If you go looking for history in Mohenjo Daro you might just find little specks of it and t: in the set of the city, perhaps; in the way it appears to have been laid out and planned.

You won’t find the past staring back at you in the song-and-dance either – a curious mix of whirling dervishes and belly dancing.

You certainly won’t find history in the weird headgear or the strappy Greek sandals or the elegant cotton-handloom-khadi weaves, the open stitching and indigo-dyed fabric worn by the Mohenjo Daro inhabitants that could well inspire FabIndia to launch a brand new range.

Gowariker puts in all the hard work and sincerity in the canvas and the mounting, in the seals and the statues but refuses to take the necessary leap of imagination to give us something fresh, something worth taking note of.

Mohenjo Daro is a case of seen it all, many a times before.

He wants to travel to Mohenjo Daro but the uncle won’t let him.

Cut through the claptrap and you find Gowariker desperately trying to attempt a political allegory.

Gowariker’s primal call is for a culture of protest and for the might of one to take on the whole rotten system.