Until my school days, I understood the environment only as a social subject. When I joined the Fine Arts College and had to design a poster on the environment, I began to study it more seriously. But before gaining this understanding, about 40–45 years ago, there were childhood days. A flock of birds used to come to the courtyard of the house. Sparrows, parrots, and pigeons were most commonly seen. However, by evening, a unique flock of deep slate-colored birds would also arrive. Watching them hopping around the courtyard was an activity in itself. Slowly, as dusk deepened and darkness descended, the number of these playful birds would start to dwindle. By then, my neck would be tired. No one had an answer to my curiosity about how these small birds could fly so fast. They would stop suddenly and then fly in another direction, as if they were playing tag in the air. Years later, I found their name through Google: the Asian Palm Swift. In Varanasi, where I spent my childhood, these birds are now endangered. The environment has changed as well. Apart from these few birds, sometimes bird catchers would come to sell a variety of birds, and seeing them was a joy. When we visited the village, we would see partridges and quails. My maternal home was in Kota, where we would encounter peacocks. As an art student, I always had a connection with nature and constantly tried to learn from it. During college, I could barely afford to study. I was so short on money that buying colors and brushes was a struggle, so owning a camera seemed out of reach. A classmate had a Yashica MF2 camera. Every time he brought it, just touching it filled me with indescribable happiness. When I got a job, life moved on with the demands of daily needs, but somewhere deep inside, the desire for a camera persisted. In 2008, when I joined a multinational company, I met a colleague who was a world-class photographer. After seeing his photos, my dormant wish took flight again. Finally, I bought my first digital camera, a Canon 50D, with an 18-55 lens, and thus began my weekend photography. I considered my colleague my mentor and joined him for 4-5 shoots. Vrindavan, Pushkar, Mathura—whenever I had a chance, I went. But my favorite spot remained Bharatpur. Although I had started photography, I realized my camera was quite basic, and my lens was even more so. For bird sanctuaries, a telephoto lens was essential. However, I was happy with what I could capture. With that same camera, I shot a tiger in Ranthambore, which was a thrilling and extraordinary experience. I spent 5-6 years with that camera, and then I felt it was time to move on. I sold it and, in 2014, bought a Nikon D600 along with a 55-200 lens, which proved to be much better. By now, I had upgraded from a WagonR to a Honda City. Whenever I had a long break, I would plan where I could go with my camera. Surajpur, Bharatpur, and Pushkar were no longer new to me. I traveled a lot, met many new people, gathered countless experiences, and filled my treasure trove with golden memories and a box full of pictures. But life always leaves some regrets. My bad habit is that I don’t keep backups. I had no idea this habit would cause so much pain. One day, the hard disk where I had stored my years of work and pictures crashed. The ghats of Varanasi, the fair in Pushkar, Holi in Vrindavan, the mountains of Uttarakhand and Himachal—it felt like my whole world had crashed that day. Yet, some things remained, and today I’m sharing those with you. I sold my camera and kit just before the lockdown. Now, there’s hope for a third inning, and my eyes are on a Sony mirrorless camera.
Until my school days, I understood the environment only as a social subject. When I joined the Fine Arts College and had to design a poster on the environment, I began to study it more seriously. But before gaining this understanding, about 40–45 years ago, there were childhood days. A flock of birds used to come to the courtyard of the house. Sparrows, parrots, and pigeons were most commonly seen. However, by evening, a unique flock of deep slate-colored birds would also arrive. Watching them hopping around the courtyard was an activity in itself. Slowly, as dusk deepened and darkness descended, the number of these playful birds would start to dwindle. By then, my neck would be tired. No one had an answer to my curiosity about how these small birds could fly so fast. They would stop suddenly and then fly in another direction, as if they were playing tag in the air. Years later, I found their name through Google: the Asian Palm Swift. In Varanasi, where I spent my childhood, these birds are now endangered. The environment has changed as well.
Apart from these few birds, sometimes bird catchers would come to sell a variety of birds, and seeing them was a joy. When we visited the village, we would see partridges and quails. My maternal home was in Kota, where we would encounter peacocks.
As an art student, I always had a connection with nature and constantly tried to learn from it. During college, I could barely afford to study. I was so short on money that buying colors and brushes was a struggle, so owning a camera seemed out of reach. A classmate had a Yashica MF2 camera. Every time he brought it, just touching it filled me with indescribable happiness.
When I got a job, life moved on with the demands of daily needs, but somewhere deep inside, the desire for a camera persisted. In 2008, when I joined a multinational company, I met a colleague who was a world-class photographer. After seeing his photos, my dormant wish took flight again. Finally, I bought my first digital camera, a Canon 50D, with an 18-55 lens, and thus began my weekend photography. I considered my colleague my mentor and joined him for 4-5 shoots. Vrindavan, Pushkar, Mathura—whenever I had a chance, I went. But my favorite spot remained Bharatpur.
Although I had started photography, I realized my camera was quite basic, and my lens was even more so. For bird sanctuaries, a telephoto lens was essential. However, I was happy with what I could capture. With that same camera, I shot a tiger in Ranthambore, which was a thrilling and extraordinary experience.
I spent 5-6 years with that camera, and then I felt it was time to move on. I sold it and, in 2014, bought a Nikon D600 along with a 55-200 lens, which proved to be much better. By now, I had upgraded from a WagonR to a Honda City. Whenever I had a long break, I would plan where I could go with my camera. Surajpur, Bharatpur, and Pushkar were no longer new to me. I traveled a lot, met many new people, gathered countless experiences, and filled my treasure trove with golden memories and a box full of pictures.
But life always leaves some regrets. My bad habit is that I don’t keep backups. I had no idea this habit would cause so much pain. One day, the hard disk where I had stored my years of work and pictures crashed. The ghats of Varanasi, the fair in Pushkar, Holi in Vrindavan, the mountains of Uttarakhand and Himachal—it felt like my whole world had crashed that day. Yet, some things remained, and today I’m sharing those with you. I sold my camera and kit just before the lockdown. Now, there’s hope for a third inning, and my eyes are on a Sony mirrorless camera.
