households, we’re conditioned to bottle up our feelings. That silence, that refusal to express pain — it’s its own kind of disease. There’s a line in the song: “Maa Meri Soche Ke Main Ho Gaya Better, Woh Bhi Chupati Hai Ki Woh Roti Hai Never.” It reflects how both my mother and I were grieving silently. We were mirroring each other’s pain, but not talking about it. That silence gets passed down. That’s the “heart disease.” And the production felt emotionally layered too — the music reflected the theme. How did you conceptualize the soundscape? I wanted it to feel like a dialogue between two people — or even two sides of one person. Lavanya’s voice represents the voice of love — the people around me who want me to open up, who are reaching out. My verses represent the person who thinks he’s protecting others by staying silent. That disconnect, that miscommunication, is the emotional heart of the track. Visually, we tried to portray that in the music video — the couple fighting, not speaking, misunderstanding each other. That visual metaphor matched the emotional undercurrent of the song. Let’s talk about “Self Harm But Make It Art.” It’s haunting, fragile, and deeply personal. The sitar, the way the track crescendos — it feels like pain building toward an emotional collapse. What was your headspace when you composed this? The album follows the five stages of grief — not in order, but emotionally. “Self Harm…” is where denial and pain collide. It comes from that phase where you don’t talk, don’t express yourself, and it becomes a form of self-harm in itself. You start getting addicted to your own silence. There’s a line in the song: “Shut The F*** Up…,” — basically, my inner voice saying that silence itself has become my addiction. I’m destroying myself but pretending it’s normal. And then there’s another line, “Bana Diya Tujhe Tere Hi Papa Sa,” — referring to how I’ve unknowingly started mirroring my father. He never showed what he was going through. He was the silent provider, like many fathers are. And now I’ve inherited that — not just his role, but also his emotional suppression. And the second verse shifts into something more theological, almost accusatory toward God? Yeah, exactly. The song begins with a beep, like a flatline — a signal of death. Then it moves into denial and rage. The line “God only cares agar tu chheekhe,” — it questions divine justice. It asks: if I scream loud enough, will God care? If I destroy myself enough, will it bring my father back? It’s a raw, spiritual disillusionment. And that’s why the album cover reflects this song’s emotional DNA — that internal war between love and loss, silence and expression. “666 Helpline” hits like a jolt — it’s visceral, chaotic, and feels like a psychological breakdown unfolding in real-time. There’s this haunting interplay of genres like metal, growling and an eerie voice woven into the sonic texture. It feels like a desperate conversation — maybe with death, maybe with the self. What space were you in when you created it? And how did that genre-bending production come together? That track came from a place of sheer intensity. Interestingly, the idea sparked while I was watching a reel of New Zealand’s rugby team performing the haka — a traditional Māori war cry. Their primal scream, that deep evolutionary instinct to scream when overwhelmed — I wanted to capture that in a song. “666 Helpline” went through 12 drafts. The very first version was brutally raw — I literally recounted everything from the day my dad passed. From what my brother and I said to each other, to the moment we saw him lying there. But it felt too personal. It risked alienating listeners instead of inviting them in. So I shifted the lens. I started thinking about this voice in the song — not as some evil figure, but as the ego. The ego as the devil. Not violent or monstrous, but indifferent. Almost drunk. Casual about suffering. There’s a line in the song where this voice says something like, “Kisko jhooth bol raha hai?” — that’s the tone I wanted. Apathetic, almost mocking. The core of the track is this line: “Apne Tu Baap Ko Kho Chuka, Tujhme Aur Unke Iss Rishte Mein Laga Bas Dukh Ka Ye Wire.” It translates to — “I’ve lost my father, and now, the only connection between us is pain.” When the pain fades, all you have is memory. And memories, unlike pain, don’t always demand your attention. So in a way, “God Complex” was the mask of anger. “666 Helpline” rips it off and reveals the grief underneath. The doubt, the questioning — “Why did it happen?” — is just my ego trying to prolong the suffering, to stay connected to him. And then comes “Sab Moh Maya Hai.” The grief detaches. There’s a numbness to