Works

June 2026

June 2026

May 2026 This is a part of a diptych.

May 2026 This is a part of a diptych.

March 2026 Shooting star or bomb?

March 2026

March 2026

Feb 2026

Feb 2026

Nov 2025

When I'm alone, do I exist or am I just a reflection? Is my existence validated by the presence of, & interaction with others? Can I affirm my existence with the nature & my constant companion, the moon? These are the existential questions tied to loneliness made black and white in this painting. Oct 2025

To desire is to render oneself lonely. So what's it like to be desired, and not have any of its own desires? Can i find out by trading places with the moon? Nov 2025

'That shiny object' to me unravels ones deep desires. The abstract character in the painting swims towards the reflection of the moon which isn't present in the sky. It raises questions about what is real and unreal when faced with ones desires. Oct 2025

Oct 2025

Nov 2025

Oct 2025

Nov 2025

October 2025

Jan 2026

Nov 2025

October 2025

October 2025

October 2025

September 2026

September 2026

August 2025

I am quite fascinated by houses that have vine growing all around it and have wanted to live in them for some reason. I think it’s because of the unexpected nature for nature to grow on the house walls. And similarly I find it fascinating when a plant grows out of a brick wall. Perhaps it shows resilience and its superiority over man made. It is all consuming when left alone. It devours the house but only makes it more beautiful. Everything then humans devour, turns to shit. So this house was covered in dead vines, brown dried stems going from top to bottom and branching off minutely at the top perhaps because the leaves were most dense at the top to catch the most sunlight. And now all you see are the remains. Is this outside situation any reflection of what’s going on inside the house? Maybe? Maybe not? Even though the vines are dead, the surrounding plants are all green. Makes me even more curious how that happened. I assumed that the vine grew back each summer and that’s the circle of its life but it didn’t return this summer. Or maybe it will someday. If i don’t get scientific and try to get the real biological answer, what’s left to me is the mystery of this vine and metaphors in which I observe the world.

Next to follow "Window in the sky". July 2025

July 2025

July 2025

This piece speaks to the freedom of the human spirit—suspended between heaven and earth. The sky, rendered in deep blues and lighter hues, evokes vastness and longing; the earth, grounded in yellow ochre, burnt sienna, and umber, pulses with warmth and memory. Bright, vibrant layers of red, orange, yellow, and teal ripple through the canvas like echoes of emotion or movement. Though it conjures the essence of the earth, it resists the rigidity of form—no trees, no flowers, no fixed ground. Instead, it becomes something more fluid: not a landscape, but a sensation. Not a place, but an energy.

I’ve always felt a resistance to the idea of building walls and gates. I used to live in a housing society where the rich often build gates to keep "unwanted" people, visitors outside. The gates would open only during the day and would be closed at night. That would make it harder for me to navigate my way and go outside at night. I would run into closd gates, bumping from one to another and finally finding the one that was open during those hours. There was only one gate to let people in and out. And it felt really absurd to me. I thought walls divide and isolate while windows invite light, invite breath. They offer a threshold for exchange—not only with others, but with the self. The society was building walls and gates where there should have been more openness. Not all walls are made of stone. Some build invisible walls within, never pausing to feel what stirs inside. But freedom, I believe, begins with truly oneself. I seek that freedom through deep discovery, through asking questions that echo inward. My own practice of freedom lies in deep inquiry—an ongoing excavation. I choose, again and again, to build windows: into my own depths, toward the lives of others, and into the vast unknown that stretches quietly beyond us all.

This painting is again about introspection while opening the windows of our minds. There is an abstract shape of a human face and inside it various earthly elements that influence and inform our thinking and who we end up becoming as human beings. Everyone’s journey is different despite exposure to similar elements. Above all, this painting hints at opening the windows of our mind and soul through deep interrogation and reflection.

Dreaming, to me, is a profoundly solitary act and so is being passionate. It begins in silence—with a turning inward, a soft severing from the world around. Dreams ask us to sit with our desires, to trace the path from where we’ve been to where we long to go. And though dreams can one day bridge us to others, their first movement is one of dissociation—of stepping aside to see the world askew, anew. I remember the hills of Uttarakhand, where I spent the early years of my working life. Nestled among whispering trees, I would sit alone, thinking, dreaming, letting my mind drift beyond the canopy—into the quiet, into the possible. Around that time i wrote this: Look up. Look sideways. Look at where you are. Lay down on the pine leaves. Laid out as who you are. Watch the clouds. Watch them collide. Watch them swallow your hours. Pitch a camp. Picture yourself. Pitch in for a worldly laugh. Pluck a plum. Pluck the sun. Pluck it with your palms. Climb a tree. Climb a mountain. Climb down from your qualms. Take a day. Take some friends. Take whatever you knew. Cross a town. Cross a lake. Cross into a new you.

