Nikheel Aphale’s calligraphic practice reimagines the Devanagari script as a dynamic visual language, blending memory, spirituality, and abstraction to expand its place in contemporary art.
There is often a point in Nikheel Aphale’s calligraphic compositions when the letterforms transcend their shape. They no longer embody the sound of a letter, but take on a larger meaning: they represent memories of the Chowpatty seafront during Ganesh visarjan, the press of a sindoor-smeared thumb on a deity, the buzz of graffiti in a Mumbai chawl. In Aphale’s hands, the Devanagari script becomes more than a system of writing; it becomes a system of documenting life.
Born in Mumbai in 1979, Aphale trained in applied arts at the LS Raheja School of Arts before completing a postgraduate degree in graphic design at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad — an academic foundation that sits at the crossroads of tradition and visual thinking. The result is an artist unusually fluent in both the grammar of design and the devotion of a craftsman: he works with reed pens and ruling pens, but also with toothbrushes, coconut husk, and discarded bank cards, coaxing the unexpected out of the familiar.
His practice occupies a cultural space that is, remarkably, still underexplored. While Arabic, Japanese, and Chinese calligraphy enjoy sustained global visibility and institutional prestige, the Devanagari script — used for Sanskrit, Hindi, Marathi, Nepali, and beyond — has rarely been elevated to fine-art status in its own right. Aphale has made this his animating purpose: not to archive a tradition, but to argue for it as a living, contemporary visual language with global reach. His works are in the permanent collection of India’s new Parliament Building and have been shown at the World Calligraphy Biennale in South Korea and at international exhibitions from Taipei to Belgium.
His 'Aksharscape' series reconceives letters as emotional terrain — landscapes of memory, spirituality, and myth. A piece like Liberation sets fluid, swaying lettering against rigid block script to enact, visually, the very idea of breaking free. The Pavamana mantra becomes a meditation on transformation: irregular marks slowly resolving into clarity, enacting the ancient journey from darkness to light. In conversation with Homegrown on the occasion of World Art Day, the artist spoke about the pleasure of watching meaning dissolve into image and then, unexpectedly, reconstitute itself and creating work that is simultaneously legible and abstract, local and universal, at once ancient and entirely in the now:
Your work often moves between legibility and abstraction, where the shapes of letters take on new meanings that are more than the letter represents. At what point in your process does language stop “meaning” and begin simply “being”? Is there ever a tension between semantic clarity and visual freedom?
The decision to work with either literal letterforms or abstract forms is made during the early stages of my process — conceptualising, sketching, and planning — before working on the final piece. However, the subject ultimately dictates the approach. Whether to shape them as meaningful, literal, legible marks or to completely let go of their identity depends on the idea and subject I work on.
In ‘Liberation’, I use conventional-style lettering with fluid strokes in the word ‘Niramaya’, swaying against the block lettering of the mantra at the bottom, depicting liberation from rigidity and obstruction.
The global contemporary art scene is still dominated by Latin typographic traditions. What does it mean for you to work with Devanagari as a primary visual language? Do you see your practice as archival, political, or something else? What happens when a viewer cannot read Devanagari at all?
Growing up in Mumbai, and with Devanagari being the script of my mother tongue, Marathi, I have been deeply connected to its sounds and visual forms since childhood. For me, it is not just a script; it represents my cultural identity. When I decided to pursue calligraphy as an art practice, I realised that there is already a great deal of awareness and admiration for Arabic, Japanese, and Chinese calligraphy, while Devanagari (more broadly, Indian scripts) remain under-represented in this discourse. Despite its rich historical reverence, it has rarely been cultivated as a fine art form. This has driven me to explore Devanagari as a contemporary art form, aiming to highlight its global potential. It fuelled my dedication to crafting a visual language that bridges both its traditional roots and contemporary relevance.
Viewers who cannot read Devanagari perceive it purely as a graphic or visual form. They engage with it as abstract work, responding to its gestures, rhythm, and movement rather than its literal meaning. This is like how we look at an unfamiliar script and appreciate the beauty of form, the flow of strokes, the rhythm of the composition, and, most importantly, the feeling the work evokes. It is interesting to witness the varied interpretations that emerge from such encounters.