it. A sort of spiritual exhaustion. It’s like nihilism becomes your coping mechanism. How did this song evolve, and what does it represent to you emotionally? “Sab Moh Maya Hai” was actually the second song I made for the album — right after “3.8.24.” But the earliest versions sounded completely different. The goal was to build something deceptively cheerful — something that feels almost happy, but when you listen closely, it stings. So I intentionally kept my rap delivery more monotone — unlike the raw intensity of “God Complex” or “Self Harm.” I wanted the beat to carry a kind of false calm, while the lyrics quietly unravel everything beneath. There’s a line — “Dawa Hai Iss Dard Ka Nahi, Gawaah Hai Iss Dard Ka Nahi.” It sounds cheerful when you first hear it, but it’s gut-wrenching when you process it. That contradiction is deliberate. This song is a slow burner — it lulls you before delivering an emotional punch. Emotionally, “Sab Moh Maya Hai” represents the moment in grief where you stop trying to make sense of anything. Where you accept that nothing truly makes sense — and strangely, that helps you survive. It’s like being adrift, and instead of panicking, you just let the waves carry you. “3.8.24” — this one cuts to the bone. It’s arguably the rawest, darkest moment of the album. There’s sorrow, but also a kind of surrender to that sorrow. The use of Sanskrit shlokas only deepens that contrast — it feels ancient and aching at the same time. Can you talk about how this track came to be, and what you hope listeners — especially those silently grieving — might take from it? That’s a tough one — because this track is painfully intimate. Even when I was finishing the album, I kept debating whether I should include it or not. It felt like I was baring a part of myself I wasn’t sure I was ready to share. But my friend Ishan — who also collaborated with me on the project — said something that stuck: “The very reason you’re scared to release this is why you absolutely must.” This was the only track that no one apart from Ishan heard before the album dropped. Not even close friends. That’s how personal it was. The original version was 12 minutes long — just one continuous flood of emotion. I eventually trimmed it down and reworked the instrumental. But the lyrics? They remained exactly as I wrote them. No edits. No rewrites. What you hear on the album is exactly what spilled out of me at 3 AM on August 17th. The memory behind it is sharp. My dad passed away suddenly on August 3rd, 8:00 AM. I was in Bangalore. He was in Ghaziabad. Just a day before, on August 2nd, we had spoken. Everything was normal. And then — he was gone. I remember how helpless I felt. How everyone around me — even people I looked up to — couldn’t offer any real hope. Because there wasn’t any. This wasn’t a breakup or a bad exam result. This was death. And it was permanent. I wanted this song to reflect that permanence. That absolute, irreversible punch. You know, grief is strange — it doesn’t announce itself politely. It barges in and takes everything. I hope nobody has to feel what I felt, but for those who do… I want this track to be a mirror. To say, “Yes. This pain exists. And it’s valid.” “3.8.24” is that moment in the album where I hit bottom. And in a way, that’s necessary. Because once you’ve gone that deep, the only way left is up. Even when everything else in life — jobs, relationships, routine — feels uncertain, I can listen to this track and say, “I’ve already survived worse.” That’s what this song is. It’s the darkness before the dawn. The gut-punch that doesn’t resolve — because it’s not meant to. “Under Construction” feels like the emotional pivot of the album — like the first sun-ray after a long, stormy night. It doesn’t feel naïve, but hopeful in a grounded way. From the harmonium to the lyrical tenderness, it almost feels like a letter to yourself. Would you say this was the turning point emotionally? How did you shape it? Yeah, actually. I was listening to Chaap Tilak from Coke Studio — Abida Parveen’s version — and something just stirred inside me. It was like, “What am I even doing?” That song felt like such a pure moment, like something that transcended sound. It made me want to make something that could do even a fraction of that — capturing a feeling so honestly that people could feel it, not just hear it. I remembered how my dad loved Manna Dey and Sufi music. So that influence crept in — I can’t play the harmonium, but I tried to find a sound that echoed what I was looking for. The goal was to make it hopeful, but not cheesy. Because right after a track like “3.8.24,” no one expects you to find light. But that’s how grief works, right? It’s