Being alone rarely arrives gently. It begins as a restlessness, a subtle ache. But in time, it softens, settles, becomes a kind of second skin. I do not resist it. Solitude shields me—from noise, from needless currents, from the energies that pull without offering anything in return. Yet in today’s world, true solitude is elusive. We are surrounded by shadows of others—our devices, our feeds, our curated distractions. They offer the illusion of aloneness while keeping us tethered. We may appear solitary, but inwardly remain crowded. In such a world, the act of being alone—truly alone—becomes an act of reclamation. It is only in nature that this solitude becomes whole. There, one can hear the self again—uninterrupted, unfiltered. A quiet dialogue begins, not with words, but with awareness. In the painting, the figure sits on the edge of the chair—not relaxed, but alert. Listening. Turning inward. The world around him dissolves into abstraction, and only a few anchoring forms remain—just enough to remind him that reality, like solitude, is what we choose to hold onto.

Being alone rarely arrives gently. It begins as a restlessness, a subtle ache. But in time, it softens, settles, becomes a kind of second skin. I do not resist it. Solitude shields me—from noise, from needless currents, from the energies that pull without offering anything in return. Yet in today’s world, true solitude is elusive. We are surrounded by shadows of others—our devices, our feeds, our curated distractions. They offer the illusion of aloneness while keeping us tethered. We may appear solitary, but inwardly remain crowded. In such a world, the act of being alone—truly alone—becomes an act of reclamation. It is only in nature that this solitude becomes whole. There, one can hear the self again—uninterrupted, unfiltered. A quiet dialogue begins, not with words, but with awareness. In the painting, the figure sits on the edge of the chair—not relaxed, but alert. Listening. Turning inward. The world around him dissolves into abstraction, and only a few anchoring forms remain—just enough to remind him that reality, like solitude, is what we choose to hold onto.

Freedom begins in the quiet act of release—of loosening your grip on possessions, attachments, and the feelings that cling too tightly. Let go of what grips you: the weight of anxiety, the sting of jealousy, the hollow pull of FOMO, the fire of anger, the ache of disappointment. These emotions do not define you, but they often direct you—until you learn to see them clearly. Awareness is the first act of freedom. To name what binds you is to begin untying the knot. My wish for you is simple, and immense: That you rise—lightly, bravely—beyond all that seeks to hold you back.

This painting answers another—Conversation with Myself. It emerges from the same thread of introspection, but follows it to a different end. Much of my work seeks to awaken awareness, to invite a turning inward. But not all encounters with the self are steadying. Sometimes, the very act of looking within—meant to ground us—can begin to unravel. Reflection, when held too long or too tightly, can spiral. What begins as clarity can dissolve into noise. What was meant to root us can just as easily unearth. This painting holds that moment—the slip from silence into storm, from presence into disorientation. It is a reminder: self-awareness is not always gentle. It is not always still. But it is always revealing.

To me, this is a posture of quiet vulnerability—reclining, exposed, somewhere between surrender and solace. It is the pose of the unwell, the weary, the grieving; but also of the resting body, the sleeping soul. Illness and sorrow weigh heavy, yet rest and sleep cradle gently—and from the outside, the difference is almost invisible. The form holds both possibilities, suggesting that loneliness can carry us toward collapse or cradle us into renewal. And then, there is the Buddha in one of his traditional postures—reclining, serene—in the moment of release, the breath before nirvana. Even in stillness, even in ending, there is transcendence.

One-sided love—especially when you're piecing together the shattered fragments of self-worth—can be among the loneliest feelings in the world. "I reached for your hand" captures a moment suspended in such longing. I was near someone I had fallen for, and something within me quietly bloomed. It felt cinematic—like those slow-motion scenes in films when everything around bursts into color—except there was no music, only silence, thick and tender. Time seemed to pause. The world blurred until all that remained was a wall of flowers rising between us—lush, unreal, all-encompassing. I felt weightless, like a hummingbird held mid-air, poised on the edge of flight. And yet, I couldn’t move. Though every sense was alive, my body remained frozen—paralyzed not by fear, but by something heavier. As if stones had been tied to my limbs, dragging me back into myself. I reached for you—but only inside my mind. And still, I remain in that moment—open, aching, still waiting to lift off.

