DRINKING IN THE GREY

The world, to me, was always black and white. There were things that were good, and things that were bad. I had a conscience so sharply defined that even when I chose to go against it, I knew exactly which side I was stepping onto. But over time, I’ve tasted the grey. I’ve come to see that the world isn’t made of clean lines. We aren’t either.

Still, idealism lingers. It shows up quietly when I’m making decisions, when I’m forming opinions, especially about people.

Recently, during my brother’s birthday, I came across a whiskey brand called Indri. One of his friends had brought it as a gift. Later that night, I overheard them talking about how the owner of the brand is Siddharth Sharma, also known as Manu Sharma, the man who shot model Jessica Lal for refusing him a drink.

For a moment, I was confused. I knew the name. As someone who grew up on movies, my mind immediately flashed to No One Killed Jessica. I’ll admit, I’ve only recently started keeping up with current events, mostly thanks to accessible voices like Faye D’Souza. Before that, films were my moral compass. Not because I thought they were infallible, but because they were the only medium that truly held my attention long enough to make me feel something.

So I looked it up. And yes, it was him. I was shocked, not just by how easily someone like him could walk free, but by how he could, almost mockingly, start an alcohol brand. It wasn’t just the irony that bothered me, it was the casualness with which the world moved on.

A few days later, I asked my brother how he and his friends could support a brand like that. He listed awards. Said it tasted amazing. He grinned and said, "Sindhuja, don’t confuse the art and the artist."

That thought wouldn’t leave me. It settled in my chest, asking to be unpacked.

I thought about all the people I’ve quietly disliked, the ones whose talent couldn’t hide the unease they created. People who were brilliant at what they did but whose presence made me think: Why can’t you just try a little harder to be a better person?

But over time, I’ve come to realize, being better, being kinder, more self-aware, that’s not everyone’s priority. In fact, even that expectation might be a privileged thought.

Still, I can’t un-feel what I feel. I watch how these people succeed. How they’re loved, defended, celebrated. And I wonder: Is brilliance really a clean slate?

"But what about their personality?" I ask.

And again, the line: "You shouldn’t hate the man. Just the action."

But how? The man did the action. How am I supposed to look at the work and not see the person behind it?

I try to be reasonable. I remind myself: no one is perfect. We contain multitudes. The person who hurt you might be someone else’s sanctuary. Your enemy might be someone’s greatest comfort. And maybe, if we rejected every flawed creator, we’d be left with no books, no films, no stories, no progress. Just silence.

And yet, even with that knowledge, I don’t feel peace. I feel frustration. Sometimes even resentment. Not just toward the artist, but toward the people who defend them with ease. It bothers me that we’ve made peace with mediocrity of character as long as there’s excellence somewhere else.

Can art really be separated from the maker? Is it different if the work is unrelated to the wrongdoing? Why do we forgive brilliance? Does the art become part of their redemption or their erasure?

It makes me think about how we all show up in the world with some form of currency, beauty, talent, intelligence, charm. And how, often, people use that to excuse the rest. Like, “Yes, I might not be kind, but look what I can do”.

It reminds me of something from college. I was in the cafeteria, scarfing down Maggi and Coke, my only meal that day. A friend walked past, someone politically engaged and outspoken. She looked at my plate and said, "How does it feel drinking the blood of innocent children?"

I was stunned. Annoyed, honestly. That was all I had time for. And at the time, it felt absurd. If we followed that logic, most things on the menu would be off-limits.

Back then, I rolled my eyes. I thought she was overreacting. But now, standing here, equally indignant about a whiskey brand, I see what I couldn't then. Certainty always feels unreasonable when you’re not the one holding it.

And yes, I know this piece spiraled into art, morality, privilege, politics. But all of it lives under the same sky. These aren’t detours, they’re the constellation of thoughts that light up when I try to make sense of this discomfort.

So, if I had to take a position, if I had to say what I believe, it’s this:

I don’t want perfection. I don’t expect every artist, friend, or stranger to be good all the time. But I want a signal. A crack in the mask. Some evidence that they know they’re flawed, and they’re at least trying. Even if they fail.

I want there to be value in decency, not as a side note to brilliance, not as a footnote buried under applause, but as something central. Something that can’t be glossed over with awards or packaging or clever branding.

Because if we keep forgiving harm in the presence of talent, if we keep mistaking output for integrity, what are we really celebrating?

The work, or the myth? The creation, or the permission?

I don’t know where the line is. I’m still looking for it. Still tripping over it.

But I do know this: the older I get, the more I admire people who are trying to be better, not just do better. The people who show up with a bit of softness, a bit of humility, even when they have every reason not to. The ones who don’t ask to be forgiven just because they made something beautiful. The ones who don’t assume that’s enough.

And maybe the art and the artist can’t be separated.

But I still think it’s worth asking: If brilliance is all it takes, then what happens to the rest of what makes us human?