never linear. One day you’re drowning, and the next, you’re making tea and smiling at a stupid meme. That’s what I wanted the track to reflect. The second verse was really about remembering my dad in the right light — the way he lived, not just the way he died. He was funny. He was full of life. And people keep telling me that I’ve inherited that from him — his personality, his looks. So I wanted to honor that. This track is where the journey toward acceptance begins. And then Ship of Theseus comes in — such a shift. It leans into philosophy, nostalgia, and longing. It’s quieter but deeply reflective, and ends on this almost spiritual note. What does this track represent for you? And how did you decide on that title? First of all, shoutout to Ishan — he produced the beat and did such a fantastic job. The title Ship of Theseus comes from the philosophical paradox: if every part of a ship is replaced over time, is it still the same ship? That question haunted me — because grief changes you. Trauma changes you. The person who comes out on the other side — is that still you? And to be honest, I don’t deal well with change. I’m very much a creature of habit — routine comforts me. My favorite food has been Maggi and noodles for over 20 years. Even when I go out, I only order paneer. People always say, “You should try something new,” as if I’m choosing not to. But for some of us, change is hard — it’s not just a preference; it’s a whole wiring. That’s what this track reflects. Watching my mom, who was always the stronger one in the family — the strict, warrior-type because we didn’t have a lot growing up — now sit quietly, scrolling on her phone… That broke something in me. There’s a line in the song: “Jab Bhi Main Dekhta Maa Ko Apni, Bethi Woh Shaant Pakad Ke Kursi” — that’s from real life. Seeing her change shook me. And it made me question, If she’s changed, and I’ve changed… then who am I now? That uncertainty, that philosophical unraveling, is what I tried to distill into this song. So yeah, Ship of Theseus is a rap about identity, impermanence, and emotional fragility — but in the simplest, most grounded way I could say it. “Do What You Gotta Do” feels like a spiritual surrender — mature, grounded, and strangely peaceful. There’s a gentleness in its acceptance, but also quiet strength. The R&B textures, the God’s Plan sample, and that deeply reflective spoken-word stretch around the 0:44 mark — it all hits hard. What space were you in while crafting this track, and what did you ultimately want listeners to take away? So, this track was actually a response to another one I’d made called Everything Burns — which never made it to the album. That track was full of rage. It was written from the perspective of someone standing in front of the funeral pyre, watching their whole life — their sense of security, their childhood, their anchor — all just burn. It was pure fire. But when I listened back to it, I was like, “What the hell was I going through?” It was too raw, too corrosive. And I didn’t want the album to end on that note. That’s when Do What You Gotta Do came in — as an answer, a resolution. The first line, “Morpankhudi Dhari Hai Mera Dost,” is probably the most personal one I’ve written. Throughout the album, there are subtle — and sometimes not-so-subtle — references to Krishna, especially the version of him I remember from when I was a kid. Not the commodified one floating around today, but the real Krishna — the playful, wise friend, the one you could talk to. That line, to me, is about faith — not in organized religion, but in something deeper. That belief that someone or something is looking out for you, even in your darkest moments. I think this track is also where my father starts speaking through me — not as a ghost or vision, but as a memory that anchors me. That little dialogue section where I talk about sitting in the park, wanting to call him but knowing I can’t? That really happened. I told my mom to never call me using his phone because just seeing his name flash on the screen… bro, that’s a kind of pain I can’t put into words. It hits like a sucker punch. Every. Single. Time. Even here in Bangalore, I haven’t kept his photo in my room. Not because I don’t want to remember him — but because looking at his face makes me feel like I failed him, like I should’ve done more. That regret is real. And yet, life doesn’t stop for grief. I still have a degree to complete. I still have to pay bills. I still have to take care of my mother. So, this song is my answer to Ship of Theseus. That even if I don’t fully know who I am anymore — even if everything feels broken — I have to move forward. I have to do what I gotta