Kintsugi and the way I understood

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 than a decade ago. Over time, I found myself returning, not just to photograph, but to stay. To live among its people, to listen to their stories, to understand the layers that do not reveal themselves immediately. The more I walked through its temples and monuments, the more I noticed what had been lost.

Once whole structures now stood fractured, carvings were broken, and surfaces worn, and yet, there was a sense of peace within it. I often found myself wondering why.

When the image did not come out as expected

During these visits, I was working with film. There were many instances where the images did not come out the way I had intended. The exposure would be off. Light would enter the frame unexpectedly. A reading would not be accurate. The result would be an image that did not align with what I had visualized. At that time, it was easy to think of these as mistakes. I could have discarded those frames. I could have moved past them and tried again.

But I chose to keep them, not because they were technically correct, but because they carried the moment as it unfolded. They held the conditions I worked in, the decisions I made, and the unpredictability of the process.

Over time, I began to look at these images differently. What once felt like a flawed image no longer felt wrong. It began to feel complete in a different way. The light leak, the uneven exposure, the lack of clarity—they were no longer interruptions. They were part of the photograph.

Learning to stay with what remains

This understanding did not come immediately.

It came with time, with repeated attempts, with learning and unlearning. I spent years understanding the process of film, learning from those who had mastered it, refining my approach, and becoming more aware of how light behaves, how exposure responds, and how the image forms. Still, alongside that technical learning, there was another realization.

Perfection in capturing was not the only goal; understanding what the image carried became equally important.

The frames I once questioned began to hold meaning; the inconsistencies began to feel intentional, even when they were not; I was no longer trying to remove these elements but was learning to see them.

Discovering Kintsugi

It was much later that I came across the idea of Kintsugi.

Kintsugi is the practice of repairing broken pottery by highlighting its cracks, not hiding them. The break is not erased. It is acknowledged, made visible, and accepted as part of the object’s history. When I read about it, it felt familiar. It did not feel like a concept I needed to learn. It felt like a way of understanding what I had already been experiencing.

Recognizing it in Hampi and in my work

In Hampi, the ruins do not attempt to return to what they once were. They remain as they are, broken, weathered, incomplete, and yet, they are not lacking. They carry their history in their form. The fractures do not take away from their presence. If anything, they define it.

I began to see my photographs in the same way. The frames that carried imperfections were not incomplete. They were shaped by what they had gone through. The process, the errors, the unpredictability- none of it needed to be removed. It needed to be understood.

Also read: Ouibaitori and the way I grew

A connection that stayed

Over time, my relationship with Hampi changed. It was no longer just a place I visited. It became a space I connected with- through its people, its landscape, its history, and my own experience of photographing within it, and with that, my relationship with photography also changed.

I began to accept that not every image needs to be perfect. Not every frame needs to be corrected, not every result needs to match the intention exactly but there is value in what remains, and there is meaning in what does not resolve itself fully.

A continuing understanding

When I look back now, I see that both Hampi and my photographs were teaching me the same thing. That completeness does not always come from perfection. That which appears broken does not lose its value. That which remains carries its own form of meaning.

Kintsugi, to me, is not about repair; it is about acceptance. It is about allowing the image, and the place, to remain as they are, shaped by time, experience, and what they have endured, and in that, I found a way of seeing that feels true to me.

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