Prayaag Akbar is an Indian journalist and novelist renowned for his insightful explorations of societal issues through fiction. His debut novel, Leila (2017), received critical acclaim, winning the Crossword Jury Prize and the Tata Literature Live! First Book Award. The novel was later adapted into a Netflix series directed by Deepa Mehta.
Akbar's latest work, Mother India (2024), delves into the intersections of technology, politics, and marginalization in contemporary India. Drawing from his extensive background in journalism—having served as deputy editor at Scroll.in and contributed to publications like The Indian Express and The Caravan—Akbar brings a nuanced perspective to his fiction, addressing complex themes with precision and empathy.
Prayaag Akbar's Mother India left me profoundly moved with its seamless blend of tender storytelling and unsettling truths about the dystopian present. Through vivid portrayals of techno-solutionism, surveillance, and marginalization, the novel resonated deeply, compelling me to reflect on how fiction, unlike much of non-fiction, captures the intricacies of our world with unparalleled depth and empathy. My conversation with Akbar sought to explore these layers, along with the anxieties, lessons, and hope woven into his narrative.
In this interview, Akbar discusses the anxieties present in his writing, the influence of techno-solutionism, and the role of surveillance in modern society. He also offers insights into the craft of writing, emphasizing the importance of sensitivity and observation in portraying marginalized voices.
Simran Pavecha: I’ll start by saying that I was reading your book again. From what I understand, your writing style is very tender. The sentences are short and accessible. But there are two places in the book—I think page 88 and page 156—where Mayank and Nisha, respectively, are having an internal thought process. These sections are written with no punctuation at all. When I was reading them, I was reminded of reading Prophet Song, which has non-stop punctuation to create anxiety in the reader. Was that intentional, or am I reading too much into it?
Prayaag Akbar: What a coincidence for you to mention that book; my copy of Prophet Song just arrived this morning. I haven’t read it yet, but I’ll be in conversation with its author at a litfest in Kerala in two weeks. I’ve heard great things about the book. When I read about it, I felt it had some commonalities with Leila, my first book. So, they paired us for the conversation.
Simran Pavecha: That’s exciting.
Prayaag Akbar: Yeah, so it's really interesting that you brought that up. Can you remind me about the sections on pages 88 and 156? Is Mayank on the train in that part?
Simran Pavecha: Yes, I believe so. He’s thinking about what the police constables might see. I can read it to you if you’d like. It starts with something like, “All he could see was a pair of blinding beacons around them, a deep blackness...”
Prayaag Akbar: Ah, that section.
Simran Pavecha: And in Nisha’s part, there’s a similar undertone. She reflects on the “cult of beauty,” internalizing it from early childhood—absorbing social cues as reality.
Prayaag Akbar: Thanks, so in both, I was actually with Mayank, especially in that scene with Mayank when he's on this kind of adventure—the night adventure—and he gets caught by the cops. It was meant to show a kind of internal flow of thought but also to highlight a kind of turmoil, as you pointed out. It’s the internal turmoil that he’s feeling, where the thoughts are coming thick and fast. It just seemed to me that we all go through those moments—moments where it feels like a suspension of thought in your brain. You're just being bombarded with thoughts, and they’re coming at you, and you don’t know how to control or even process them in some ways.
I was trying to create that effect for the reader without being too heavy-handed about it. I'm so glad you picked up on it because, as a writer, when you’re trying to be quite subtle about something, and someone notices it, it’s a really good feeling.
Even in the Nisha section, that idea of the cult of beauty—one reviewer or journalist told me that they didn’t think she could have those thoughts. They felt like those thoughts weren’t authentic to Nisha. But I think what I was trying to point to was that when you ask some people… Nisha is extraordinarily good-looking. And people who are born like that, from a very young age, they’re aware of their beauty because the world is constantly telling them how beautiful they are. That kind of feedback comes to them, and I’ve noticed that for people like that, it becomes a kind of pressure. They feel it as a pressure, like, “I have to maintain this; this is what I have to offer to the world,” because everyone sees them through this lens of beauty.
And so, for me, with Nisha, I was trying to show that she’s always been tuned into that. She’s always been tuned into the power of an image, the power of a face, or the power of attractiveness. I was just trying to show that during this moment of turmoil for her, she’s processing how the world is looking at her and how she’s perceiving herself. It’s a book about social media, where this is accentuated on YouTube and all of that. So I was definitely trying to show that. I'm really glad that you picked up on that.
Simran: I also agree because even before all of this happens with Nisha, there are moments where you get access to a lot of her thoughts. She’s attuned to that—the whole forest fire situation, for example. She’s very aware of where she is. My understanding is that some aspects of us being from small towns never leave us. They keep haunting us in their own subtle ways. They’re always present.
