At Ideeria, when we begin designing a concept, whether for a story, series,  short, or a campaign – partnered or original, it never starts with just content. It usually begins with a deeper intent: a purpose we feel deserves space on screen.

Because for us, content is not merely something to watch. It must have a reason to exist.

One of the earliest projects we designed was The Kathe Project. At first glance, it may have appeared to be a storytelling platform where popular faces came in and narrated stories. But its purpose was much deeper than that.

The idea was to revive something many households once naturally had, those evening conversations that unfolded when electricity went off, when rain fell heavily outside, or after dinner when families sat together and spoke without distraction. These were never written in books. They were never archived in newspapers. They survived only because someone in the family remembered them and passed them on.

A grandmother recalls how she lost the only photograph of her mother, a memory that she still carries with regret. A family remembering the day they unexpectedly encountered a snake during Ganesh Chaturthi celebrations. A quiet household object holding a story that only the people inside that house understand.

These are the kinds of stories that quietly shape memory, yet often remain undocumented.

Over time, however, these conversations began disappearing. Social media slowly occupied the space where families once exchanged memories. Evenings that once belonged to storytelling became moments where everyone sat together, but inside separate screens. That absence stayed with us.

The question became simple: Do we still make time to listen to the stories? That became the foundation of The Kathe Project.

Every evening at 7:30 PM, for thirty consecutive days, a new story was released, one episode each day, narrated by a different voice. The idea was to create a ritual: at one fixed time every evening, people would pause and listen.

The Kathe Project also received strong audience attention because some of the narrators brought their own emotional weight to the format.

Popular Kannada Actor Ramesh Aravind narrated a story about turtles and what observing them had taught him. Prakash Raj spoke about a friend’s suicide and the guilt he still carried, the feeling that perhaps he was unavailable when his friend needed him most.

Parallel to the series, we also opened a space for people to send their own stories. What arrived was unexpectedly moving.

Some wrote about briefly seeing Dr Rajkumar during a film release and holding onto that moment for years. Others recalled their first day at school, exam-day rituals, or little superstitions they still believed in.

Many stories were simple. But that simplicity became the greatest success of the project.

The next project, 14 Days of Love, carried a similar emotional core, but through a different format. Its inspiration came from Beladingala Baale, directed by Sunil Kumar Desai, where Anant Nag’s character builds a connection through phone conversations, while the woman on the other end remains unseen for most of the narrative.

So we built a fourteen-episode series around that thought.

For thirteen days, thirteen individuals used that space to express something they had long carried within them: admiration for a teacher, affection for an office crush, gratitude toward a mother, feelings they had never spoken aloud over a phone call

And then came the fourteenth day. For the final episode, Suman Nagarkar, who had played the female lead in Beladingala Baale, called Director Sunil Kumar Desai after many years. That conversation became the emotional closure of the series. 

The same purpose-driven thinking shaped our short films, too.

One of them, Break the Stereotype: Include, looked at how inclusion often remains verbal, but not cultural. We frequently speak about the acceptance of transgender identities in society. But how often does that acceptance enter everyday rituals?

The film used the visual of Bhagina—the traditional exchange of offerings among women during festivals as its emotional centre. The thought was simple: if rituals define belonging, why should transgender women remain outside them?

For this, we consciously chose a real voice instead of fictional casting. Kajol, recognised as one of the first transgender radio jockeys from coastal Karnataka, played the role alongside Sudharani, a famous Kannada Actress, who offers her Bhagina in the film.

That one gesture became the story.

Another short, Break the Stereotype: Move, starring Bhoomi Shetty, a famous Big Boss contestant and actress,  explored something many women experience without naming it.

The film opens during a Ganesha festival street procession, where loud festival drums fill the road. A young boy, casually dressed in a baniyan, immediately runs outside and joins the dancing without thought. Beside him, the female protagonist pauses in front of a mirror. She adjusts her dupatta. That pause becomes the story.

Because often, before stepping outside, women carry an invisible checklist—appearance, posture, expectation, judgment. A man often walks out without thinking. A woman frequently pauses.

That single second contains years of social conditioning. The film was built around that moment.

For a movie promotional campaign connected to the film Turthu Nirgamana, we wanted the communication format itself to feel unexpected. So we collaborated with Puppetree, a troupe skilled in marionette puppetry.

Instead of conventional campaign storytelling, we developed a ten-episode format, Vikram Vedha where puppets spoke about larger social themes, education, careers, food systems, public safety, dreams, and everyday anxieties. The intention was not only what was being said, but how differently it could appear on screen.

One of the most interesting original character journeys happened through Uncle Vishwanth and, later, the manager. What began casually with a Snapchat filter featuring an inspector cap and moustache slowly evolved into a recognisable digital character. Uncle Vishwanth spoke like someone every Kannada household already knew: a middle-class man casually commenting on everyday life, speaking about Missus, Appi, neighbours, politics, cinema, and social behaviour, while invisible characters around him became equally memorable in the audience’s imagination. 

The humour felt effortless, but beneath it was always a layer of social commentary. Later, during lockdown, that same storytelling grammar evolved into Manager—a more urban, corporate version shaped by office culture, invisible colleagues, and workplace humour. Both characters proved that sometimes a simple face, a voice, and an honest observation of daily life are enough to build an entire world that people return to week after week.

Across projects like The Kathe Project, 14 Days of Love, short films, or social commentary formats like Vikram Vedha, Uncle and Manager, the intention has remained consistent.

The idea must begin with something meaningful and hold a strong purpose. Because originality, for us, is not about doing something unusual. It is about asking: What deserves to be remembered, discussed, or felt again?

And once that answer becomes clear, the concept begins finding its own form.