Howrah Express

A short memoir of childhood journeys in the Howrah Express from Ahmedabad to Calcutta.

A + C in Jaisalmer

A most exciting time in the golden desert sands of the Thar desert with these two people who are so-much-in-love – would be any photographer’s dream. Their chemistry brings alive every single picture and makes me so glad that I got to photograph them in such a gorgeous location. We spent three happy days in…


February was like bittersweet chocolate. And I love that kind. I do. It took me, very briefly, to Serampore, and it made me realize, how much I want to spend months in Calcutta and its suburbs, not necessarily photographing its streets, people, food, and leftover colonial architecture, but absorbing the smells, sights, and sounds, the…

Remnants of a Winter

When it was all blue, one brought in some warmth with a bright red lipstick, and some Bombay Sapphire.


“O DastaaƱgo, aik panna aur kholo, aur kaho…” And we all saw, more than 1500 of us, how a relationship so fragile, so precious, so battered by an unforgettable sense of wrong, as that between Draupadi and Yudhishtira, was revived by a simple act of friendship. An eponymous long poem by Pavan K Verma, adapted…

To My Father

It has only been a year, I know, but it feels like twenty. It feels like you haven’t been around for a long, long time. I just know that I must, call those who will come, and celebrate. Laugh, talk, fuss over my guests, have a little cake, dance a bit, give thanks. (I know,…

Imaginary Home

There are imaginary homes I made In a life Semi-charmed Love Was one of them; You, another.


Do you see them, in hundreds? Dancing to the river’s music The breeze carried. Do you see the forevers etched in their veins? To be dead tomorrow.

Mr Natwarlal

An AMTS bus playing Bollywood hits from 1990s. A philosophy-spouting bus-driver, and a Shakespeare-and-Girish Karnad-quoting bus-conductor, named Mr. Natwarlal. 7:50 pm. November 23, 2015. Ahmedabad. For nearly the entire duration of the 20 minute journey home, I felt I might be hallucinating. I’d begun to see Mario Miranda caricatures all around me, colours brighter than…


It was a four-poster; covered in gossamer netting. Delicate mulmul on the windows filtered the moonlight in. It was impossibly quiet, even the crickets had ceased their song and gone to sleep. But he lay awake. His dark skin defined softly by the white sheets. There must’ve been some pixie dust about, for she woke…