Something about K M Madhusudhanan's paintings and charcoal works leaves you a little hungry, a little thirsty. If you were to approach his work with viewerly gluttony, you would be disappointed. Instead, you must starve your senses, so that you can feel more intensely, think in measure, and see with clarity.

You feel compelled to practise aparigraha or non-possessiveness in front of Madhusudhanan's works, even as the artist makes an almost encyclopedic inventory of lost utopias, of aborted flight, of falling monuments, of the tangle of cold megaphones aching for the blood-bitten voice of the revolution.