A Strange Art Critic in Noida who ate chupa chups lollipop

and the art of nothingness

Before I start this article I’ll recommend you to take your headphones out and listen this track while reading this.

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I had stepped out in Noida to buy lollipops. Readers might wonder why a grown-up man would crave lollipops. Because sometimes, out of boredom, one feels like eating random things. It doesn’t mean anything, but it holds some strange promise of taking you to some memory of the past. Like how Proust ate madeleine, which is nothing but a Parle-G biscuit dipped in tea in the Indian context.

But anyway, there is something about the day after Holi. The silence is eerie, as if the world has just emerged from an apocalypse it wasn’t prepared for. The streets, usually loud and restless, are now unnaturally still. You walk past shredded packets of color packets, lying around as if stray dogs had their way with them—torn, licked, discarded. By evening, someone from your society will have to clean it up, a quiet reminder that in the world’s cheapest labor market, even the aftermath of joy is someone’s job.

Most people are in recovery mode—deep asleep, battling hangovers, or trying to piece together memories blurred by bhang. Some had near-death experiences but will laugh about it later. It’s one of those rare days when the loudest sounds come from birds, not honking cars. The roads feel robbed of their usual nuisance. It’s as if that one guy in your classroom, the one who never shuts up, suddenly woke up sad.

Somewhere in this mundanity, an unexpected interaction unfolded, the kind that feels as if someone sprinkled schezwan on flavorless food.

I was getting a picture clicked. The idea was that I’d click myself enjoying a Chupa Chups lollipop. Out of nowhere, a man came on a bike, like a philosopher who had taken a wrong turn into a boxing ring. He scanned the frame with the critical eye of a washed-up film critic and delivered his verdict without hesitation: “Bahut hi bekaar photo aane wali hai.” ("This is going to be a really bad photo.")

I was surprised by the sheer confidence of this guy. He took one look at the camera angle and knew something was off. No hesitation, no sugarcoating. Just saying it as it is. He wasn’t even smug. or even prick. He just wanted to share what he knew by instincts.

Especially in these times, when criticism has turned into a soft, decorative thing. Reviews are no longer about insight or honesty; they are careful, almost rehearsed, crafted not to challenge but to please. The real aim is not to evaluate but to be reshared, retweeted, or, if the gods are kind, featured in a collaborative post with the artist or filmmaker. The success of a review is no longer measured by its sharpness or depth but by whether the artist or filmmaker being reviewed acknowledges it—especially on their Instagram story with a folded-hands emoji, or, if they are extra pleased, with the eyes with love emoji.

The other day, I came across a young critic who got emotional because a filmmaker read their review and liked it. This was framed as a moment of triumph, a sign that the review had done its job. Not by being sharp or revelatory, but by reaching the artist in a way that pleased them. Once, critics wrote to unsettle, to provoke, even to annoy. Now, they write in the hope of a kind reply. The godi-mediafication of criticism has made culture meek and painfully shallow. Nobody wants to be the person who says the emperor has no clothes. Instead, they want the emperor to tag them in a post saying, "Thank you for this wonderful review!"

But this guy I randomly met had no such qualms. He was a man with little tolerance for nonsense. When he saw something that didn’t align with artistic principles, he simply said it. No performance of "Excuse me" or "I hope you don’t mind"—just a blunt, unaffected truth, delivered with such sincerity that you had no choice but to listen.

He was a stranger, and I had no reason to listen to him. But there was something about him—an effortless certainty, a presence that demanded attention. And so, naturally, I invited him into the frame.

He did not hesitate. He stormed in, taking his place with the practiced ease of someone who had been waiting his whole life for this invitation. His attitude oozed out like cheese from an overstuffed Domino’s cheese burst pizza.

The man entered the scene out of nowhere and, in doing so, gave us a photograph that carried an aura. A story built around it before it even existed. A random photography critic who, in a poetic twist, became the subject of photography.

There was something about the randomness of it all, an absurd energy so full of thrill that it momentarily erased the city’s doomsday fatigue.

A Twitter reply just reminded me that Salvador Dalí designed the branding for Chupa Chups. Now it makes sense why this experience felt so surreal.

Perhaps the best art lies in accidents and randomness. I remember avant-garde artist John Cage’s poem:

“I have nothing to say
and I am saying it
and that is poetry
as I need it.”

― John Cage”