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Hindustan Times

Advait Kottary: ‘I did not want the book to sound preachy or academic'

Mumbai-based actor and author Advait Kottary talks about his novel, Siddhartha: The Boy Who Became the Buddha, which has been awarded the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar (English) 2025. Actor-turned-author Advait Kottary. What does winning the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar mean to you? Honestly, it is still sinking in. I am deeply grateful for the recognition. It is incredibly humbling to have my novel acknowledged in this way. It is a tremendous honour for me to be placed alongside some of the finest contemporary writers in the country. I knew that the book was in consideration for the award because my publishers had mentioned it a while ago. But when the news finally came through, it felt surreal. More than anything, I am glad that the story seems to have resonated with readers and critics alike. I believed in it deeply while writing it, and this recognition reaffirms that instinct. What was more challenging to write — Siddhartha as a seeker, or the Buddha as a teacher? Both were equally challenging, but in very different ways. Writing Siddhartha as a seeker meant entering that raw, questioning space — the same questions that many of us still carry. It required deep empathy to understand not just what he asked, but why. Writing the Buddha as a teacher was just as delicate. His insights are well-known, but placing them into believable, emotionally-grounded moments was difficult. I did not want the book to sound preachy or academic. Balancing the vulnerability of the seeker with the stillness of the teacher was perhaps the hardest part of the journey. What kind of research went into describing the period, setting and social structures accurately? What did you read in addition to Thich Nhat Hanh's book Old Path, White Clouds, which you have mentioned in some of your previous interviews? Old Path, White Clouds was a constant guide. It shaped not just the content but the emotional cadence of the book. Thich Nhat Hanh's writing opened a doorway for me into the world of Siddhartha, not as a distant, deified figure, but as someone deeply human and curious; someone who struggled, questioned, and ultimately transformed. Beyond that, I immersed myself in multiple layers of research. I spent hours poring over editions of The Journal of the Pali Text Society, which offered valuable insights into language, context, and interpretation. I also referred to translations of early Buddhist scriptures, especially those by Bhikkhu Bodhi and Thanissaro Bhikkhu — both of whom have done exceptional work in bringing ancient Pali texts into accessible English. Their translations of the Majjhima Nikāya and Dhammapada, among others, helped me understand the world view that Siddhartha was surrounded by, even before he became the Buddha. The research helped me anchor the story in its time, but I was mindful not to let it dominate the storytelling. The goal was always to let the imagination breathe while staying faithful to the spirit of the period. Your mother, Gajra Kottary, co-wrote the television show Buddha: Rajaon Ka Raja. Since she had already immersed herself deeply in the story of the Buddha, what advice and support did she offer while you were working on your novel? My mother's support has been invaluable, but what influenced me most wasn't just her knowledge of the subject. It was the way she approaches storytelling. She taught me how to think structurally, how to build emotional arcs, and how to let the silences in a story speak as much as the words. She gave me the freedom to find my own voice but always offered guidance when I needed it. Her faith in the power of story was something that I carried with me through every draft of the novel. How did visiting Sarnath and Bodh Gaya enrich your writing? Visiting Sarnath and Bodh Gaya brought a quiet clarity to the writing process. There is something incredibly grounding about being in the physical spaces where these moments in Siddhartha's life are believed to have unfolded. It wasn't just about historical immersion; it was about feeling the stillness that those places hold. The silence beneath the Bodhi tree, for instance, gave me a deeper understanding of the inner stillness that Siddhartha must have discovered when he sat there. Later, I also travelled to Ta Prohm and the surrounding temples in Cambodia. Though not directly linked to Siddhartha's life, those spaces had a profound effect on me. The way ancient Buddhist structures have been slowly embraced by the jungle — the stone and the roots tangled together — felt like a visual metaphor for the impermanence and interconnectedness at the heart of his teachings. There was a haunting beauty to it, a quiet reminder of how time reclaims everything, and yet somehow the essence remains. That imagery stayed with me, and I think it found its way into the emotional texture of the book. Retelling stories that involve religious figures can be tricky because there is a danger of offending people who are opposed to creative license. Knowing this, how did you proceed with the writing? Very carefully, and with deep respect. I was always aware that I was treading sacred ground. My intention was never to reinterpret the Buddha, but to humanise Siddhartha — without distorting his truth. I relied on research, empathy, and restraint. The hope was to honour the tradition while making space for imagination and emotional resonance. If there was one guiding principle, it was sincerity. In retrospect, which character in the novel were you unable to do justice to? I think that Amrapali, Bimbisara, and Ajatashatru are three characters whose stories stayed with me long after I finished writing. Amrapali, with her grace, intellect, and quiet resilience, is such a compelling figure. There is both power and pain in her journey, which I could only briefly touch on. Bimbisara and Ajatashatru, too, represent such a rich emotional arc as father and son, who were both shaped in different ways by their encounters with the Buddha. Their relationship holds so much love, ambition, betrayal, and redemption. I often felt I was just brushing the surface of their inner worlds. There is definitely a lot more to be said, and I hope I get the chance to return to them in another story someday. What are the pros and cons of using flashback as a narrative technique? Why did you use it? Flashback allowed me to explore Siddhartha's journey as a series of emotional echoes. We do not live our stories in straight lines. Memories surface in fragments, shaped by the present. The challenge was in pacing, and ensuring that readers stayed emotionally grounded. But I chose it because it mirrors how transformation often works — through revisiting the past until clarity emerges. You have acted in shows like Beecham House and Four More Shots Please. If your novel is adapted into a film or a web series, and you are allowed to audition for as many roles as you like, which character(s) would you audition for? Why? Haha, you are really putting me on the spot! Honestly, I would leave that decision to the director. I would be thrilled just to see it come to life on screen with the right ensemble. But if I were to audition, I would aim for the hardest role of all — Siddhartha. Not just because he is the lead, but because his transformation spans so many emotional textures: curiosity, confusion, courage, clarity. It would be the kind of role that changes you from the inside out, the role of a lifetime! Chintan Girish Modi is a journalist, educator and literary critic. He can be reached @chintanwriting on Instagram and X.