You won’t find news or updates here — only fragments.
Stories, photographs, essays, and notes from a life lived close to the elements.
There is a road above the town that I take sometimes before the light has fully decided what kind of morning it wants to be. The deodars on either side are still dark at that hour, their shapes more suggested than visible. The valley below…
There is a class of travel in India that has no class, and that is precisely its character. The general compartment does not assign you a berth. It assigns you a position in the human arrangement, which shifts constantly and belongs to no one. Ticket…
There is a moment, in most working lives, that arrives without announcement and is not easily forgotten. Someone calls you into a room, or sends a message, or schedules a meeting with a subject line that gives nothing away, and in the next few minutes…
Beyond Chowari Jot, where the deodars climbed toward the sky and the Pir Panjals carried snow like memory, we walked through meadows so wide they made silence feel endless. The afternoon unfolded slowly — your hand in mine, wildflowers gathered carelessly between us, sunlight moving…
The roads near Corbett curved like they had nowhere urgent to be, slipping quietly through sal forests older than memory and taller than thought. Mornings arrived in silver fog. The trees stood half-hidden, their branches dissolving into mist while the world slowly remembered its shape.