Prayaag: I’m really glad you felt that. This was something I really wanted to capture about Nisha—that she was a migrant to the city. This is very much a lived reality for a lot of people. I’ve moved to other places—Bombay and others—and I know a little bit of what it’s like to be an outsider. But for someone moving from a small town to a big city, you carry that in your heart and your mind.
It never leaves you, that place. For Nisha, she feels her home deeply. I saw her through her home more than I saw her in her economic role in the mall. For me, it was easier to think of her as a hill girl—someone from the hills who’s now working hard in Delhi and trying to make it. Her private life is in Uttarakhand, and that’s really what her social media and concerns are tuned into.
The forest fires, for instance—that’s a reality of what happens in Uttarakhand, especially during the summer. She’s deeply concerned about it. It was a way for me to show her in a more rounded light—to show her as someone who cares about society and about where India is heading.
Simran: My next question is about Mother India. I see it as critiquing political structures and technological systems that perpetuate marginalization. It feels part techno-dystopia, part political dystopia, yet it captures a lot of precision in your imagination and story-building.
Both politics and technology operate within a capitalist framework, where profit-driven motives amplify inequality, and tech monopolies shape social norms. How do you think writers of today can convey this reality without alienating readers?
Prayaag: That’s a very complex question.
To break it down, the first thing is addressing how large technology companies control our existence. We’re so dependent on them now. As you said, they’re all driven by profit. These are not social enterprises in any way—they are purely profit-driven.
The best example is Sam Altman with ChatGPT. When it launched, there were claims it wouldn’t be used for warfare. Yet the first thing he did was sell it to the American military, and now it’s being deployed in Palestine in the most vicious ways. This shows how technology is quickly co-opted into systems of warfare and control.
As writers, we have to reckon with our insignificance in the face of these forces. I believe we need to focus on telling very personal stories. For me, this story came to life only when I understood that Mayank and Nisha were at the heart of it. I had to delve into their hearts and understand what was going on inside them. That’s where the story’s truth emerged.
Whatever my thoughts, as writers, I think the challenge—especially for novels—is to stay with people and try to capture the individual experience of whatever else is happening. I can only speak for fiction writers; non-fiction writers have an entirely different approach and different things to grapple with.
As fiction writers, if we can write authentically about people, then there will always be readers who want to engage with it. For me, that was the takeaway with this book. I really wanted to say something about social media and similar themes. But honestly, the book didn’t become a real book until I realized I had to laser in on Mayank and Nisha and make their journey something worth writing about—and worth reading.
Simran Pavecha: There’s a part where Mayank talks about how fearsome intelligence is being built, referencing the Mughals, and there are these fascinating contrasts in his internal turmoil and thoughts. He also addresses things like the data brokerage industry, deep fakes, and how marginalization is used to train AI and weaponized. It’s all very accessible to understand. I think Mayank’s ability to imagine this insignificance you mentioned is what allows him to draw these parallels, like calling these new entities the "new invaders."
Prayaag Akbar: Calling them the "new invaders" comes from how Mayank perceives these tech companies as monoliths. For someone his age, things like Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat occupy this massive space in their imagination. He can see how companies like Google operate on the ground in India.
I was pointing to something happening in Maharashtra right now, where Alphabet (Google's parent company) has opened a huge data tagging center. It’s like the call centers from my time, where people earned good money, and it became a viable option. This new industry is exploding similarly.
When my agent and editor first read this section, they wondered if it was too much of a leap and even suggested making it into a separate section or expanding the thought further. But I felt that people already know these things—like the rumors about the Taj Mahal, for instance, which I’ve heard myself. I remember being at a wedding in Agra, where someone told me about the deaths of Hindus during its construction and dismissed its aesthetic value. It’s a reflection of how people are taught to view Mughal history. I wanted to show how these kinds of indoctrinations affect individuals like Mayank.
Now, we’re also seeing how generative AI tools—whether for photos, music, or writing—are stealing from artists. They’re creating so-called "new content" that’s entirely derivative of others’ work. Issues like copyright and creativity are in flux. No one fully understands what’s happening to copyright, but the bigger question is: what will happen to creativity?
Where will creative people express themselves? How much of the machine’s work can you use and still call it your own? These are the questions we’ll be grappling with over the next 10-20 years.
