How did photography first find its way into your life, and do you remember the moment you knew it was more than a passing curiosity?
From communications to photography, what began simply as a passion in 2023 has unfolded into a journey of learning and discovery. I am drawn to landscapes and the timeless presence of trees. I also find myself wandering into historical architecture, carrying stories of the past. Each photograph I click is a reminder of the simplicity that nature offers and a small step forward in honing this craft.
Is there an early frame you still feel proud of? Tell us the story of it, and what made it feel like the one where something finally clicked.
I’ve been sitting with this photograph for nearly two years. The subject is sharp, the foreground holds—but the clipped wing has always stayed with me. The frame felt unresolved. It didn’t quite stand on its own. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to delete it.
So, a few days back, I went back to it. Over time, a shift had taken place. The frame I was looking at now felt less about the image and more about what it holds—a reminder of how much sits between seeing and framing. Of timing, of space, of knowing when to leave room.
More than anything, it brought back the memory of that moment. The boat ride on the lake, in search of a frame that might catch my eye. The cool breeze, the gentle sway as the boat glided away from the shore, and bustle of city life. There were birds all around, but nothing held my attention—until suddenly, the stillness broke.
A black-crowned night heron lifted off from the water. There was no time to think, only to react, a moment held for just a second and I had to act fast. And that was it. The full wingspan didn’t stay within the frame. I had wanted both—the spray of water and the full stretch of the bird. It felt like a missed chance.
But as I revisit the photograph, I’m not sure that’s what this moment was. It was brief, slightly chaotic, and gone almost as quickly as it appeared. The frame carries that—it doesn’t settle, it doesn’t fully resolve. It moves through. The foreground remains, the water returns to stillness, and the bird is already elsewhere. Perhaps that is enough. Some frames stay not because they are complete, but because they mark where the learning shifted.
Your work lives in the mountains and valleys, so much of it around Kashmir. What first pulled you toward these landscapes, and toward photographing them the quiet, documentary way you do rather than as postcard views?
To begin with having a permanent abode helps. Now coming to my photography style, well the land is beautiful in its own way and the sense of quiet it holds, the stillness even within movement, simply attracted me. And, in time, I realised I am less interested in photographing these places as grand or dramatic views. What stays with me are the smaller moments—the way light settles on water, a lone tree, a passing boat, or the rhythm of everyday life unfolding in the landscape. Perhaps that comes from how I experience these places. I don’t arrive looking for a picture; I spend time, observe, and let the frame reveal itself. The camera becomes a way of noticing rather than capturing.
You've spoken about observing everyday stillness and about solitude being part of how you work. What does a slow morning alone with your camera actually feel like when you're out there?
Solitude sometimes can bring joy.
What does a Kashmir or valley frame that feels most like you look like?
The Dal Lake is my go-to place whenever I am in the valley. From sunrise to sunset, there’s always a frame waiting to be witnessed. The vastness of the water and sky merging on the horizon always evokes a soothing calm I hold close. On one such visit, I noticed a single boat resting quietly on the lake, still against a shifting sky. The setting sun filtered through layers of cloud, breaking into silver ripples across the water. It felt like a moment that demanded to be captured — not in colour, but in monochrome. I was standing at the lake perimeter by myself, alone, yet not lonely.
What photograph from your "In Passing Light" gallery would you like to share?
The images in this series do not follow any fixed hour, only the passage of light—brightness into shadow, haze into clarity, and eventually into fading light again. They are made across different locations and times of day: some at daybreak, some in the stillness of midday, and others in the evening into blue hour. I don’t work to a schedule. When I find a frame, I stay with it. In the early hours, that means waiting as the light slowly shifts and haze begins to appear. In the evening, the wait continues until the light fades completely. Midday is different—the light is often constant, unless it is a cloudy day, which offers brief moments of change. In photography, time cannot be measured by the clock. Most often in the field you are guided by light, sometimes even with flat daylight. I am still learning the patience it demands and adapting to given situations.
What "nature and people" moment would you like to share, one of those everyday glimpses of mountain life you frame so gently?
On the way to Gurez, the road cuts through stretches of paddy fields. It was sowing season, and the fields were a vivid green, with labour in full flow. That is what first made me stop. On both sides of the road, men and women were at work. I took a few frames, then moved across and saw this moment come together. The red of the clothing stood among the green surrounding, the stained mud, the bundles of paddy shoots held in both hands, and the careful, uneven walk through the fields - it was like a story being told in one frame. I used a mid-range focal length and stayed where I was, allowing the subject to move into the frame. As he came closer, I made a few images without interrupting the flow of his work. The distance between us worked well. In fact, I consciously try not to be seen. This is not street photography—it is more about the land and the people within it. The photograph wasn’t planned, but the intent was always there. I had been trying to capture the paddy fields and the labour they demand for some time.
What favourite image from one of your other series, whether it's the trees of "Rooted in Time," the autumn of "Before the Snow," or another that means a lot to you, would you like to share?
I know the request is for an image from one from a series, but this photograph—featured on my homepage —stands apart for me. The vantage point is key here followed by the elements at play. Shot through an airplane window, it revealed a landscape I could not have accessed on foot. As the fog rose, the peaks still visible but quickly fading so are the layers of the mountain range almost touching the horizon, the soft beautiful light painting the sky in pink hue, all added naturally into the frame makes it a rare opportunity. I think that's why it is a special frame for me. I wasn’t trying to construct a message. What drew me was the interplay of elements—mist, light, and terrain—coming together. It felt less like something to capture and more like something to witness. There isn’t a larger message I’m trying to impose here. If anything, it is a reminder to pause and look—at what nature reveals without being asked. A moment, shaped by light, mist, and terrain.
What are you working on now, or what frame hints at where your eye is heading next?
Right now, my mind hasn’t fully settled on a single theme. The only clarity I have is that the next body of work will be in black and white. With autumn setting in, it’s becoming harder to narrow my focus. Trees—one of my enduring subjects—lend themselves well to monochrome, as do more intimate landscapes. So, I’m still working through my choices.
"Land, Light & Legacy" is the line you carry. When someone sits with your photographs years from now, what do you most hope they carry away from them?
When someone sits with my photographs years from now, I hope they evoke a sense of pause. They are not dramatic frames, but simple ones—the land as it exists, the light as it changes, and the traces we leave behind. If they take away anything, I hope it is this: to look a little longer, to notice what quietly exists around us, and to recognise that these landscapes—natural and human—are part of something we inherit and pass on. The value lies simply in having seen it.
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Email: lalimab@gmail.com
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