‘I wish to speak today of a quality in art that was once inherent to it but about which now a sepulchral silence prevails. Today the world has turned its face away from that virtue in art, the virtue of beauty which is or ought to be the soul of painting. Beauty in art is refinement, compositional unity, rhythm. The root question an artist must ask himself is what is it that art, my art, must give the viewer? For the last fifty-five years we have been running amok like wild horses reined in by neither thought nor skill. I believe it is called multiculturalism. We have been trying to liberate ourselves from the true responsibility of the artist by raising slogans of freedom of expression. Artists, critics, collectors, art merchants are all complicit in this plot. That is why the vital link between art and the lay people sitting before us today has snapped. We are hacking away brutally at our old, integrated, harmonious cultural dialogue. The first to bring the axe down on our art traditions were those artists of the fifties who went by the name of the Progressive Group and looked to the West for scraps of praise. They were responsible for infecting our art with mange. We see the litter of that diseased generation all around us today. The worm has eaten into the very heart of who we are. These people have trampled over the glorious legacy of Raja Ravi Varma, the true father of Indian modern art. Please note, I did not say “modern art in India”. I said “Indian modern art”. He was wise enough to adopt the techniques and materials of Western painting and use them to produce art that sprang from and nourished our emotions, sentiments, culture. But that great artist has been flung on to the scrap heap today. Why? Because he painted for the people—people like you. Because he was popular.

‘Have those who fly the flag of modernity ever given serious thought to the word “beauty”? Modernity cannot emerge as a healthy movement if it rejects tradition outright. Real modernity lies in making art that advances and enriches our tradition. A painting should possess the lustre and delicate scent of flowers; it should sing with the ache of a musical phrase; it should have the simplicity of women's songs and the vivid colour of the rangoli patterns they make in their courtyards. Such a painting and only such a painting can serve the ultimate purpose of art. That purpose is to give the viewer the experience of sublime beauty. These are my thoughts on art and this the purpose of my art.’

Sadashiv Bapat's light-skinned face, red when he started, has simmered down to shades of pink. He casts a glance of intense pride at his acolytes in the audience. He raises his hand to acknowledge the applause, flicks up the back of his kurta and sits down spaciously in his chair.