do. “Mummy Light Aa Gayi” feels incredibly intimate — like a quiet conversation with grief itself. There’s a softness to it, but it also carries the weight of watching someone you love suffer. It’s not just about processing pain, but about learning how to hold others through theirs. Can you walk me through the emotional space you were in while making this track? This song is actually one of the oldest ones on the album — I wrote it before I even started shaping Atmaram. It was April 2024. A very close friend of mine, probably the most emotionally composed guy I know, lost his mother to cancer. I remember being there when it happened. He completely broke down in my arms, and I had never seen him like that before. That moment stayed with me. I went back home that night and began writing. The first verse is entirely for him. Lines like “Bolna Bohot Kuch Par Bolta Hai Kuch Nahi, Bottlein Hai Khulti Bol Kabhi” — because some people, especially the ones who are usually the strongest, don’t know how to grieve out loud. They find ways to keep it bottled up, and it shows in quiet, breaking places — the eyes, the silence, the avoidance. But the second verse… that was more personal. It made me confront a moment I’m not proud of — back in 2016, when my then-partner lost her mother. She was just 16 or 17. And I… I failed her. At that time, I was preparing for JEE exams, and my mind was wired to find logical solutions for everything. So when she was drowning in grief, I gave her rational advice — “Do this,” “Focus on that,” “Try to stay strong.” But grief isn’t physics. There’s no formula to solve it. And she told me something that still echoes in my head — “Don’t tell me what to do. I know what I can do. I just want someone to listen.” That line shook me years later, especially after going through my own loss. I realized I had completely misunderstood what it means to support someone in pain. So Mummy Light Aa Gayi became a way for me to sit with that failure — to hold space for the times I didn’t show up the right way. The title itself comes from this almost childlike hope. Like when the lights come back after a long blackout. It’s a metaphor for that flicker of understanding, of presence — that moment when you’re finally able to be there for someone not with answers, but just with your ears, your silence, and your heart. Ultimately, the track is me admitting: you can’t intellectualize your way out of grief. You can’t logic someone into healing. You just have to sit with them in the dark — and wait for the light to come back. “Mr. Imperfect” really stood out to me — it’s confident, electric, filled with swagger, but beneath all of that, it’s deeply personal. There’s an emotional confrontation with legacy, masculinity, even language. That sudden switch to Bangla is such a gut-punch. What space were you in when you made this track, and what makes it so personal to you? Mr. Imperfect was meant to be an anthem — not just for men, but for anyone who’s carrying inherited pain, who feels broken in places society expects them to keep polished. It’s me reclaiming my flaws, wearing them proudly. I wanted this to be a song where I said, “Yeah, I’ve made mistakes. Yeah, I’m messed up in parts. And I’m still here. Still showing up.” That in itself is power. We’re surrounded by so much bravado in hip-hop — the hyper-masculinity, the guns, the dominance. That’s not me. I’m not that person, and I didn’t want to pretend to be. I grew up. I grew up with real problems, with losses and love and guilt and grief. Not in a world of flexing, but in a world of figuring things out — often painfully. So Mr. Imperfect became my way of rejecting the posturing and saying, “Here I am. Unfinished. Flawed. Still standing.” Funny story — I wrote, produced, and mixed the track in a day. Played it for Ishan — who’s been my best friend since we were 13 — and he hated it. (laughs) Or at least that’s what he said. But I know him. When he makes fun of something, that’s usually a sign I’m on the right track. He called the song “a kidnapper celebrating a kidnapping.” I took that as a win. The Bengali section came in much later. There’s this line I once read: “We grieve best in our mother tongue.” And that stayed with me. I usually write in Hindi or English, but when I wrote in Bangla, it unlocked something — this raw, emotional layer that couldn’t be reached any other way. It was like suddenly speaking directly to my mother, to my lineage. That part of the song — though brief — is probably the most vulnerable I’ve been. And then comes the ending — “Pyaar Kar Dard Se Kar Tu Pyaar Nafrat Se” That one line sums up Atmaram. This whole album is about grief, but more than that, it’s about the