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

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