Exclusive Close-Up Interview

A: Photography has always been my passion, my hobby. I never imagined I would take it up professionally. I have always loved nature and taken interest in everything happening around me. Even as a young person, I used to feel that although I was watching events unfold, I was not fully inside them. Somewhere, I wanted to become involved. I think there was always something within me that wanted to see a moment and freeze it. The moment I first held a camera and clicked the first few photographs, I knew this was what I wanted to do. Whether I went to Assam or anywhere else, I loved the process of seeing something, photographing it, and bringing it back. That entire experience gave me immense joy. That is how I entered this field.

A: It certainly felt risky. In my family, my grandmother used to say, “How long will you keep doing these photos? If someone comes with a marriage proposal and asks what the boy does, what will we say — that he takes pictures?” In those days, photography was often considered a somewhat lowly occupation. I was never a brilliant student, and my academic record was pretty average. So I never had the ambition of becoming a doctor or an engineer. I first took photography as a hobby, and then, almost without realizing it, it became my profession.

In those days the economics of photography were very different. Compared to painting, photography was considered a lower art form — in fact, many people did not even regard it as art. It was seen as something technical rather than aesthetic. Later, with the arrival of digital technology, the medium changed dramatically. Even before that, through film photography and later television and cinema, especially from the 1990s onward, photography gained greater recognition. Its economic value changed as well. Today, one cannot imagine the kind of money photographers can make. In India, many photographers now earn more than cameramen in films or television serials.

A: Because I am a photographer, I should not say that photography is greater. But if I speak honestly, I have always felt that when you paint, you have the freedom to alter the work. If something is not right, you can change the shape, the form, the color. That freedom exists in painting. In photography, there is no such liberty. You must capture a single moment and hold it. If you miss it, it is gone. So you must be alert, you must sense the moment before it arrives, and then click at the right instant. There is a beautiful line Salman Rushdie once said: “Every photograph is born in the eighth of a second.” That is exactly how I see it. In that tiny fraction of time, you must prove how powerful your photograph can be.

A: At the beginning, there were not many options. There was no major distinction between wildlife, nature, candid, or portrait photography in the way we think of it now. And in Gujarat, or even Ahmedabad, there were no institutions teaching photography. I learned through trial and error. First one had to buy a camera, then film rolls, then take pictures, and then show them to someone experienced — and if that person was in a good mood, perhaps they would teach you a thing or two. The main rule was simple: never repeat the mistake you had already made.

Landscapes came more easily because they offered variety — different trees, different lakes, different scenes. My turn toward faces happened almost unconsciously. I do not think I deliberately decided to move toward portraiture. But as I continued, I realized that human faces offer the same variety that landscapes do. I have been photographing for 40 years, and I have still not seen two faces that are the same. Even twins do not appear identical to me. Moving through so many faces is an extraordinary experience.

Every face carries a story, a hidden signature of its own. Finding that story is a delight. There is risk in it, but there is also excitement and joy. If you can bring out the story behind a person’s face, then you have succeeded. Otherwise, no matter how attractive the photograph may be, it remains only surface-deep. A portrait must reveal something of the person. That is why I prefer to meet the subject beforehand. Even if I am to shoot someone the next day, I like to spend two or three hours with them first — just ordinary conversation, nothing formal. During that time, I observe the face carefully. I watch the person, their likes and dislikes, and I try to understand which side of the face speaks more honestly. Eyes, I have found, are remarkably truthful. And since our work is done with a lens, we too must be honest.

A: Now I have enough freedom to choose. Earlier I was a commercial photographer, so I photographed whoever paid. Today I can say no. I can tell someone that I do not want to photograph them, or that I do not feel comfortable doing it. I can photograph an antihero, someone unusual or eccentric, but not a villain. If I feel that a person is fundamentally inauthentic, I cannot photograph them. When a face is wearing a mask, that artificiality is visible to me, and I cannot remove that mask through photography. That troubles me. So I prefer not to photograph such people. Of course, this is only my personal way of looking at things. Someone I consider inauthentic may not be so in another person’s eyes.