She sits beneath a tree, surrounded by silence and the spines of books—her companions in both thought and escape. She has been reading, yes, but more than that: dreaming. Dreaming of ascent—of climbing beyond the weight of the world, past the thorns and thickets of expectation, toward a moon not made of stone, but of longing. A moon that calls to those who dare. A rabbit drifts into the frame, soft and unassuming—a symbol of gentleness, of love, of the tender things she holds dear. But danger lurks just beyond her gaze: a snake, slow and deliberate, weaves its way through the grass. It inches closer to the rabbit, unseen by those caught in the scene. Only the viewer—placed in the omniscient stillness outside—can grasp the full picture. The painting holds a question in its stillness: Will she make it on her own? Will she break free, like so many women before her have dared to do? Or will her flight become its own kind of captivity? This is not just a moment, but a myth in the making—an allegory of the feminine journey through a world that is at once beautiful, brutal, and quietly watching.

A lone figure walks a quiet path, one that winds gently toward a clearing. The journey is unhurried, inward as much as it is outward. Nature, in its quiet wisdom, becomes a companion—offering not answers, but space. Sunlight filters softly through the canopy above, dappling the ground with gold. The air feels light, and the rustle of leaves speaks in a language older than thought. The figure walks not to arrive, but to let go. With each step, a thought is released. With each breath, the mind quiets. Ahead, the path opens toward light—toward something spacious, clear, and still. And though the destination is not yet reached, something within already begins to settle. This is the slow healing that only the natural world offers—wordless, gentle, and true.

I often find myself asking: What is the worth of a life lived in half-light? As I retreat into the foliage—part concealment, part surrender—I become both hidden and exposed. Anonymous, yet translucent. Camouflaged, but leaking truths through the seams. I try to vanish, to fold myself into the quiet green. But even then, I remain visible—if not to others, then to myself. There is, perhaps, no complete disappearing. Only the illusion of it. I live in the tension between opposites: the longing to be seen, truly seen—and the instinct to protect, to preserve, to pull away before the world can take too much. To be known without being devoured. To be visible without becoming vulnerable. And so I stand here, both present and withdrawing—torn by the ache to belong, and the quiet need to remain untouched. or as Sam Sax says in his book Yr Dead "Dear God, someone please notice me. Dear God, only not too closely."

My struggle to find belonging is mirrored in this patch of a late spring garden. At first, it’s just a garden—but when you look closely, and begin to humanise it, you see something more: clusters of flowers growing in small communities. Like grows with like. Some stay close to their kind, while a few wander off, blending gently with others. Each flower stands in its own individuality—its own color, its own shape, its own timing. Yet together, they form a quiet collective. A soft harmony. Just like people, they exist side by side, but their inner states remain hidden. You can’t always tell which ones are thriving, and which ones are struggling. Each one is blooming—but in its own way, and to its own extent. And then, if you pay close attention, you notice a small emptiness—a space where nothing grows. That space is me. I’m there in the garden, but slightly apart. Off to the side. Not fully part of the bloom, not woven into any cluster. This painting reflects that feeling—of being near beauty, near life, near connection, yet standing just outside of it. Waiting to belong, but unsure how or where to begin.

The world, I’ve found, is often more beautiful in the mind. There, I turn inward—drawn not by escape, but by a quiet search for something truer. In that inner world, I feel no urgent need for another. I become aware of the emptiness I used to silence with noise—crowds, conversations, constant connection. Aloneness isn’t always gentle. It can feel tight, frustrating—at times, even unbearable. A kind of invisible pressure that presses in from all sides. But slowly, with time, I’ve begun to see it differently. By facing the discomfort, by sitting with it long enough, I’ve loosened the grip of that old feeling of lack. I no longer see loneliness as something to be solved, but as something to be lived—with tenderness, even reverence. And through that shift, life has become not only more bearable—but in quiet, unexpected ways, more luminous.

As I walk this path—a quiet metaphor for life—I’m met with choices. Often too many. Like Sylvia Plath’s fig tree, each branch holds a possibility: a dream, an ambition, a life not yet lived. And yet, when all the choices seem equally rich, equally urgent, I freeze—paralyzed by the fear of choosing wrong, or worse, of losing what I do not choose. The trees that line this path carry more than shade—they hold the weight of desire. Some dreams flourish and bear fruit. Others wither quietly. Some must be cut down, deliberately, painfully—blocking paths that once felt so promising. And some dreams… some are only distractions, dressed as longing. To choose one path is to abandon another. There’s no way around it. And that, I’ve found, is a lonely truth. Most of us pause too long at the crossroads, hoping for certainty that never comes. But to move forward, to keep walking, we must first become aware of this: that indecision is its own kind of loss. That the path unfolds only when we take the step.

The world is but an illusion—shifting, fleeting. It is my thoughts that give it form, that make it real to me. And so, I let myself drift—float freely in a quiet cognitive reverie, until the edges of my body dissolve and the world around me fades. For a moment, I am weightless—as light as a shadow, as fleeting as a thought, as still as silence. Time loosens its grip. Feelings fall away. Attachment disappears. In their absence, what remains is not emptiness, but something sacred—something like the divine. In that stillness, my loneliness softens. It transforms—not into companionship, but into communion. A deep, wordless connection with myself.

