Uttarakhand is often referred to as the land of the Gods. Everything here seems to be born from some ancient culture or a story tied to it. There are countless stories, stories for every day of the week, sometimes even for every hour of the day. There are stories explaining why a village was established at a particular place, why the landscape has a certain shape or character. The region is dotted with temples. Then there's the attire, the culture, the colors, the vegetation, the flowers, and the leaves, all of it, I believe, fuels this poetics of excess in my work.

When I speak of digital archaeological sites, I mean that the digital space, the canvas, the very tools I use, become the site of creation. Within this space, I layer visually compelling scenes and narratives while simultaneously digging into myself, unearthing stories and chaos from my experiences. These are layered one atop another. It’s a space where the past and present coexist, and where I envision a better future.

When I feel disconnected, I can turn to the internet, to seek out stories, aesthetics, experiences, and add them to my archive. This space also allows my culture to intersect with many others across the globe. I often find a sense of home in those stories. And when needed, I don't hesitate to weave them into my own iterations.

I’ve often heard that the greatest fear any artist faces is that of a blank page, and perhaps it’s because that empty space demands confrontation. And most of us instinctively avoid confrontation. I believe it’s a primal instinct.

When I talk about choosing a direction, I’m referring to the act of surrendering, to move past that confrontation. I see that moment as sacred because it involves embracing the impermanence of fear and treating the process with a spiritual reverence.

This gives me artistic freedom. There are multiple moments of confrontation within each work, and I don’t necessarily remain the same person across those sites. At every point, perhaps I am a different version of myself. And when each of these versions leaves behind its marks and ideas, a kind of chaos emerges. I then take on the role of a choreographer, trying to give form to that chaos using connections, color, grids, pixels, and basic compositional methods that I have developed for myself, from my understanding.

As I’ve mentioned, I’m not the same self across all creative moments. What supports me most in this is time. Time becomes a companion that helps me shed old skins, those personas I inhabited while visiting those last creative sites.

When I arrive at a new site, I’m there with a new perspective, seeking new ways of mark-making. And that search, I believe, is the act of contemplation. It’s in this search that I find my rhythm, conversations, and ultimately, transformations.

In this particular series, I’ve marked these sites of creation I described earlier, those points where decisions were made. These numbers represent places where I paused, sometimes for days, hours, or even weeks. They don’t necessarily contribute to the internal cohesion of the work. In fact, I think they emphasize the disjointed and incoherent parts of the visual composition.

For this series, I primarily used the arrow keys on my keyboard, along with a few shortcuts. I deliberately avoided any tool that could create arcs or curves, elements that are often found in my other works.

I enjoy working within constraints; it helps me manage the chaos and information overload surrounding us. Sometimes, the tools themselves are overwhelming, so I create these self-imposed limitations to see what they yield. Using only the arrow keys became a way to navigate the pixel grid in an intuitive manner.

Whenever I discover a meaningful site of creation or excavation, it's as if a piece of the puzzle, the final composition, gets revealed. Accidents keep me feeling fresh, while deliberate gestures help maintain cohesion and compose the visual symphony.

On a personal level, this is also how I wish to live, to face each situation without letting my biases or my relationships with my environment cloud my decisions. It’s easier said than done, of course. We all carry our biases, they move like hidden currents in our blood.

But in my art, which takes up most of my life, I can at least attempt to live this way. It keeps me close to the idealistic version of myself that I hold in my mind.

I believe my work reflects the world we live in, a world increasingly defined by chaos, whether in science, human relationships, or geopolitics. The maximalism isn’t a stylistic choice; it’s a response. It mirrors the environment around us.

To be honest, I don’t think about this much before I share my work online. It’s only after I share it that the viewer enters the picture. Viewers have often influenced how I approach my work, through their interpretations, their insights, their suggestions. I cherish this relationship. And by the grace of nature, my appreciators have always been kind and supportive. I never take that for granted.

I deeply believe that the primary purpose of any art is to evoke a sense of empathy in its audience. It doesn’t matter what kind of emotion or experience is triggered, but the ability to feel something is essential. That feeling is what makes us human. And in this highly technological age, preserving our humanity is perhaps the most important thing we can do.

I spent a month in my hometown. I played with the local kids, went on treks, did some fishing. The mangoes weren’t ripe yet, so I’ll go back in August again.

My earliest memories, those that remain vivid, are from my village. I lived there until I was five, after which we moved around the country for better jobs and education. But nothing comes close to those early days, the mountains, the rivers, my friends, my grandparents, the festivals, the chants, the bells, our farm, the mangoes. Beautiful.