The exhibition begins in total darkness, so deep that visitors are asked to wait at the entrance until their eyes adjust. As the gloom begins to lift, images appear on screens that seem to hover in the dark: a peacock drying its feathers, dried flowers in a wooden bowl, sunlight rippling on water. As the room becomes visible enough to sit, visitors notice that these images are paired with short texts that read like parables—stories about a landlord punished for breaking a promise, or two friends who survive a massacre because they were arguing by a river. This is the world of Amar Kanwar, an Indian artist and filmmaker whose work explores themes of history, memory, and the hidden corners of human experience. Over four decades, Kanwar has created films that do not simply depict the violence of history, nor do they ignore it. Instead, he focuses on the parts of stories that are often overlooked: the shadows, the neglected, the blind spots. One of the central pieces in the exhibition is Such a Morning, a film that plays in an enclosed space within the old gunpowder store that hosts the exhibition. The film follows a mathematics professor who retreats into an artificial darkness in an attempt to find a new understanding of the world. Through poetic imagery—like a woman sitting in a rattan chair with an old rifle as her home is being taken apart—combined with layered text and a meditative piano score, the film creates a mood of tension and possibility. Kanwar’s work often demands patience, and Such a Morning is no exception. It challenges viewers to sit with the ambiguity, much like the professor who is searching in the dark. Yet, Kanwar suggests that this kind of reflection is vital in a world overwhelmed by images and opinions that often masquerade as truth. The film proposes that, in a time that feels like a new dark age, we may have been blinded by the lights of our own assumptions. The film’s concept of darkness is physically represented by illuminated paper screens that protrude from the walls like torches, guiding visitors through the dim space to the final piece in the exhibition. This is The Charcoal Man, a film that explores the 1947 partition of India, a time of mass migration and violence. Kanwar tells the story not from the perspective of major historical figures, but from people who might seem unimportant—like a window maker or a boy dreaming of becoming a drummer. The film explores the tension between forgetting and remembering, and suggests that both might be necessary for healing. In one scene, a father teaches his son to extract gold from old computer parts, creating a bracelet that could be sold in an emergency. This is a metaphor for how memories of the past can be transformed into something practical for the future. The film also follows a narrator who inherits a collection of photographs from his grandfather, a photographer who documented the violence of the partition. The bequest comes with a strange condition: the photos must be preserved but never displayed. This idea reflects Kanwar’s belief in the power of storytelling to preserve the past without rekindling the pain. These are the kinds of stories Kanwar tells—ones that keep the darkness of history alive, not to repeat the violence, but to remind us of what we must learn from it. In this way, art becomes a kind of alchemy, transforming memory into insight, and darkness into understanding.