What does an artist look like after the bright stage lights fade? What melody plays inside their mind once the massive shouts fall silent? And when a celebrated singer-someone who can make thousands sway and dance to his voice-stands alone in front of a mirror, what kind of person does he see staring back?
These questions lingered in the air as we spoke with Prakash Saput, the first guest of the second season of Nepalkhabar’s show Let’s Talk. He was smiling, but beneath that smile was a man who has spent years living with a strange anxiety and restlessness. It felt as though his smile was merely a beautiful cover, behind which a creator was still playing hide and seek with his own identity.
“I never look happy; perhaps I don’t even know how to be happy,” Prakash said with unusual seriousness. “Maybe an artist’s way of living is to survive as someone else. My own life has always felt a little burdened, a little painful. That’s why sometimes I live as the singer of Sakambari, and sometimes as the fighter from Pir. Living as myself feels a bit heavy.”
Rather than carrying his true identity, perhaps disappearing into the roles of others feels safer to him. Many people see Prakash only at the peak of his success, but the foundation of his life is rooted in hardship and discrimination. That is why he still considers himself a man of the ground.
Years ago, in an interview with Nabin Pyasi for Naya Patrika, he had said, “People may think I rose from the ground, but that’s not true. I rose from a pit beneath the ground. I don’t feel proud simply because I am now visible to everyone. One day, I will inevitably fall from this height. But what comforts me is that if I fall, I will only fall to the ground, not back into that pit.”
By the time he attained the success of the film Purnabahadurko Sarangi, Prakash had witnessed a vast sky of achievement. But when his own film Basanta, which he wrote, directed, and starred in, failed at the box office, he also came face to face with the sobering reality. Many claimed that the upward trajectory of his career had stalled and that a downward journey had begun.
Yet even then, he balanced himself.
“I am someone who climbed up from beneath the ground, from a pit,” he said. “That’s why I don’t fear falling from heights. Even if I fall, I will land on the ground-I won’t return to that pit.”
Still, the failure pushed him into an emotionally difficult state.
“I wasn’t just shaken - I was completely lost,” Prakash recalled. “I couldn’t distinguish between what was right and what was wrong. I cried a lot during that time. More than the film failing, what hurt me most was the thought that many people suffered because of one person’s stubbornness. The producer lost money, distributors were disappointed. When the writer, maker, and director all fail within the same emotional investment, it becomes very difficult. I developed a kind of anxiety.”
For Prakash, that period was not simply about a failed film - it was a painful blow to his own overconfidence.
“I was doing well in music videos. People told me I was great at storytelling, and perhaps I became carried away by that praise,” he reflected honestly. “Cinema is a completely different medium. It became an expensive lesson for me. I learned filmmaking by making a film. It cost millions. I didn’t receive a certificate, but I gained experience.”
When Prakash was named the second male candidate under the Dalit cluster for Rastriya Swatantra Party (RSP)—a move backed by Balen Shah’s team—social media exploded with questions. Some criticized him, saying an artist of his stature should have contested directly. Others labeled him an opportunist. Even after he failed to become a proportional representation MP and returned to the arts, many still continue to call him the same.
But Prakash neither wears that label as an ornament nor treats it as an insult.
“Recognizing and embracing opportunities is simply practical,” he said. “I have always stood beside issues and causes. If I had made no contribution to politics or social matters, perhaps calling me an opportunist would make sense.”
Even though his name did not make it into the final proportional representation list, he carries no resentment.
“I always used to say-I am someone who has always been left behind, and I no longer wanted to be left behind,” he said. “But this time, I became part of a wave of change that began in this country. So even though I did not become an MP, I still say this: this time, I was not left behind.”
Prakash is an admirer of both Balen Shah and Rabi Lamichhane. He also recalled meeting Balen.
“After my name appeared on the proportional list, I met Balen-ji. From that moment, I was deeply impressed by his honesty and sharp mind,” he said. “He is incredibly smart and aware. He can trust people easily and delegate work, but he immediately senses if someone has bad intentions. I don’t believe he would use state power for personal gain. His simplicity and clear vision are his greatest strengths.”
Interestingly, Prakash seems less concerned about not becoming an MP than he is about what he calls the ‘virus’ of excessive certainty in society.
“The biggest virus today is the belief that ‘I know everything, and only what I say is right,’” he said. “This mindset has prevented society from moving forward.”
This Friday, Prakash returns to theaters through Paralko Aago, a film version of Guruprasad Mainali’s renowned literary work. In the film, he plays the character Chhame-a man quick to anger, quick to flare up, and equally quick to calm down.
“This time, I truly feel like an actor,” he said, “because I am living as a character completely different from myself and deeply unique. Also, my anger is like a fire in dry straw-it ignites and disappears quickly. I am not someone who stores anger inside.”
When reflecting on his struggles, he never forgets his days performing in the Dohori Sanjhs. Whether it was working as a laborer for two months in a Dohori venue in Dubai or enduring hardship in the streets of Kathmandu, he has woven those experiences into his creative work.
He still feels hurt that the state has not created an environment where writing his surname ‘Bishwakarma’ is a matter of pride. Yet he does not shy away from speaking about identity and social issues.
“When it comes to issues and causes, I still stand firmly with my community and identity,” he said.
Critics often accuse Prakash of “commercializing discrimination.” But he rejects that allegation.
For him, discrimination is not a commodity to sell; it is a painful inheritance carried across generations.
“My intention is not to divide society,” he said. “My intention is to hold up a mirror.”
In the new Let’s Talk segment, we asked Prakash, “At this very moment, if both Balen and Rabi invited you to join separate campaigns, whose flag would you carry?”
Prakash paused for a moment and answered thoughtfully.
“I am not someone who runs behind a flag simply because someone asks me to,” he said. “I have my own understanding. First, I would look at the mandate-what is the purpose? Most importantly, what is the person’s intention? Only after understanding these things would I decide whom to support.”
He clarified further, “Even if it were my own father, I would first examine his intentions. Right now, I am focused on my artistic work. But if there comes a time when I need to stand up for the country or society, I will always be ready. My support will never depend on a person’s name-it will depend only on their work and intentions.”
And finally, he said, “Let us not imagine the two of them separating. For the sake of the country, Balen and Rabi should not split.”
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