Mayank stepping into this new world is symbolic. Even his YouTube show, which seems modern, is already becoming outdated compared to what’s coming with AI. On YouTube, much of the content now has AI narration and visuals. It’s clear that platforms like YouTube will also have to adapt to how AI transforms everything. I wanted to show how Mayank is moving from one challenge into an entirely new one—out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Simran Pavecha: No, that's brilliant. I think I'm still absorbing all of this because I've just been reading a lot about technosolutionism and our infatuation with technology as the be-all and end-all solution to everything when, in reality, a lot of this needs economic and social change. But I think your book reaffirms so much of this. I love how fiction can come to the rescue, especially when we’re not talking enough about this in non-fiction or in the Indian landscape as much as we should.
I have a personal question, if I may. Does being a parent to a child influence your writing, particularly since your work explores a lot of dystopia?
Prayaag Akbar: Oh yeah, I can talk about that. My son is the most important thing to me. I do want to write a happy story at some point that he’ll like and read. He’s very young—six years old—but I keep thinking I’d love to write something he’ll enjoy when he’s 10 or 11. It won’t be dystopian. But you can only write where your mind takes you, and my worldview often takes me to these darker places. I think it’s because I worry about his future in the country.
I was about eight when Babri Masjid happened—maybe nine. That was a big eye-opener for me. At that age, I didn’t understand it fully, but I absorbed something about the targeting of Muslims. Growing up in Delhi, I heard things, saw things, and wondered where we’re heading. Is it going to get worse for my son? That’s part of why my writing leans into this.
When I wrote Leila, he wasn’t born yet. So I can’t blame him for my dystopian tendencies.
Simran Pavecha: That worry you mentioned—about the future...
Prayaag Akbar: Yes, I do worry. But I also think my son has made me a happier person. There’s a bit more humor in my second book compared to the first. Leila took readers down a deep, dark tunnel, but with this one, I tried to capture life’s mix of good and bad moments. Perhaps that’s influenced by him.
I feel I’m writing for him and for younger people, out of concern. It’s amazing to have younger readers like you and others from your generation. It’s a huge audience for me, and it feels lovely.
Many of the concerns Nisha expresses or Mayank grapples with come from observing your generation—the respect and intelligence you show toward each other. When I was in school or college, there were jokes about LGBTQIA+ people. That discourse has changed now. The respect people show for each other’s choices is profound, and we need to learn that from your generation.
Respect for choices is something both Nisha and Mayank learn in the book. It’s partly innate but also something they grow into. For instance, Mayank might feel anger toward Bhavna for going out with other boys, but he doesn’t express it in a way that might have been common 20 years ago. There’s more respect and freedom for women now.
I have a friend from college who lives in America now, working in finance. He read the book and was fascinated by Bhavna. He felt she said something significant about the book and suggested I write more about her. For me, she’s fiercely independent—more so than Nisha. That independence is something I see in young women today, driven by economic opportunity.
Women now feel they can make their own choices without bowing to parental or societal expectations. Bhavna has a relationship with her parents where they respect her choices, and she respects theirs. That’s remarkable about your generation.
Simran Pavecha: I also really liked her. I think she was so clear, even in the short duration or space she gets in the book. Every moment feels significant and pertinent in its way. Next, I want to ask: There's this line in your book. “So many people talking about her like a character on a TV show…” — There is, of course, the parallel of social media’s creators, but I also think of Bigg Boss here. The novel reflects on how we consume real people as fictionalised entertainment and how this intersects with surveillance and spectacle in our digital age. Do you think platforms like Bigg Boss and social media foster voyeurism that desensitises us to reality? In the past year, I’ve been very curious to explore our relationship with surveillance as a species — more in reaction to the other.
Prayaag Akbar: That’s a very interesting question. I think you’re right—it does desensitize us. In some ways, it prefigured the social media world. I was watching something recently—maybe on YouTube or in a documentary—but it reminded me of a movie from when I was in school called EdTV. It starred Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson and was directed by Ron Howard.
It came out the same year as The Truman Show, which is the more famous example. You’ve probably seen The Truman Show with Jim Carrey. Both movies are about constant surveillance of a character—one who knows about it and one who doesn’t. EdTV went under the radar because The Truman Show was so successful, but both films were interesting.
Big Boss, or Big Brother—the original UK format—was directly inspired by 1984. They were literally showing dystopia, and people watched it happily.
Simran Pavecha: Yeah. Only America or the UK could pull something like that off.
Prayaag Akbar: Exactly. And while I don’t watch much of it, these shows are deeply dystopian. They introduce characters, manipulate behavior, and create these experimental environments. It’s like rats in a lab. They control the contestants through incentives, relationships, and other factors. It’s creepy when you think about it.
It’s also performative in so many ways. Your observation is insightful—it does desensitize us. I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but the social violence inherent in those acts of constant filming is normalized.
