Cyanotype printing is one of the oldest and most accessible alternative photographic printing processes. Recognised for its deep Prussian blue tones and handcrafted workflow, cyanotype combines photography, chemistry, paper, ultraviolet light, and experimentation into a highly tactile image-making process. Botanical toning extends the process further by transforming the original blueprint into earthy browns, muted greys, sepia tones, and textured surfaces using natural ingred

Blue was only the beginning. The print still had more to reveal through water, chemistry, and time. When blue no longer felt enough Right after returning from the UK and making my first cyanotype prints in India, I was eager to explore every possible variation within the process. The blue itself fascinated me. Watching an image emerge slowly through chemistry, ultraviolet light, water, and time already felt transformative. Yet during my workshops in the UK, I also briefly enc

Before I understood cyanotype, blue was just a colour. Now, it feels like a memory slowly appearing on paper. When the photograph still felt unfinished There came a point in my photographic journey when I realized that making the image was not enough. I was developing my films, scanning them carefully, and spending time understanding the negatives. Yet, even after all of that, it felt incomplete. The photograph still existed behind a screen, distant from the physicality I had

What if the photograph isn’t the final step? And what if some images don’t end when they are taken? What if you want to feel the image- the subtle, happy feeling of holding an image? The beginning: capturing everything My journey with photography did not begin with printing. It began, as it does for many of us, with a digital camera and an eagerness to capture everything that moved me. In those early days, I photographed freely. Anything that caught my attention became a fram

Why did a place marked by destruction feel so complete? Why did what remained feel enough? I did not have an answer then; I only continued to return. Hampi was, at first, just another place with ruins and sculptures. It was a landscape of stone, history, and remnants of what once stood complete. Yet, it continued to be worshipped, lived in, and carried forward by the people who called it home. That contrast stayed with me. It made me curious. My journey with Hampi began more

I didn’t begin photography with a plan or a direction; I simply followed what felt natural, not realising I was already walking a path that was entirely my own. Before I knew what I was doing In 2011, a friend handed me her camera and encouraged me to take a few photographs. That moment stayed with me. I photographed whatever caught my attention—random scenes, passing moments, fragments of everyday life. Some images had intention, most did not. But after a few frames, I reali

What I once tried to fix in my photographs became the very reason I returned to them. When perfection defined the frame There was a time when I believed a photograph had to feel perfect and complete, balanced in composition, sharp in detail, and precise in execution. I searched for clarity in every frame, as if the purpose of photography was to arrive at something resolved, something unquestionable. I would adjust, reframe, and wait, trying to align every element, believing t

A day in Hampi doesn’t begin with the camera. It begins with awareness. I wake up before the first light hits across the boulders.

I still remember the first time I came to Hampi in December 2013. It wasn’t a planned journey. It was curiosity, more than anything else. I had a camera, but I didn’t quite know what I was looking for. I was drawn to the scale of the place, the stories everyone spoke about, the monuments that stood like markers of time. I came here as a hobbyist. I left with questions I didn’t yet understand. The stone chariot was where I stood the longest that day. Like most first-time vis

Some places ask you to come back — not for what they show, but for what you become each time you stand there again. Here are ten reasons why I return to the places I visited.

There’s a strange calm in knowing that you won’t see what you’ve made until much later. Here's my reflection on slowing down to see again — through the grain, the wait, and the wonder of film. When certainty felt too easy For more than a decade, I lived comfortably in the digital world. The precision, the immediacy, the control — they all felt empowering. Yet somewhere along the way, it became too predictable. Every photograph appeared perfect, but it lacked the quiet imperfe

Large-format photography gives you something few other formats can — complete control over perspective and focus. These camera movements aren’t just technical adjustments; they’re gestures that shape how the world translates onto film. Each movement—tilt, shift, swing, or rise/fall—carries both precision and poetry Tilt: Finding focus beyond the plane Tilt allows you to change the angle of the lens relative to the film plane. With a simple movement, you can bring both near an

Large-format photography is not just about using a bigger camera or film size — it’s about slowing down enough to truly see. It invites a kind of stillness that modern photography often rushes past. The inspirations for working in this format are not limited to technique; they emerge from the deeper relationship between the photographer, the subject, and the passing of time. Rediscovering the act of seeing With a large-format camera, seeing becomes deliberate. You compose o

Large-format photography is a journey into patience and precision. Each tool has a story — not just in how it functions, but in what it teaches. Unlike quick digital captures, every step here demands mindfulness, reminding us that photography is as much about seeing as it is about feeling. The view camera is where it all begins. Its ground glass transforms the world into an inverted canvas, revealing composition in its purest form. The film holders, carrying individual sheet

There’s something quietly magical about walking through the night with a 35mm film camera. The city slows down, lights buzz subtly, and every shadow holds a new story. Shooting film photography at night is more than a technical exercise—it’s about understanding how light behaves when the world sleeps. The beauty of 35mm film cameras The charm of 35mm film photography lies in its simplicity and spontaneity. It’s compact, accessible, and encourages you to respond instinctively

Large-format film photography has always been more than just a method of making images. It is a way of seeing, of slowing down, of giving weight to every frame. For decades, many of the greatest photographers—Ansel Adams, Edward Weston, Richard Avedon, Sally Mann, and more—turned to large-format not simply for its unmatched image quality, but for the discipline and mindfulness it demanded.

In an era where digital cameras offer lightning-fast autofocus, endless storage, and instant results, it might seem surprising that many photographers still turn to large-format film. Yet, for those who practice it, large-format photography is more than just a medium—it is an experience, a discipline, and a philosophy of seeing.

Large-format film photography is one of the purest and most rewarding ways to create images. Known for its incredible detail, tonal...

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The Rolleiflex 2.8 is one of the most iconic cameras in the history of photography. Renowned for its exceptional build quality, outstanding

In a world where everything is instant, from food delivery to digital photography, there’s something special about slowing down and savoring