“The Amber Veil of Jejuri” was created during my first visit to the Jejuri Bhandara Festival on December 30, 2024. Until that day, Jejuri was simply a place I wanted to photograph. By the time I left, it had become an experience I will never forget.

I travelled there with a group of photographers, eager to witness the festival for the first time. While I had seen photographs of Jejuri before, it was only after arriving that I truly began to understand the extraordinary traditions and the profound faith that define this celebration. I have always believed that the strongest photographs are not those that simply show us what a place looks like, but those that help us understand what it feels like to be there.

As I climbed the steep stone steps, I found myself surrounded by people of every age. Elderly women carried heavy sacks of turmeric on their heads. Young parents climbed with children on their backs. Faces reflected exhaustion and joy in equal measure, yet no one seemed burdened. I also witnessed acts of self-penance where devotees whipped themselves as an expression of faith. It was impossible not to be moved.

The image was made from the rooftop of the temple after navigating through an immense crowd. From that elevated viewpoint, clouds of turmeric rose into the air until the temple itself seemed wrapped in a glowing amber veil. For a few unforgettable seconds, light, colour, architecture and thousands of pilgrims came together in perfect harmony. In that instant, I realised I wasn't simply documenting an event. I was witnessing thousands of individual acts of faith become one extraordinary moment.

There were countless moments unfolding around me, but I wasn't searching for a dramatic close-up or an isolated gesture. I wanted a photograph that could express both the immense scale of the gathering and the spirit that united everyone present.

What drew me to this frame was the relationship between the temple and the people. The temple appears to emerge through the golden haze while thousands of pilgrims become part of one continuous rhythm below. The turmeric doesn't simply colour the scene—it connects every element within it.

For me, the frame succeeds because it tells a story that goes far beyond Jejuri. It speaks about what people can create when belief is shared by thousands.

It was a combination of preparation and chance. I knew I wanted to photograph the festival from a higher vantage point because I felt that perspective would best convey its scale, so we arrived well before the gates opened. But once the gates opened, everything changed. The crowd surged forward with incredible force, and movement became almost impossible. For several minutes I was completely trapped in the flow of people.

Thankfully, a few fellow photographers recognised the situation and helped create space for me to move forward. Reaching the rooftop was only half the journey. The photograph itself depended on a perfect convergence of light, wind, movement and timing. The cloud of turmeric drifted exactly where it needed to, transforming the scene for only a few fleeting seconds.

Good photography often comes from preparation. Great photographs usually require a little grace from the unexpected. This image needed both.

When I first arrived, I saw turmeric as colour. Before I left, I understood it as faith. As I spent more time at Jejuri and learned about the traditions of the festival, I came to understand that turmeric represents blessings, prosperity, purification and devotion. That changed the way I approached the photograph.

Watching elderly devotees carry heavy sacks of turmeric up the steep temple steps without complaint was deeply humbling. Every handful thrown into the air carried meaning beyond its colour.

My hope was that viewers would first be drawn in by the golden atmosphere, but remain because they sensed the human spirit behind it.

I hope they forget they're looking at a photograph. Even if someone has never heard of Jejuri or the Bhandara Festival, I hope they can almost breathe the turmeric-filled air, hear the chants, sense the movement of thousands of pilgrims and feel the extraordinary energy of people brought together by belief.

If someone pauses for a little longer than they intended, and leaves with a deeper curiosity about a tradition different from their own, I feel the photograph has done its job.

I believe every photographer entering a sacred space becomes a guest before becoming an artist. My responsibility is to observe, never to interfere. I never ask anyone to repeat an action or pose because those moments belong to the devotees, not to me.

I spend time understanding the rhythm of the event and wait patiently for moments to unfold naturally. The less visible a photographer becomes, the more authentic the photographs usually are. For me, documentary photography is built on trust, patience and respect.

Colour is often the first emotion a photograph gives us. In “The Amber Veil of Jejuri,” the golden tones are not merely beautiful. They carry memory, ritual, celebration and belief. I believe colour should always support the story rather than dominate it. When it serves the narrative, it becomes another language through which a photograph communicates emotion, atmosphere and memory.

While awards often recognise a photograph's artistic or technical merit, the image that means the most to me is a simple portrait I made in Vietnam of a flower seller who was well into her nineties. What first drew me to her was her extraordinary smile. It wasn't simply beautiful—it radiated warmth, kindness and a quiet joy that immediately drew me in.

After I photographed her, she smiled, walked towards me and wrapped me in a gentle hug. We couldn't understand each other's language and we didn't exchange a single word. Yet somehow we understood each other perfectly. In those few moments, kindness became our shared language.

As I watched her walk away, I found myself unexpectedly emotional. Something about her gentle smile and quiet warmth awakened memories of my mother, whom I had lost a decade earlier. The affection she showed a complete stranger touched a place in my heart that I hadn't expected. I stood there with tears in my eyes, realizing that some photographs preserve not only a face, but also a feeling.

Whenever I look at this photograph, I remember that the greatest gift photography has given me is not the places I've visited, but the people I've been fortunate enough to meet.