The impulse to leave a mark on a wall is among the oldest human instincts, one that precedes literature and outlasts most institutions. From the prehistoric Bhimbetka cave paintings to the frescoes of the Byzantine and Renaissance worlds, walls hold more than structures; they carry records of what was written and what was concealed. It is this layered quality of the wall that Vadodara-based artist Subhakar Tadi has spent more than two decades working with and through. Born in Andhra Pradesh and trained as a printmaker, Tadi brings to painting a printmaker's awareness of the surface, of the way an image is built in layers. In his works, the histories he draws on are more recent - the Berlin Wall covered in testimonies, the Israeli West Bank barrier layered with murals, the US-Mexico border that has drawn artists, migrants, and cameras in equal measure. Each of these walls bears its own record of institutional power. Tadi transposes this sensibility onto the canvas itself. For him, the painting is what becomes the wall.The large-scale oil paintings that form the core of this exhibition are, at first encounter, disarmingly beautiful, underneath which a second register emerges - graffiti spread across these surfaces drawing on the traditions of artists like Banksy and Basquiat, who understood that to mark a public surface is already a political act. The landscape, as Tadi puts it, "is not the subject, it is the playground." What the works quietly unearth is how thoroughly we have trained ourselves to understand violence only in its most distant forms. How the news of elsewhere remains, elsewhere, while the ambient violences of our daily arrangements go unnamed and unremarked. His paintings also address the drift from citizen to subject, from a collective that thinks to a crowd that is thought for, our senses quietly rewritten by forces invested in keeping them legible and manageable. There is nothing easy about Subhakar Tadi's work, and nothing reckless about it either. He is not interested in the visceral jolt nor is he content with the posture of the pacifist. What he is after is something more cerebral. The city's walls are where power writes its version of events. His paintings are where that version is held up, examined, and for the first time, perhaps, actually read.