Devanagari carries layered cultural and political histories in India. How conscious are you of these associations in your practice, and do they shape your engagement with the script?
Human faith, human existence, and universal welfare are the underlying themes of my work. Memories, stories and the reflections associated with these themes, etched in my mind over the years, often find their way into my work.
My visual narratives draw from a wide range of experiences, from mythological stories like Hanuman leaping toward the sun or Ganesha’s parikrama around his parents, to the spirit of interdependence in my neighbourhood chawl, and the sense of community during picnics in Delhi’s parks. I also reimagine ideas of spiritual growth, prosperity, and the freedom of all beings, while discovering metaphors of togetherness in everyday life — wedding processions, scaffolding, bouquets, or orchestras. Through all of this, the various physical and grammatical aspects of the Devanagari script serve as a vehicle carrying these stories forward.
Spirituality recurs in how your work is framed. For you, is it an experiential process, a conceptual framework, or something else entirely? How do you think about structure — stroke, rhythm, density, negative space — when composing a piece?
My work is always driven by the concept, stories and experiences I have lived through. The forms and legibility of the letters, rigidity or delicacy of the strokes, and use of white space, everything revolves around the subject and emotion I wish to express.
For example, to showcase divinity like Ganesha, I drew from a childhood memory of visiting Chowpatty during the visarjan (immersion) ceremony. To convey this experience, I chose a horizontal format to evoke the sea’s vastness. The aarti takes the form of waves, while the names of Ganesha, rendered in bold brush lettering, suggest the scale of the idols. In another work, a mantra is written directly with a finger, inspired by devotees imprinting their tilak-smeared fingers on temple walls. This intimate gesture deeply etched my memory and evolved into a unique visual language. In the artwork based on the Pavamana mantra, the transformation of irregular marks into clear writing symbolises a journey, from ignorance to knowledge, darkness to light, and mortality to immortality.
In my process, I draw letters by modulating their anatomy through distortion, fragmentation, and deconstruction, translating them into gestural marks that prioritise expression over legibility. I primarily work with ink and paper, yet my tools, reed pens, ruling pen, brushes, along with objects like toothbrushes, scrubbers, coconut husk, or even discarded bank cards, become extensions of gesture. The creative process involves balancing stability, ink viscosity, and surface texture while embracing the unpredictability, risks, and happy accidents that make each creation a spiritual experience.
Calligraphy today exists across fine art, design, branding, and digital culture. Where do you locate your practice within a broader history of image-making — whether in Indian modernism, global calligraphic traditions, or even painting?
I believe calligraphy (or script) has great potential to traverse the vast landscape of traditional and contemporary art, as well as graphic design and other media. I don’t want to restrict my practice within a fixed framework. I am keen to explore my work across different mediums, dimensions, and disciplines, including collaborations with other professionals and art practitioners. As an artist, I am interested in blurring the boundaries between art, design, craft, tradition, and technology through my calligraphic art. Translating one’s work into completely unfamiliar territories is challenging. It requires stepping out of comfort zones, but that is precisely how both the artist and their work grow and evolve.
With the proliferation of the internet in virtually all aspects of art-making, from production to presentation, how do you feel about posting your work on social media, where it is detached from its material scale and texture? How do you think digital platforms shape the way your work is seen and understood by the public?
Social media has both pros and cons. It depends on how you choose to use this medium. When you post artwork on social media, viewing or experiencing it in a restricted size on an equally small device can be challenging. One doesn’t get a true sense of scale or surface, and the work’s textures and finer details often go unnoticed. Because of algorithms and the excess of visual clutter, it’s hard to know how much attention your work actually receives. It can never match the experience of viewing art in a physical gallery. However, through process videos, glimpses of my tools and materials, exhibition coverage, and BTS moments, viewers can get a window into my artistic journey. It’s a wonderful way to engage the audience and raise awareness of my art practice.
The internet’s reach and accessibility are major advantages. My work can be viewed by a wider audience worldwide. People can connect with me, engage in conversations, and sometimes it even leads to business opportunities.
Nikheel Aphale is represented by Artisera. Explore his work here.
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