love buried beneath it — the kind that survives betrayal, anger, hatred, and even death. The final track, Grief Lives Here Rent Free, is such a stunning, tender closure. There’s a profound softness in it, and the line ‘Khoya Hai Tune Bhi Kisi Ko, Roya Tu Bhi Hai Bahot’ feels universally true. It’s deeply relatable, like a quiet embrace for anyone grieving. Why did you choose this as the album’s last word, and was that always the plan? This track… yeah, this one went through a lot of versions. Initially, it was very different — raw, more chaotic. I was chasing a feeling. I remember listening to Kendrick’s Count Me Out and wondering: where did that emotion come from? What’s behind the craft? That’s what I was trying to get at. Eventually, I realized — the album couldn’t end on a scream. Life doesn’t work like that. After the spikes and the deep troughs, what we’re left with is a low hum, a mellow ache. That’s what I wanted this track to reflect. It had to be soft, but still carry weight. That’s why the guitars come in — they’re gentle, but they hit. Like a quiet truth. There’s a line in there — “Dekh Zara Khidki Ke Bahar, Dikhega Hilta Hua Ek Patta, Ek Pilla Chote Se Kad Ka, Jo Khele Bina Soche Aur Samjhe” — and for me, that line encapsulates the whole journey. That even grief, even loss, blooms somewhere. This album wasn’t meant to be a career move or a streaming number. It was a personal act of survival. I would’ve been okay if it got just ten streams. This was for me — a mirror, a marker. You’ve said you started making music back in 2021. Tell me more about that journey — how did your sound evolve into Atmaram? I started writing songs a long time ago, but I didn’t really understand songcraft until much later. I came from a background in comedy and filmmaking — writing was always part of it. But it wasn’t until 2021, when I had this horrible job that drained me, that I found myself needing an outlet. Music became that space. A friend of mine, Aviral, who I used to do comedy sketches with, introduced me to basic music theory — chords, structures, rhythm. From there, it was just obsession. A song a day. Every single day. Most of them were trash — but you have to make the trash to make something good. That’s just how it works. You’ve been very intentional about making a full body of work — not just singles. That’s rare, especially in today’s trend-chasing, algorithm-fuelled music scene. Yeah, I don’t really believe in dropping singles just to stay visible. I know that’s what the industry wants. But I’ve always felt like songs are chapters. I want to build books, not headlines. Atmaram is a complete thought. I’d rather release one project that moves people than ten viral snippets that are forgotten tomorrow. The album artwork also has such a mythological, symbolic touch. How did you weave those Sanskrit shlokas and spiritual elements into your work, especially as someone who identifies as agnostic? Great question. There’s this line in 666 Helpline: “Kitaab Maine Padhi Hazaar Ye, Gira ke Shlok Leke Aayat, Quran Ke.” During my grief, I found myself circling back to old chats I’d had about religion, mythology, and the afterlife. Not because I was searching for salvation, but because I wanted to understand — is there a map through this kind of pain? I started re-reading scriptures, not for faith, but for metaphor. That’s where the shlokas came in. Each one on the album represents a different kind of death — ego death, death of hope, emotional death, death of identity. I even explained them in a series of canvases. I wanted to root this journey in something older than me, something timeless. And now that this body of work is out in the world — what’s next? What’s creatively calling you? I’m actually revisiting an older album I shelved years ago. I feel like I’ve lived more now. I can bring something deeper to it. Sonically, I’m moving towards a fusion of disco, funk, bossa nova, and hip-hop. Think old-school Bollywood meets bass-heavy storytelling. I want to experiment with warmth — something more groove-based, but still grounded in emotion. Of course, I’d love to collaborate with folks like Seedhe Maut, EPR Iyer, Raftaar, Yashraj, Chaar Diwaari — artists who push the genre forward. But right now, I just want to live more, feel more, and create from that place. And live performances? Will we get to see Atmaram come alive on stage? Hopefully, yes. I’d love to. But it depends on a lot — can I fill a club? Can I find an audience that’s ready for this kind of introspective rap? I’m not rushing. For now, I’m just grateful that the album found its people. If that turns into a room of listeners one day, I’ll be there. Mic in hand. Heart wide open.