Haridas has no home town either. He claims every place in every part of the world is his home.

He lives in a small, tiled cottage in one of Mumbai's old wadis, but he drives a red Mercedes. These days the driver's side of the car bears a painted elephant, the outcome of a recent dream he had in which he saw himself riding into a jungle on an elephant, wearing a gold-bordered turban.

We are sitting in an exclusive restaurant in South Mumbai. This too would appear to be Haridas's home. He knows all the waiters by name, and everything he does brings smiles of appreciation to their faces. For example they smile appreciatively at his clothes today. He is wearing a Bengali dhoti and a voluminous embroidered jhabba, about whose virtues he volunteers the following information: ‘It allows the air to circulate freely and me to look elegant at the same time. We must do such things for the media, mustn’t we, or what would they write about?’ The joy he takes in mocking the media is boundless. Unfortunately, his sartorial choices are not the purpose of this article. His work in the camp at Goa is.

‘I have heard that the host of an art camp has the first right over the works produced there. I have also heard that, of the ten works produced at the camp, your piece was the only one that Shirish Sethi did not offer to keep. What, in your opinion, might have been his reason?’

Haridas's answer is to draw the said work from his large designer sling bag and lay it on the table. It is an elaborately decorated bulb horn of the type trucks are fitted with. ‘It works,’ he says and squeezes it. People at the other tables look startled. The waiters snigger. Haridas's face is wreathed in the contented smile of one who has broken an unwritten rule of exclusive restaurants. It becomes apparent that he is not only a visual artist, but a performing artist as well. Being the centre of attention appears to be high on his agenda of things to do. He looks with quizzical absorption now at the object of his creation and asks himself, ‘Why did Sethi not like this? Could it be because he has not evolved fully as a connoisseur of art?’

At first sight the thing under discussion, painted with loud-coloured creepers, flowers and an inscription, strikes one as pure kitsch. This raises a question. ‘Could you explain why this object should be called a work of art at all? Is it a work of art only because you—a reputed artist—have made it? Or do you claim it possesses qualities that set it apart from truck horns?’

‘Why should my work be expected to look or be any different from the regular truck painter's work?’ Haridas asks. ‘I would suggest the contrary. Why can his work not be called a work of art?’