Why I Photograph in Black and White: A Personal Journey

My relationship with black and white photography began many years ago, in a time when the internet hadn’t yet become part of daily life. Access to the works of great photographers was limited, and discovering something meaningful was often an accident — a quiet, unforgettable one.

I still remember the moment I came across the photographs of Sebastião Salgado. His work, especially from his Genesis series, left an immediate and lasting impact on me. There was something otherworldly in his images — not just the depth of contrast and tone, but the raw emotional gravity they carried. His photographs weren’t simply pictures; they were experiences, like silent prayers rendered in silver and shadow. They stirred something inside me I didn’t yet have words for, but I knew even then that I was seeing the world differently because of them.

Later, when the internet became more accessible, I encountered the work of Michael Kenna. His photographs were quiet, minimalist, meditative. Unlike Salgado’s intensity, Kenna’s work brought a sense of stillness, of peaceful solitude. His compositions had space to breathe. They didn’t demand attention — they invited contemplation. I found myself returning to them often, not for technique or inspiration, but for something more internal, more emotional. Between Salgado and Kenna, something quietly took root in me — a need to understand the world through monochrome.

In 2011, I travelled to Ladakh with friends. I took many photographs — mountains, roads, shifting skies. One frame stayed with me. It was a simple shot of the Indus River cutting through the barren landscape. There was no drama in the image, no tourists or grandeur. But when I looked at it later, something shifted. That photograph, more than any before it, felt honest. I wasn’t just recording a place — I was translating a feeling. And for the first time, I felt I might be capable of making a photograph that mattered.

Indus River in Ladakh, 2011

 

As I began to take photography more seriously, I became conscious of influence — perhaps too conscious. I wanted to be original, to carve out something of my own. I tried to avoid looking too closely at the work of others, thinking I might accidentally imitate them. I believed I had to create a distinct style — something recognisably mine. But over time, I realised that chasing a “style” is its own kind of trap. When you try too hard to be different, you end up building a cage around yourself. True freedom in art comes not from control, but from surrender. A personal voice, if it’s meant to appear, will do so on its own — quietly, honestly, and without force.

I don’t seek specific emotions when I photograph. Each image carries its own feeling — some tender, others distant, some full of quiet intensity. But if someone were to look at a large body of my work, they might sense a certain rhythm — a stillness, a soft vibration, something meditative. I return often to that place where silence lives, where the image doesn’t speak loudly, but it stays in your mind long after.

Black and white helps me find that silence. It removes the noise of colour and offers something more essential — a language made of tone, form, shadow, and light. In monochrome, the world becomes abstract, poetic, even timeless. It speaks not to the surface of things, but to what lies beneath. A successful black and white photograph feels like a wave — it doesn’t explain, it arrives. It bypasses logic and touches something deeper: memory, emotion, soul.

Themes like silence, memory, and light are not things I consciously add to my photographs. They are part of how I see the world. Over time, I’ve trained my eyes — or perhaps my mind — to notice them in everyday moments. A shadow on a wall. A gesture in passing. A faint outline of someone disappearing into fog. These elements are everywhere, if you know how to see them. And when I capture them in an image, I feel as though I’m preserving something that might otherwise be lost. In that way, I sometimes think of myself as a postman — delivering pieces of silence, fragments of memory, moments of light — to a future viewer who might need them.

In the early years, I used to plan my shoots carefully. I thought a lot about where to go, what to photograph, how to frame it. But gradually, I let go of that structure. Now, I simply respond. I walk, I observe, and I allow myself to feel. I no longer chase photographs — I wait for them to come to me. I follow instinct rather than intention. Because if art doesn’t make us free, what is it for?

After years of working in black and white, I’ve come to see the world in monochrome. Even before I lift the camera, I often know how the scene will look in tones of grey. It’s not guesswork — it’s intuition, developed over time. I can sense where the light will fall, where the darkness will settle. It’s like hearing music before it’s played.

 

And then there is India.

India is not just the place I live or photograph — it is the source of everything I see and feel. This country, with all its chaos, silence, contradictions, and beauty, is not a backdrop. It is my emotional landscape. While India is often described in terms of colour, I see it differently. In black and white, its truth becomes clearer to me — more intimate, more raw. I find honesty in the shadows, clarity in the grain. For me, black and white is not a rejection of India’s colours — it is a way of understanding them more deeply.

Moon lit night over Gangesa,Varanasi 

 

This is why I photograph in black and white.

Not because it is traditional or fashionable.

But because it allows me to see more clearly, feel more deeply, and speak without words.