I began my journey into yoga and meditation at sixteen. While I wasn’t a “serious” practitioner in the traditional sense, I was a devoted one; whatever I read, I practiced with religious caution and care. I didn’t realize then that these quiet disciplines were sharpening a tool I would use years later: my eye for photography.
Photography, especially in the wild, demands a tremendous amount of concentration and a specific kind of internal stillness. To capture a bird in flight or a predator in the brush, you must match the rhythm of the environment. My meditation practice became my secret weapon, allowing me to stay calm and present during the long, patient waits that wildlife photography requires.
This synergy between stillness and the lens culminated in my first—and only—tiger sighting at Ranthambore. Traveling from Kota to Delhi, I made a spontaneous decision to alight at Sawai Madhopur station at midnight. I traveled through the quiet, adventurous dark to a hotel and booked a morning safari on a whim.
The next morning, we roamed for two hours with no luck. Just as the driver prepared to head back, a radio call diverted us to Zone 4. As we entered the zone, the atmosphere shifted into a “dead drop” silence. The driver whispered a sharp command: “Don’t make a sound. Just look to your right.”
There she was. Machali. The legendary “Queen of Ranthambore.”
She was barely ten meters from our jeep. In that moment, my meditation took over. I didn’t reach for my gear; I simply froze. It was a complete meditation moment—a total suspension of time where the world narrowed down to her powerful presence. I was so lost in the experience that I forgot I was a photographer. It wasn’t until I heard the rhythmic click-clack of other shutters that I snapped back and managed to capture a few frames.
Years later, a hard disk crash wiped those files away forever. I lost every digital trace of that morning. Yet, strangely, I felt no grief. Because I had been so present in that meditation moment, the image was already burned into my mind with more clarity than any sensor could capture. That encounter was so profound that I never felt the eagerness to chase a tiger again. The disk may be empty, but the memory remains my lifetime masterpiece.