I made many versions on this painting because i grew too attached to the idea behind this painting and its subject. The world is but an illusion—shifting, fleeting. It is my thoughts that give it form, that make it real to me. And so, I let myself drift—float freely in a quiet cognitive reverie, until the edges of my body dissolve and the world around me fades. For a moment, I am weightless—as light as a shadow, as fleeting as a thought, as still as silence. Time loosens its grip. Feelings fall away. Attachment disappears. In their absence, what remains is not emptiness, but something sacred—something like the divine. In that stillness, my loneliness softens. It transforms—not into companionship, but into communion. A deep, wordless connection with myself.

I made many versions on this painting because i grew too attached to the idea behind this painting and its subject. The world is but an illusion—shifting, fleeting. It is my thoughts that give it form, that make it real to me. And so, I let myself drift—float freely in a quiet cognitive reverie, until the edges of my body dissolve and the world around me fades. For a moment, I am weightless—as light as a shadow, as fleeting as a thought, as still as silence. Time loosens its grip. Feelings fall away. Attachment disappears. In their absence, what remains is not emptiness, but something sacred—something like the divine. In that stillness, my loneliness softens. It transforms—not into companionship, but into communion. A deep, wordless connection with myself.

This piece speaks to the quiet, profound journey of reaching for something greater—something beyond the self. It’s a path that often asks for sacrifice: the shedding of an older version of you, the loosening of ties, the quiet acceptance of solitude as companion. It is a process held in paradox—both melancholic and full of hope. Not a straight line, not a clearly lit road, but a winding path that only reveals itself in fragments. And yet, once you’re on it, it feels inevitable—like no other way could have ever truly existed. The world doesn’t always open all at once. Sometimes its unfolding is subtle, even invisible in the moment. You’re asked to choose without knowing what your choice will become. But when you surrender and move toward what calls you, something extraordinary happens. That calling gathers you in, gently but completely, and slowly begins to color you in its light. Its rhythm becomes yours. Its world, your own.

It’s as if a small piece of sky—heavy with cherry blossoms in full bloom—has been gently cut out and laid onto the canvas. The bright pink petals, suspended in stillness, hold the very breath of spring. They evoke not just a season, but a sense of place—whispers of distant gardens in France, quiet streets in Japan, where such blooms turn the ordinary into the sublime. This fragment of sky becomes memory, becomes longing—an image both fleeting and eternal.

Autumn marks a quiet turning in one’s life—a season where much has already passed, and yet, much still lies ahead. I find myself standing at the bend of a river, caught between these two currents. The reflection in the water gestures toward the future, while the shadow at my feet speaks softly of the past. In this still moment, in the company of myself, I turn inward. I sift through old choices, trace the outlines of what’s been, and weigh the shape of what’s to come. The solitude is not lonely—it is deliberate. The painting is a map of that inner terrain: a forest that I return to again and again. Familiar, yet never quite the same. Each visit reveals something new—an unknown path, a shift in the light, a question I hadn’t yet asked. I try to walk this path with balance, holding past and future in equal measure. But not everyone does. And so, the painting asks, gently but persistently: Which one do you lean toward? The weight of memory or the pull of possibility? And is that the place you wish to live from?

Imagine this: a quiet park bathed in the gentlest sun of a fading winter. The air is crisp, but kind. You lay a sheet to shield against the damp earth, and for once, there is nothing that calls for your worry. Around you, the world hums softly—leaves rustle like whispers, birds trace invisible paths through the sky, and somewhere beneath it all, your own heartbeat keeps time. You close your eyes—not in sleep, but in a soft surrender. Just being. And when you open them again, nothing has changed. The trees still hold the sky, the breeze still stirs the grass, and the stillness lingers, untouched. In that moment, you find yourself wishing time would pause here forever.

This painting is again about introspection—to the quiet, courageous act of opening the windows of the mind. At its center is the abstract shape of a human face, and within it, a constellation of earthly elements: fragments of nature, memory, and experience that shape our thoughts and slowly sculpt who we become. Though many of us are exposed to similar forces, no two journeys unfold the same. Each mind filters the world differently. Each soul carries its own weight, its own wonder. Above all, this painting gestures toward awakening—a call to open the unseen windows within us. It asks us to look inward with honesty, to reflect deeply, and to let that reflection illuminate not only who we are, but who we might yet become.

Here’s that pause you need Here’s that breath you need Reconnect with yourself you’ve got that you, you need

Ocean deep. Space wide. The wallflower—still, watching, becoming. A portrait is a mirror. In its quiet gaze, the self begins to surface.