Simran Pavecha: Also, social media.
Prayaag Akbar: Exactly. Social media operates like constant surveillance. Citywide surveillance systems are everywhere. We live under it.
You see it sometimes in videos on Instagram—college students making mistakes, being drunk, falling. Someone films it and posts it online. In the comments, you’ll often see people from my generation saying, “Thank God there were no cameras when we were in college.” It feels like a blessing in hindsight. Back then, you could do or say whatever you wanted without worrying it might end up on the internet. In some ways, that constant surveillance has positive effects—people are less openly racist or casteist—but the idea of surveillance still desensitizes us. Shows like Big Brother, Big Boss, and even social media contribute to that. When I was writing Leila, I regret cutting out a chapter about surveillance. In my early drafts, I imagined cameras on mechanical tracks zipping along rooftops. Shalini, the protagonist, knew zones where cameras didn’t work. At the time, drones weren’t part of my imagination, and social media seemed more benign. Now, it feels so pervasive.
Simran Pavecha: The interesting thing about Big Boss or Big Brother, especially in India, is that I can actually go back 15 years of Big Boss and trace how it’s become more and more about surveillance and more autocratic. If I contrast it with the rise of social media, the data industry, and creator culture, there’s so much to explore.
Prayaag Akbar: That’s an amazing idea for a book! You could map this evolution—the intersection of these platforms and their impacts.
Simran Pavecha: Haha, thank you for the validation. Could we do like a rapid-fire round, maybe?
Prayaag Akbar: Sure.
Simran Pavecha: If you could create a writing prompt for Gen Z or Gen Alpha writers tackling the chaos of 2024, what would it be?
Prayaag Akbar: It has to be about GPT. That’s been the most transformative thing in recent years. I feel like it’s shocked everyone with how quickly it’s transforming everything. At a book launch in Bangalore, I met someone who works in AI, and even he admitted the possibilities are terrifying.Apparently, the AI community is split—50% say, “Go full speed ahead,” and 50% want to slow down and put checks in place. If half the smartest people in the world are worried, we should all be worried.
Simran Pavecha: Absolutely. It feels like we haven’t had the time to process anything around it. It’s like COVID—an overwhelming change.
Prayaag Akbar: That’s a great analogy. It’s similar to nuclear weapons in the 1940s, except nuclear weapons required huge enterprises and states to build them. Now, anyone can sit at home on a laptop and potentially cause massive destruction.
Simran Pavecha: Absolutely. What’s one bad habit you believe all writers should embrace?
Prayaag Akbar: Writers are so different, and we already have so many bad habits! Can I suggest a good habit instead?
Simran Pavecha: Sure.
Prayaag Akbar: Write every day. I tell aspiring writers to treat it like any other job. If you don’t take it seriously, you won’t get anywhere. Writing requires persistence, even when you don’t believe in yourself.
I meet writers who ask if I’m working on my third book, and the truth is, I’m still figuring it out. Even established writers face that block. But the solution is simple—just sit down and work, even if most of your work remains unseen. My routine is to write first thing in the morning. I don’t even have coffee until after the house wakes up.
Simran Pavecha: Absolutely. It’s fundamental advice, but it’s also the hardest to follow. If writing is an act of faith, what rituals or freedoms do you consider essential to sustaining that faith?
Prayaag Akbar: For me, it’s about having a space. My desk is sacred. I get annoyed when my son leaves his drawings there because it’s my space. Having a dedicated spot feels crucial—it gives me mental clarity.
When I’m teaching in Chennai or Andhra Pradesh, I miss my desk and the routine of writing. It’s such a privilege to sit and write freely. You need physical space because it creates mental space.
Simran Pavecha: Last question—a yes or no. There’s a line in your book that’s my favorite: “Does the name lead our way, or do we grow into our name?” While reading, I wanted to know: Does Prayaag know the answer to that?
Prayaag Akbar: Haha, you've really read the book well! That’s the cool thing about being a writer—you can pose questions you don’t know the answers to. I haven’t figured it out, but it was something I kept thinking about while developing the character. Names are so fundamental to identity, yet they’re something we don’t earn or work towards.
Simran Pavecha: Thank you for writing this book. It’s rare for Indian fiction to attempt and succeed at weaving so many layers while leaving space for the reader’s interpretation. It’s been such a pleasure speaking with you.
Prayaag Akbar: I’m so glad we did this. It’s affirming as a writer when someone engages so deeply with your work. It makes those five years of effort feel worthwhile.
Featured image credit: Prayaag Akbar and Harper Collins India.