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On my birthday in 2022, the sky gifted a celestial blaze—a symphony of molten oranges clashing with silhouettes of ancient limestone cliffs. I underexposed the frame, not to darken it, but to honor the shadows that gave the light its voice. A lone boat sliced through the stillness, like a stanza in a poem written on water. This wasn’t just a sunset—it was a benediction in gold and quiet.

I captured this image at sunrise from our houseboat on Kashmir’s Nigeen Lake, where the world seemed cast in molten gold. The sky, the water, even the silence shimmered like it belonged to a mythical gold city. A lone shikara sails gently across the golden ripples — not just through water, but through time, memory, and magic. This wasn’t just morning—it was alchemy. A fleeting hour where light became liquid, and every reflection told a story older than the mountains beyond.

I clicked this image in Pahalgam, kneeling beside the river with rocks as my tripod and a slow shutter as my brush. This wasn’t just water—it was a sermon in motion, echoing the river’s eternal truth: go with the flow. Each ripple is time, each rock—resistance. Yet, the stream dances forward. To me, this photo defies dimensions; every time I revisit it, I’m back there—wind on my face, pine-scented silence around me, and the universe whispering through the water. It isn’t a picture. It’s a memory paused. A moving stillness. A three-dimensional meditation on life.

Captured through the mist of a rain-speckled glass, this image holds a quiet mourning. The raindrops are not just water—they are metaphors for forgotten tears, each one shaped by a sorrow we never fully outgrew. On the other side stands my 22-month-old son, a silhouette of innocence walking toward me, toward the lens, toward a world that may one day forget to hear his silent cries. My reflection—crouched, unseen—is the grown man who once was him. This is not just a photograph. It’s a conversation between my present and my lost childhood.

A bird in blurred flight—seemingly free, yet tethered by invisible lines. This image from The Weight of Wings questions whether freedom is ever absolute, or if it always carries the weight of return, responsibility, and restraint. Sometimes flight liberates; sometimes it simply reveals the cages we carry within.

A storm does not stand still — it flows. Trees bend into dance, raindrops weave fleeting patterns, and the wind turns silence into song. This image, born in the mountains of Mahabaleshwar, is not just a photograph but the rhythm of the monsoon itself — a reminder that everything moves, everything flows.