A: I have been fortunate to spend time with many people from different fields, and often not just for a few hours but for two or three days at a stretch. It is difficult to single out one experience above all others. But one memory that remains vivid is from the time I was working on a photo book of Morari Bapu.

I had gone to Jagannath Puri to photograph him. The atmosphere there was entirely different, the culture was different, and nobody knew me. Around Bapu there were so many people that I could not get near him. I assumed he recognized me and would call me when he saw me, but reaching him required crossing many barriers. So I waited for two days. On the third day, I finally gate-crashed my way in.

When he saw me, he called me over and asked, “Son, how did you get here?” I told him, “Bapu, I have come to photograph you. I am making a photo book, and I want to stay with you from morning till evening.” At that moment he was surrounded by fifty or sixty people, and they all chided me for not touching his feet, for speaking to him so casually. But I knew him from childhood. I had no sense that formal gestures were necessary. He is older than me, of course, and I do offer respect to elders. That is part of our culture. But I do not feel that because someone is a spiritual leader, I must suddenly prostrate myself. I may be wrong, but none of the spiritual leaders I have photographed ever objected to this. Whether it was Morari Bapu, Rameshbhai Oza, or Sri Sri Ravishankar, none of them ever asked why I had not bowed at their feet.

The next day, when I was called again at four o’clock, it was drizzling lightly. When I went up to Bapu’s room, the entire courtyard and staircase were crowded. People there were criticizing me, saying that someone like me should not trouble a saint or disturb his practice. For a moment I even wondered whether I was doing something wrong. But the moment I met him, that doubt vanished. He simply told me, “I am doing my work, you do yours.” Then he carried on with his rituals — offering water to the sun, watering the tulsi plant — and allowed me to photograph everything beautifully. Within twenty-five minutes I had taken around one hundred and fifty photographs. He offered no resistance at all.

A: Yes, certainly. I do not remember the exact year, but I think it was 1998 when there was a landslide in Amarnath and four or five thousand people died. I was in Mumbai at the time, and I was assigned to go there and take photographs. Harkishan Mehta, the chief editor called me — a person I respect greatly — and told me that I had to go because everyone else was refusing. They felt it was too difficult. He asked whether I would go. I was young, so I was excited. If everyone else was saying no, that made it more interesting to me. So I went.

From Mumbai I went to Ahmedabad, then to Delhi, then to Srinagar. From Srinagar, the army took us by helicopter to Sheshnag. There were a few foreign journalists there too, but since I was Indian, I was given the first opportunity to travel by helicopter. I was delighted, thinking what a great chance it was to shoot such an important story. But when I landed and saw the scene around me, it was horrifying. I was trembling while taking the photographs — not from the cold, but from the terror of what I was seeing.

On the way back, the helicopter had the pilot, one other person, and me. Then they loaded bodies into it. Around twenty bodies were packed in, one on top of another. I had to stand against them as the helicopter lifted off, and then take aerial shots from the window. Even now, when I recall those moments, I feel a shudder inside. To have twenty dead bodies around you, to feel someone’s hand brush your foot, and still remain detached and photograph the scene as a neutral observer — that is not easy. You cannot think about whose relative it is, or whether their family will receive them. You can only do your work. Those three or four days remain unforgettable.

A: I was an average student, and science never really stayed with me. So I have no choice but to see photography as an art. And it is a wonderful art. Through it I have gained a great deal — socially, financially, and perhaps most importantly, in terms of personal growth. Photography has taught me to work with detachment, like a lotus. It has taught me to remain what I am.

Earlier, when I came back with a beautiful sunrise, sunset, or landscape photograph, I would feel a certain pride — that I had produced something exceptional, that I possessed great artistic ability. But later I realized that anyone can take a beautiful sunrise or sunset photograph. There is no great feat in that. My fortune lies in having been given the opportunity to be there. I have gone to Assam, to the Himalayas, places many people cannot reach.

The photographs I bring back are only a medium. In that sense, I am just a messenger, and a messenger has no ego about carrying a letter. As a photographer, I am simply a medium. The sunrise and the sunset are magnificent in themselves. That realization strengthened the viewer within me. Whatever ego may once have entered me gradually disappeared. Even today, when my students — boys and girls of sixteen or seventeen — bring me their photographs, I feel the same curiosity and wonder they feel. That sense of amazement has never left me.

