Take us right back to the start: what first pulled you toward the wild, and toward photography?
This journey began with a quiet, yet equally powerful magic of nature that changed my life forever. My first attraction to nature and the forest began in childhood itself. Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, when I first stepped into a dense forest, its silence felt as though it was telling me something. The rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and that fragrant scent of the earth—all of it cast a spell over my mind. When I went into the forest, I realized that every tree, every animal, and even the tiniest insect was living its own story. It was this vast and unchanging truth of nature that first drew me toward the forest. Then came the question of how to share this beautiful experience with the world? That was where photography entered the picture. At first, I would simply absorb the sights of the forest with my eyes. But gradually, I began to feel that a particular moment in the forest—such as the gentle sunlight filtering through the mist at dawn, or the cautious gaze of a deer—should be captured forever. I picked up a camera, not to take beautiful photographs of nature, but to capture the living 'emotion' of the forest. When I began looking at the world through the camera's lens, I understood that photography is not merely a medium, but a language for communicating with nature. In short, the forest taught me how to live, and photography taught me how to show that life to others.
Was there one early encounter in nature that made you think, "this is what I want to spend my life doing"?
The turning point came on a quiet, misty morning by a hidden creek in the woods, a moment where the worlds of the sky and the earth collided perfectly. I was sitting completely still on a mossy log when a flash of electric blue cut through the gray fog. It was a common kingfisher, hitting the water like a streak of sapphire lightning and emerging a second later with a small silver fish, completely unfazed by the chaos of its own splash. As I watched it retreat to a low-hanging branch to adjust its catch, a subtle rustle in the leaves right next to my boots caught my attention. Gliding silently through the damp ferns was a beautifully patterned corn snake, its scales catching the filtered morning light, moving with an effortless, fluid grace that mirrored the river itself. In that single frame of time, I saw the two extremes of nature's design: the explosive, vibrant speed of the bird and the quiet, hypnotic elegance of the reptile. Both were flawless, focused, and entirely alive. Watching them coexist in that undisturbed pocket of the world made me realize that I didn't just want to visit nature on weekends—I wanted to surround myself with that raw, breathing art every single day. Bringing that magic into my daily life by caring for my own kingfishers and snakes grew naturally from that one unforgettable morning.
Did anyone — a photographer, a forest guide, a mentor — shape the way you see through your lens in those early days?
Honestly, in my early days, my mentors were the creators I watched through a screen, and my classroom was a late-night YouTube rabbit hole. Because I learned photography almost entirely online, I didn't have a single person standing next to me in the field. Instead, a few specific channels shaped exactly how I see through my lens.
What's the story behind your winning frame, "Melghat wildlife," from the WallMag Nature Photography Awards 2026?
Tell us about the moment you photographed the leopard with her cubs — how did it come together?
It was one of those moments in the wild that you simply cannot plan. I had been quietly observing the area for some time when I noticed the leopardess moving through the grass. A little later, her cubs appeared, staying close to her and cautiously following her lead. I kept my distance, stayed completely still, and let the animals decide how close the moment would unfold. What made it truly special was watching the relationship between the mother and her cubs—the little ones curious and playful, while she remained alert and protective. I was fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time, with beautiful light adding to the atmosphere. I took only a few frames, trying not to disturb them. For me, the photograph is much more than an image of a leopard and her cubs; it captures a fleeting family moment in the wild. Those are the encounters a wildlife photographer waits for, sometimes for years.
What other wild animal photograph are you especially proud of?
What's the story behind that sighting?
“At first, I thought she had made a kill.” She appeared quietly through the grass, carrying something in her jaws. I raised my camera, expecting to see another hunt ending in the usual way. Then I looked through the viewfinder. It wasn't prey. It was her cub. For a few seconds, everything changed. The powerful leopard in front of me suddenly wasn't a predator—it was a mother carefully moving the most vulnerable thing in her world. The cub hung beneath her, its tiny paws and tail visible, completely trusting its mother. She kept walking, occasionally adjusting her grip, disappearing and reappearing through the grass. I didn't know where she was taking it. Perhaps she was shifting it to a safer den, perhaps simply moving it away from danger. Leopard mothers are known to relocate their young, sometimes carrying cubs one at a time to safer cover. And that is what made the sighting unforgettable. As a photographer, you go into the wild hoping to photograph an animal. But sometimes, if you're patient enough, the animal gives you something much more valuable—a glimpse into its life. This wasn't just a photograph of a leopard. It was a photograph of motherhood in the wild. And for me, that moment was a reminder that behind every powerful predator is also a world of tenderness, protection and instinct that we rarely get to witness.
What does a frame where the forest or landscape itself is the subject, rather than the animal, look like to you?
What do you want people to feel about that wild place?
I want people to feel that they have stepped into a wild place that existed long before we arrived—and will continue long after we leave. The leopard is only one part of that story. The silence, the trees, the light, the uncertainty of not knowing what might appear—that is what makes the wilderness powerful. I want the image to leave people with a sense of wonder, but also respect: this is not a place we own or control. We are only visitors.
What gear do you carry with you into the field?
Which lens do you reach for most when a moment can appear and vanish in seconds?
I reach for most when a moment can appear and vanish in seconds is a 100-400mm f/4 zoom lens, often paired with a 300mm f/4 or 400mm f/2.8 prime lens mounted on a second camera body.
What's a favourite frame of yours that was never entered into any award?
Why has this one stayed close to your heart?
Because this frame feels like more than a leopard photograph—it captures a moment of movement, tension, and mystery. The leopard isn’t simply sitting there waiting to be photographed. It is descending the tree, one careful step at a time, almost suspended against the pale background. The foreground foliage adds another layer, making the viewer feel as though they are witnessing the moment from a hidden place in the forest. What makes it stay close to my heart is that I didn’t just capture the animal; I captured the feeling of the encounter—the silence, anticipation, and fleeting connection between photographer and wild subject.
What hints at what you're hoping to photograph next?
What's drawing you toward it?
In the wild, nothing is guaranteed. You wait, you listen, you observe—and sometimes, after hours of nothing, a fleeting moment unfolds that you could never have planned. That uncertainty keeps pulling me back. But beyond the photographs, it is the connection with the landscape and the lives within it. The more time I spend there, the more I realise that I’m not simply photographing wildlife; I’m witnessing a world that exists independently of us. That is what draws me toward it—the privilege of observing without interfering, telling stories through images, and hopefully making people care enough to protect these wild places and the creatures that depend on them.
At the end of a long day in the wild, what feeling do you hope your photographs leave with the people who see them?
At the end of a long day in the wild, I hope my photographs leave people with more than just the memory of an animal. I hope they make them pause—to feel the silence of the forest, the uncertainty of a sighting, and the quiet privilege of witnessing a wild life on its own terms. But more than wonder, I hope they create responsibility. Every photograph is a reminder that these animals and the landscapes they call home are under pressure, and that their future depends on the choices we make today. If an image can make someone care deeply enough to protect a forest, respect wildlife, support conservation, or simply choose not to disturb what they came to see, then the photograph has achieved something far greater than beauty. For me, the best image isn't simply the one that shows the wild beautifully. It is the one that makes you feel connected to it—and leaves you asking what you can do to ensure it is still there for generations to come.
Contact and Follow
Email: paragkprajapati@gmail.com
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