A: Yes, and that is very true. In today’s digital age, one almost has to work hard to make a bad photograph. Cameras are so sophisticated that pictures often come out well by default. Technology changed the whole medium. Earlier there was film, and with film came different speeds, loading, shooting, developing, and finally holding the printed image in your hand. All of that disappeared with digital technology.

The first change was that photography became cheaper. In 1989 or 1990, if you shot a roll of thirty-six frames, by the time the prints came back you would easily have spent seven or eight hundred rupees. For a student of photography, that was a lot of money. Today you can see your photos immediately on a computer, so the process is both easier and less expensive. New kinds of lenses also made the work simpler. Then the internet arrived, and sending photographs became effortless. I can send you an image in seconds.

So photography has become easier for photographers, but at the same time, proving your quality has become much harder because competition is so intense. Today almost anyone can take a good photo. Many people can post attractive pictures on Facebook and Instagram and many other platforms. The monopoly of the “good photographer” no longer exists. You must prove yourself every day.

A: No, I do not agree with that. In the end, it is like the Gujarati saying: “If there is water in the well, it will reach the trough.” In other words, if the original photograph is strong, then editing can only support it. If the base image is weak, nothing can really save it. Photoshop and other editing tools are only accessories — like ornaments, like makeup.

A bride may be beautifully dressed, heavily made up, and adorned with jewelry, but none of that matters more than her own natural beauty. If she is beautiful to begin with, she will still look lovely even without makeup. A face without makeup can still be a beautiful face.

A: It is much better now. In our time, there were no institutions that taught photography. Today many colleges and institutes do. And with new equipment, teaching has also become easier. But I have always felt that photography can never truly be learned in closed rooms or classrooms alone. I teach in colleges, but after the first three or four introductory classes, I usually take the students outdoors. We go to places like Pondicherry, Assam, and the Himalayas and conduct workshops there.

My personal belief is that students should be allowed to make many mistakes. I tell them to make plenty of mistakes and learn from them. Landscape photography is one field where mistakes show up immediately. The mistake is not in the landscape itself, but in how you capture it. If you do not do it correctly, the error becomes visible. That is how one learns — by seeing one’s mistakes clearly. I believe every person has a photographer within. The real question is how much opportunity you give that inner photographer.

A: I love reading. For me, reading is like breathing. I simply must read. I also love good music. Without reading and music, I cannot manage. I am passionately fond of both, and perhaps that is also why I am not a very good writer or musician — because I am a full-time lover of books and music. I read everything: fiction, non-fiction, essays, letters, poetry — all of it. And I read in all languages.

In music, I prefer Indian classical music, though I have no objection to a rock band. I enjoy rock too, as much as I can understand it. My son is involved in rock and jazz bands, and I enjoy it when he explains things to me, teaches me, and shows me how it works. I appreciate every form of music, but Indian classical music appeals to me a little more because I understand it better.

A: Yes, I have photographed nearly all the major Indian classical musicians. But to be honest, I always felt a certain gap in myself because I did not know music. I tried to make up for that by photographing the artists at their very best — by capturing their finest moments.

In a way, I wanted to compensate for what I lacked by doing my work as carefully and beautifully as possible. Since I do not know music, I feel I must do something that makes the musician remember me. So when someone like Pandit Shivkumar Sharma or Ustad Zakir Hussain calls me and says, “The photograph turned out very well — please give it to us,” it feels to me as though I have learned a beautiful raga.

A: I think I would have been a teacher. That is what feel now, because for the last many years I have already been in teaching. Being a teacher, being a guide — especially now, as I approach 60 — feels so satisfying that I believe if I were not taking photographs, I would certainly have become a teacher.

I love being with students and their freshness, their energy. One of our senior faculty members, Christopher Benninger — an American architect who lived in India for many years — once taught us something beautiful: “The greatest gift you can give your student is to teach him to always be a student.” That line has stayed with me. It feels deeply inspiring and refreshing. Even when I go to teach, I do not return tired after two or three hours. I come back recharged, having learned two new things myself. And that is what keeps me moving forward.